When We Kissed

by Kim Roshell

  She nods again. “K.”

  I stand, glance around the room until my gaze lands on the douchebag again. He meets my glare with one of his own.

  Prick.

  Think I’ll take a little detour on my way out.

  Lucky for him, Ryan escapes Megan Brooks’ clutches fast enough to grab me by the arm when I’m mere steps away. “Going somewhere?”

  “Yep.”

  “You and Ashley breaking out early?”

  I tug away from his grip, then pull at my unbuttoned collar. “She’s gonna catch a ride with the girls. I need to make a run.”

  “A Simone run?”

  I dig out my keys, pat my pockets for my wallet before remembering I locked it inside my glove box with my phone.

  “Won’t be long,” I repeat. Ryan, least of all, needs further explanation of what I’m about to do. “Hour, tops. I’ll swing back, get you.”

  He leans down, whispers something in Megan’s ear, earning himself a smile filled with promises. She bounces off in the direction of the kitchen, probably to fetch him another beer.

  “I’ll get another ride. Go handle your business. Check-out isn’t until noon.”

  “It ain’t like that and you won’t need another ride. I’ll be back. Less than thirty since she probably won’t answer the door.”

  “Keep knocking ‘til she does.”

  Crazy as it sounds, I’m relieved to hear that—some encouragement even though, now I’m finally on the way to handle my business, I’m . . .

  Scared.

  I exhale all the air pent in my lungs. “Do something, Ry.”

  “Like?”

  “Shit, I don’t know. Stop me. Tell me I’m making a mistake.”

  “Lie to you? Nah, can’t do that.”

  “Then I’m screwed ‘cause going over there will probably explode in my face. If you ain’t gonna stop me and Ashley didn’t try, no one will.”

  He snorts, scratches the tip of his nose. Grins. “Ashley knows where you’re going?”

  “She ain’t dumb.”

  “Never said she—well, sometimes she is.”

  “Cut it out,” I warn, bump his shoulder with mine.

  “You know I’m kidding. Sort of. But stop you? Not me, dude. What you’re doing tonight is straight pimp. I’ve taught you well.”

  “Whatever, bro.”

  “Seriously, dude, moving on is what I’ve been pushing you to do for weeks. It’s dumb to hold onto something that’s already crashed and burned. Personally, I think your mom digs Ashley more than you ever have.”

  Sort of true. Mama mentioned the marriage the first time I brought Ashley over for supper.

  “So, Simone’s not mama’s ideal choice for her baby boy,” Ryan continues. “Bet knowing that hasn’t stopped you from rubbing one out every night while you think about her.”

  Hasn’t been every night. Just most.

  “Does it suck they aren’t friends anymore? Sure. But what can you do about it?”

  “What I should’ve done months ago. Stay away from both of them,” I answer easily, letting him in on the rest of my intentions.

  Apparently, I have a future in comedy if the whole law thing don’t work out. Ryan bends over in hysterics. Knee slaps, shaking shoulders, gasping for air.

  Feels like hours pass before he chokes out, “You won’t.”

  “I will. I have to. After tonight, I mean. I’ll do the right thing.”

  He wipes tears from his eyes. “Riiight.”

  “I will.”

  “Whatever you say, Spike Lee. Riddle me this, what’s the right thing? Treat ‘em like strangers ‘til graduation? Pretend you don’t have feelings for Simone even though you’re in love with her?”

  Whoa.

  “Who said anything about love? I am not in love with her.”

  “Get real, dude. Anybody with eyes can see you’re fucking sprung over this girl.”

  “I’m—”

  “Sprung, which in this case, is not a complete fail. Rate you’re going, you won’t last another week without begging her for a booty call, at the very least.”

  “You sound like Coop.”

  “Smart boy.”

  “What makes you think I . . . love her?”

  “What makes you think you don’t?”

  Clearly, Ryan’s surpassed his limit tonight. For that reason, I’ll ignore the seriousness of his expression along with the flutters in my chest at the possibility of having that particular emotion for Simone. I shake my head at the very idea. Like my brain is an Etch-a-Sketch.

  “Just wanna make sure she’s all right.”

  “Uh, huh.”

  “C’mon, Ry, it’s ain’t like that. Simone would be here had I not fucked things up. Douchebag Williams is here, which means she’s probably home alone—on Prom night. You have to admit it feels wrong, her not here celebrating with the rest of us. Like she’s getting shut out when I’m more to blame for everything that’s gone down.”

  “First of all, you need to get over yourself, Joan of Arc—”

  “What?”

  “Only martyr that comes to mind besides Jesus, and well, seems wrong to compare you to the Big Man, all things considered. But back to what I was saying—you’ve had a plan with no contingency for glitches. No worries. Means you’re completely ready to work for the government. But forget about who’s to blame. At this point, that shit no longer matters. Simone’s hot as hell, you’re into her. Deal with it. Quit denying who you are, accept that Ashley’s not your grandma. She’s not Simone, either.”

  Can’t refute that.

  “It is what it is, dude. Can’t force you to see what’s right in front of you,” he continues, “but as your friend, I have to say I’ve been waiting for you to grow a pair.”

  “Fuck you, Ellsworth.”

  “Nah, you’re not my type. Now Ava, on the other hand . . .”

  He throws a wink at our class president as she struts by in a tight black dress, the hem suctioning the very edge of her ass. Dental floss can’t fit underneath that thing. She turns around, giddy over being checked out, mouths, “Call me,” to Ryan.

  “Seriously bro, what do girls see in you?”

  “Eh, I’m adorable.”

  That madness gets the eye roll it deserves.

  “Hey, I may not be the sports god you are or have that Einstein brain of yours, but the ladies know a good thing when they see it. Not to mention, I’m hung like a horse.”

  “Funny, Heather Lawson said it’s more like a newborn premature pony.”

  “Yeah, Heather Lawson wishes she knew.” He bends, sets his empty beer bottle on the floor. Straightening, he looks me in the eyes. “Seriously, dude, forget trying to please everybody else with this effed-up need you have to fit into a mold to become your grandfather’s clone. Just because something fits doesn’t mean it’s made for you. Now, go. Make sure your girl’s cool,” he says, complete with air quotes. “Take plenty pictures after her clothes are off.”

  I sear him with a heated glare.

  “Fine, skip the pictures,” he amends. “I’ll bum a ride to the hotel, catch up with you later. Like after sunrise later.

  I may not agree with Ryan all the time, but he’s right about more than I want to admit. Knowing this only fuels my resolve.

  “I hope going over there won’t makes things worse.”

  “If it does, then you thank God there’s only a few weeks of school left and hope the girls in Connecticut are as hot as they are smart.”

  That may be the most intelligent thing Ryan’s ever said. “Cover me.”

  “Course.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Simone

  “May I come in?”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  “I know. Want to anyway.”

  So he can personally extend an invitation for the worst heartache ever? That’s why he’s here. I see it in his eyes. He came to politic me. Apologize for everything that’s happened, give me the speech about how I’m
a great girl and he hopes to have my vote when he runs for president, followed by have a nice life.

  I won’t stop him.

  Watching them together, Ashley’s arms draped around Whit’s neck while they danced—that hurt. More than ever. I have no business feeling this way since I’m the one who told him to back off. I’m the one who insisted we needed to end This.

  Granted, I didn’t exactly want them to be miserable all night, but did they have to look so right? Not to mention Ashley’s obvious snubs and snarky comments tossed my way all night.

  Thankfully, Whit did sort of put an end to that, redirecting her to the dance floor, away from the lone dark corner where I hid most of the night.

  A streak of lightening illuminates the sky. The forecasted light spring shower can now be classified as a torrential downpour. Like it or not, I owe him. He saved my life. Turnabout’s fair play.

  I push the door open wider, move aside, offer him refuge. Rain drips from his clothes like there’re a dozen leaky faucets sewn between all the seams. He steps inside with his head down, his movements cautious and stiff. Probably bracing himself for my reaction. Can’t blame him. I do have a history of going a little cuckoo when we stand around in this foyer.

  “How long have you been out there?”

  He takes a seat on the edge of a stair, rests his elbows on his knees. Beads of water dangle precariously from the ends of his hair before dropping to the floor around his feet.

  Like me, he’s still dressed in his prom gear, sans jacket. The shirt, a pristine shade of white at the collar and cuffs, is otherwise translucent everywhere else. I’m mesmerized by the way the material clings to his skin. That wife-beater covering his torso may be the only thing keeping me from passing smooth out.

  Silent, he clasps his hands tightly, entwines his fingers. He doesn’t spare me a glance.

  “Whit?”

  “Not long. Thinkin’.”

  “About?”

  “You. Your family. You almost drowning, the broken arm. When does shit stop happenin’ to you?”

  So this is how it begins. “When it’s over, I guess.”

  He nods, seemingly satisfied with my answer. “Wasn’t gonna come. Tried to talk myself out of it. You told me to leave you alone, and you were right—”

  Yay. Me.

  “—I need.” He shakes his head, spattering more water on the hardwood. “What you deserve.”

  Huh? “Did you come here straight from Mark’s house?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Were you, um, drinking?”

  The Friedmans are notorious for allowing their son to host unchaperoned parties, then coming home and pretending the red cups littering their yard the next day have held nothing stronger than punch. I’m pretty sure that’s where my date headed right after he dropped me off.

  In spite of the evening’s events, asking Whit if he joined the crowd tonight feels particularly awkward because I’ve only ever seen him drink alcohol twice. Even then, he shared with Ashley. Neither time afterward did he get behind the wheel.

  But who’s to say he didn’t let his guard down?

  Whit chuckles, this weird humorless rumble that sounds trapped somewhere inside his chest.

  “Soda. That’s it. I’m not drunk, Simone. Jus’ really wanted to see you,” he says without actually, well, looking at me.

  Still, my foolish heart swells from his declaration. The way he said it, like the idea of letting another day pass without acknowledging me is too much to bear. Like maybe he has an inkling of what I’ve felt nearly every day for the past two and a half years. I mean, I’m well aware things can’t be any more than what they already are, which is nothing.

  He chose Ashley, chose his future.

  But maybe there’s the tiniest possibility, that in this single, solitary moment, he wishes what I wish.

  Gah! What am I thinking?

  No way is he here for that. He’s sitting there with his head in his hands, trying to figure out the fastest, easiest way to tell me everything between us was one gigantic mistake. Or, the most brutal way to wish me a miserable, friendless rest-of-my-life seeing as I have caused more than a little trouble for him. His whole life was aligning perfectly until me and my lips ruined everything.

  “Won’t stay long.” He tips his chin at the floor. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

  “I’ll get you a towel.”

  I don’t bother waiting for his reply. There should be a few towels in the downstairs bathroom. Anything larger than hand towels are kept upstairs, but they’ll have to do. I’d have to go near him otherwise.

  Sure enough, all we have in here are a handful of neatly folded shell-embroidered numbers Aunt Katie bought in Hawaii a few years ago. I tuck two under my gimp arm. I’m halfway back to the foyer when I remember the floor, double back for the mop.

  Whit’s exactly where I left him, only now, his eyes aren’t focused on the floor. He’s doing what he said he came here to do.

  Looking at me.

  I swear his gaze is tangible. I feel it on my face, that unexpected heat on your face when sunlight breaks through on an otherwise cloudy day. Only this burns hotter. My skin tingles the closer I get, I’m a moth fluttering hopelessly toward my demise.

  I stop, unable to go any further. Every breath scorching my lungs.

  His eyes dare me to come closer.

  I toss the towels across the remaining distance, forgetting there’s more than one. Amazingly, he catches both before either touches the puddles forming around him.

  “Thanks,” he murmurs, his disappointment in me evident.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Am I?”

  How do I answer that? Depends on why you’re here? Should the answer matter?

  I know the right answer, or at least what it should be. Friendship is almost as impossible as my dreams.

  But when he looks at me like that . . .

  I go with, “They’re just towels,” focus on the floor as I push the mop in furious swipes over the reclaimed wood planks Aunt Katie and I so painstakingly stained. Anything to avoid his stare.

  “Lemme do that.”

  “I’ve got it.”

  I hear his movement. Feel his heat wrapping itself around me with each step. My pulse ratchets higher. Tiny beads of sweat form over my lip. His fingers slide over my one-handed death grip.

  “You’re still wearin’ your dress. It’ll get dirty.”

  “Not like I’m not planning on using it for the final dry.”

  “That’d be a crime. You look amazin’,” he say, gently prying my fingers off the mop handle.

  “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure. Tell you somethin’?” He’s has to know what his proximity is doing to my already shaky equilibrium, but it doesn’t stop him from eliminating what little personal space we have separating us. He tucks a finger under my chin. “I really wanted to dance with you tonight.”

  “You did?”

  “Mm, hmm. Still do.”

  Whit moves to stand in front of me, bending low until his forehead touches mine. The mop stick clatters on the floor.

  “Prom’s over, Cowboy.” My voice sounds ridiculously breathy and inviting even to my ears.

  Totally embarrassing.

  “Night’s still young, Honey Bee.”

  Whit slides his hands over the curve of my hips, leaving them at rest on either side of my waist, then sets us into motion. This slow rock thing we did that night we made out in the driveway, closer to standing in place than actually moving.

  “Don’t even need music,” he whispers, the cadence of his voice wooing me.

  Just like last time, my knees wobble, useless as old wet sponges. He tugs me back in, secures his arm around my waist.

  “You don’t wanna be near me. I get it. But please don’t.” His voice cracks. “Don’t pull away, Simone.”

  That’s what he thinks? That I’m trying to get away from him? Never mind it’s exactly what I ought to be doing, but how can he mis
s the way my heart pounds hard enough to crack both of our ribs?

  “Watchin’ you with Williams all night?” He lifts my chin again, holds my gaze. “Sucked. Bad.”

  He watched me all night? When? From where I sat, he and Ash looked pretty cozy. I totally expected them to head straight to the closest hotel.

  “Looked like you two, um, had a good time to me.”

  He sighs, rakes his hand through his hair, causing sprinkles of water to dot my face. “Shouldn’t have taken her. Not with how things have been. But Mama was so excited. We made plans so long ago, everything already paid for.”

  This time I do pull back. Well, push. “You don’t need to explain it, Whit. She’s your girlfriend. I understand.”

  “You don’t. Just . . . give me a minute, babe.” His tone has dipped into a register made for fervent, irresistible pleas.

  I need to get this situation under control. There’s a Mark Wahlberg marathon awaiting my undivided attention. I need to show Whit the door. Grab a pack of graham crackers, the new jar of peanut butter, and polish off that bottle of Hershey’s syrup.

  So why the heck am I nodding?

  Am I responsible for us being this close?

  Whit groans, presses his warm lips to my brow. “Thank you. Thank you.”

  His hands slide lower, as does my resistance. I silently beg for more of his touch, knowing I shouldn’t, wanting it all the same.

  He draws me in until there isn’t an inch of wasted space, then sets us back into a lazy sway. The only sound comes from rain battering the roof, an occasional clap of thunder, and the erratic hammering of my pulse roaring in my ears.

  Dancing doesn’t get any better than this.

  I weave my cast-free arm beneath his, flattening my palm on the well-defined muscles along his shoulder blades. Resting my cheek on his solid, damp chest, I breathe in the scent of citrus and rain clinging to his shirt.

  “How’s the arm? Am I crushin’ it?”

  “It’s fine.

  “Good. Missed you. Don’t be mad.”

  Going mad, maybe. “I’m not.”

  He tightens his hold around my waist. “Told Ryan I was comin’ over to apologize. Set things right. Leave you alone for good.”