Kiss Now, Lie Later

by C. W. Farnsworth

  “Start looking for a new wide receiver, Cole,” Adam threatens as everyone else laughs.

  “Please. If you’re worried about having a tough captain, go join the cheerleading team,” I tell him, winking at Emily.

  “Or the Glenmont girls soccer team,” Caroline adds. “Rumor is Maeve Stevens has her team training at 6 every day, plus she runs at the Glenmont track every night.”

  “Are you serious?” Charlie gapes at her.

  “Why do you think we lost?” Caroline asks. “We train hard, but she’s crazy dedicated. The warm-up drill they did before our last game against them was more intense than most of our practices.”

  “I can’t believe a girls team . . . ” Charlie’s voice trails off in response to the hard stares Emily and Caroline give him. “That’s impressive,” he finishes, wisely opting to abandon his first statement.

  The conversation finally changes to a topic entirely unrelated to Maeve Stevens, and I sit back and sip my beer as my friends start to plan a trip to the lake later in the week, nodding along to anything I’m asked without really registering what I’m agreeing to.

  My thoughts are a million miles away. On shared secrets and scintillating green eyes and scorching kisses.

  I thought meeting Maeve Stevens freshman year was an inconsequential blip. I thought kissing her would allow me to forget her.

  I was wrong about both.

  chapter four

  Maeve

  I reach the finish line, sucking voracious breaths of cool air into my desperate lungs. Sweat trickles down my face as I reach for my phone to check the stopwatch.

  “You were faster that time.”

  I freeze, then stand straight and spin around. Weston Cole is walking across the Glenmont track towards me.

  “I’d guess 54 seconds,” he adds. I glance down at the phone in my hand. 53.

  “Have we met before?” I ask grumpily.

  Weston grins. “Touché, Stevens.”

  I take a long swig from my water bottle. “What are you doing here, Weston?”

  “It’s Wes. And I wanted to see if the rumors were true.”

  “Rumors?”

  “That you run out here at night.”

  “There are rumors about me?”

  “You have no idea, Maeve.” Weston laughs, but doesn’t look very amused.

  I wait, hoping he’ll elaborate, but he doesn’t.

  “What are you actually doing here?” I finally ask.

  “Nothing else to do tonight.”

  I eye him skeptically. “I know that’s not true. My friend Maggie said there’s a massive party at the same place as last night.”

  Wes doesn’t deny it. “Yup.”

  “So . . . why aren’t you there?”

  “There are a few girls I’m trying to avoid.”

  I wait, but that’s all he says. Is he trying to make me jealous? Did he actually just end up here randomly? I’m completely out of my element when it comes to Weston Cole.

  “Huh,” I spit back his same non-answer from last night, and I think I catch a ghost of a smile in response.

  “You’re dubious?”

  “Not sure I see the appeal.”

  Wes takes a couple more steps closer to me. Only one lane remains between us.

  “Really?” He quirks a brow.

  I’m usually full of false bravado with boys. I flirt, I quip, I tease. Because I know I’ll never have to follow it through with a Glenmont guy. There’s a certain stigma that comes with being related to two integral parts of the beloved football team, despite the fact they both could care less who I date. My father actually asked me why I went to prom last year with a basketball player from Fayetteville rather than a guy from his football team.

  I have no protection or assurance when it comes to Weston Cole, however. Because I think he would. Follow through. Hell, his cerulean eyes all but promise it.

  It’s a thrilling prospect. It’s also a terrible idea. I break eye contact to wipe my damp face with the light jacket I brought and shedded when I started sweating.

  “So . . . do you need a sprint buddy?” Wes asks, taking my subtle rejection in stride.

  I eye him uncertainly. “Are you serious?”

  “Did you find my offer funny?” Weston asks. I roll my eyes. “I lifted earlier, but I should do some cardio too. I’ve broken 47 on this drill before.”

  “You have?” I don’t bother to hide my surprise as I bend down to set up a second set of cones for him.

  “What? You thought the only thing I’m good at is kissing?” I knock over the cone I just set down, and I hear a low chuckle in response. I straighten the orange plastic and stand.

  “I thought the only thing you’re decent at is throwing a football,” I reply evenly.

  “Is that a compliment, Stevens?”

  “I’ve seen your stats, Cole. Unfortunately, I’m just stating facts.”

  “You looked up my stats?” He gives me a cocky grin.

  I snort. “As if. They’re a frequent topic of conversation at the dinner table. Drives my mother crazy.”

  “Not how you’ve broken two school records?”

  I look over at him in shock. “You looked up my stats?” I echo his question.

  “Yup,” he replies, unabashed.

  “Why?” I can’t help but ask.

  “I was curious. Glenmont’s heaping the athletic adulations on the wrong Stevens twin, if you ask me.”

  “I doubt anyone will,” I retort as I try to tamp the warmth his words elicited. No one aside from my teammates or close friends has ever complimented me about soccer before. “You sure your assessment doesn’t have anything to do with the fact I’m the Stevens twin who doesn’t play the same sport as you?”

  “I’m sure,” Wes replies confidently. “I’ve beaten Liam at football. I’m not sure if I could beat you at soccer.”

  I raise my eyebrows, surprised. I’m impressed by the way he states his record against Liam so matter of factly, without the slightest hint of gloating, and startled by his last sentence.

  “Do you want to try to?” I challenge without thinking.

  Wes grins. “Do you have a ball?”

  “Not with me. But—” I waver on the precipice between what I should do, and what I want to do. “—we could meet tomorrow?” I finally finish. I let myself topple where I want to, and I’m shocked that I did.

  “There’s a field in Fayetteville that’s usually empty. I can meet you there tomorrow?” Wes’s words are casual, as though he meets girls from Glenmont to play soccer all the time. I’m grateful he’s being so cavalier, because I’m freaking out enough for the both of us.

  “Okay,” I manage to reply. My heart is racing, and I try to convince myself it’s just anticipation and panic I’m experiencing. Those are certainly both present, but the dominant emotion is excitement. Excitement I’m going to see him again.

  Wes holds out a hand. “Give me your phone.”

  “Why?” I ask, handing it over to him cautiously.

  “So I can text you, Stevens. Or do you prefer to receive handwritten notes delivered by pigeons?”

  I roll my eyes at his sarcasm.

  Wes types something into my phone, and then hands it back to me. I smirk when I see what he’s entered his name in my contacts as. Good at one thing. He grins in response. “I’ll let you decide what that is.”

  I set my phone down on my gym bag, and move next to the first cone for my third set. Wes copies me.

  I count down as soon as we’re both in place, and then take off. The strain of my muscles alerts me to the fact I’m pushing myself even harder than before, and the tall, lean figure keeping pace next to me makes it impossible to forget why. I’m running drills with Weston Cole. It’s an absurd thought.

  As soon as we cross the final line, I check the stopwatch on my phone.

  “Well?” Wes asks, quirking a brow.

  “51,” I inform him. My best time yet.

  We run it five more times
, and then move on to the next drill. Wes mirrors my movements exactly, only asking for a couple of clarifications as we move through my entire routine.

  The longer we spend together, the more I’m able to appreciate I’m consistently running my fastest times ever, and less on the fact Weston Cole is the one running beside me. It’s a relief to focus on the motions of the familiar drills rather than the confusing emotions he manages to elicit every encounter we have.

  Finally, we finish the last sprint. Wes flops on the grass of the Glenmont football field, and it’s a strange sight.

  “Damn, Maeve. You do that every night?”

  “Every other,” I correct, grabbing my jacket to wipe at my face again. Not that it makes much difference, I’m entirely soaked with sweat.

  “You should seriously train our football team. Coach Blake is tough, but man, his practices are nothing in comparison to that.” I feel myself blush in response to his praise. He sits up. “Of course, I’m slightly less motivated to impress him.” He sends me a charming, crooked grin that prompts a fresh wave of warmth to wash over my already overheated body.

  “It’s probably a waste of time to try and impress anyone from Glenmont,” I respond.

  Wes isn’t deterred. “Is it?”

  I don’t answer, because it should be an obvious response—but it isn’t. Not for me. Not when it comes to him.

  “I should go,” I tell him, fiddling with the zipper of the jacket I’m holding and avoiding his gaze.

  “Do you want to go swimming?” Wes asks, completely disregarding my half-hearted attempt to leave.

  “What?” I finally look at him.

  “Swimming. You know, when you enter a body of water and flap your arms and legs about to keep from drowning.”

  I smile despite myself. “That’s your definition of swimming?”

  “Yup,” Wes smiles back. “You interested?”

  I am, and I hate that I am. Hate the fascination that’s taken root and made me amenable to anything Weston Cole suggests.

  For once, I do the stupid, irresponsible thing. “Yeah, I am,” I reply honestly.

  Wes’s answering smile is blinding. “Okay, let’s go.” He grabs my gym bag, and swings it over his broad shoulder before heading towards the parking lot. I gape after him, surprised again. I didn’t peg him as a gentleman. Grabbing my water bottle and phone, I follow after him. I open the trunk of the sedan I share with Liam, and he drops the bag inside. The light jacket gets tossed in as well, since I’m still too warm to put it on despite the cool night air.

  “Do you have somewhere in mind?” I ask. “Someplace no one will see us?” I tack on. The clandestine element of any joint outing should be an obvious one, but we’re standing in plain sight in the parking lot of Glenmont’s football field right now. It’s probably the rashest thing I’ve ever done.

  “Let’s go to the Fayetteville shore,” Wes replies. “Since you’re afraid to be seen with me.” He winks.

  I nod in response to his first sentence; it’s the logical choice. The closest thing to neutral territory we have. Then his second sentence registers. “I’m afraid to be seen with you?” I laugh. “I doubt the Alleghany football team would be pleased to know you’re hanging out with me. Anyone seeing us together would be more like mutually assured destruction.”

  “You asking me to trust you, Stevens?”

  “I’m telling you I’m trusting you on this,” I reply.

  Wes nods. “You can.” Oddly, I believe him.

  “I’ll follow you,” I inform him, heading towards the driver’s side of my sedan. He nods, and heads towards the shiny black SUV parked a few spots down. It looks brand-new, and I’m not surprised. I know the Coles are well-off.

  I follow Wes to a driveway I’m surprised to realize I recognize. He parks beside the same cabin that hosted the Fayetteville party I attended at the end of freshman year. The first time I talked to him. I climb out of my car.

  “Are we trespassing?” I ask, glancing around nervously.

  Wes grins. “No. My uncle owns this place. We’re good.”

  “Your uncle? So freshman year, when we—that was your party?”

  “Nah, my cousin’s. He just asked me to show up.”

  “Huh.”

  Wes smirks. “Interesting word choice.”

  “It’s catchy,” I admit.

  “Come on.” Wes holds out a hand, and I grasp it, finally fulfilling my freshman year fantasy. The rush of heat I experienced imagining this then was nothing compared to the fire racing through me now in response to the sensation of his rough palm rubbing against mine. Because now I know exactly what actions those impulses are pushing me towards. Dangerous ones. But I don’t pull my hand away. The ground is shadowed and uneven, and I had plenty of trouble navigating it last time.

  I also just don’t want to.

  It takes us about five minutes to emerge on the sandy stretch of beach past the woods. This is farther than I ventured before, and I glance around the peaceful lake, noting the pinpricks of light surrounding it on both the Alleghany and Glenmont sides.

  Wes drops my hand and pulls his sweaty shirt over his head. The fire turns into an inferno.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Do you normally wear a shirt swimming?” Wes asks, smirking.

  I didn’t think this through, which is extremely unlike me. Because now I’m faced with a new dilemma. I’m wearing a sports bra under my own shirt, which is less revealing than my bikini top, but I’m fairly certain I’m wearing a thong underneath my running shorts. Which means I either leave my shorts on, or show Weston Cole a lot more of me than any other guy has ever seen.

  He reads the indecision on my face. “I won’t look, Maeve. I’ll go in first.”

  Once again, his thoughtfulness surprises me. But I’m not hesitating because I don’t want him to see me in my underwear. I’m stalling because I do. And the same thrill that propelled me to say yes to this excursion, to keep our palms pressed together, causes me to whip my spandex tank top off in one smooth motion. My black sports bra doesn’t reveal much, but it does show off the toned abdominal muscles I’ve worked hard for. Wes glances at the defined planes of my stomach a couple of times, and I can’t help but relish each peep, especially considering the fact his own carved physique makes it clear he spends plenty of time in the gym.

  Summoning all the courage I can muster, I pull off my running shorts as well. Sure enough, I’m wearing a hot pink, lacy thong. The satisfaction of watching Wes’s astonished expression is enough to make stripping worth it. I kick off my sneakers and sprint towards the dark water, submerging myself in the icy depths.

  “Fuck, I feel like I’m taking an ice bath,” Wes complains as he follows in after me.

  “You’ll get used to it,” I tell him. I can already feel my muscles loosening, numbing in the cool water. I float on my back, staring up at the stars. Unlike last night, I actually can see the bursts of light scattered across the heavens.

  “I saw your parents sitting together. At the game last fall,” I tell Wes, keeping my gaze on the stars twinkling overhead.

  “Were you surprised?”

  “More sad, I think. After what you told me—that they were acting like everything was normal . . . ”

  “They both care too much about appearing to be perfect. Doesn’t matter what the truth is, it’s all about what people think.”

  “That’s why you act like you don’t,” I observe. It’s one of my brother’s most common complaints about Wes. He always appears unflappable and relaxed on the field, even in the final minutes of the game. Whereas Liam has a two hour pregame ritual he keeps consistent to the minute.

  “Who says it’s an act?” Wes replies, raising an eyebrow.

  “Isn’t it?” I challenge.

  “The fact that you can’t tell says a lot,” Wes responds, smirking slightly.

  “Who says I can’t tell?” I refute. “But if this whole football thing doesn’t work out, you could have a
future in acting.”

  “‘There's an old saying that applies to me: you can't lose a game if you don't play the game.’”

  “I don’t think Nike has actually been around for all that long,” I respond.

  Wes laughs loudly enough to startle a few birds from their perches in the trees surrounding the lakeshore. “It’s Shakespeare, Stevens.” I eye him dubiously, and he chuckles again. “Look it up. I didn’t think there was a single high schooler in the country who managed to escape the sad fate of reading Romeo and Juliet.”

  “I read it; I didn’t memorize it,” I retort.

  Wes just laughs again. Silence falls between us, but it’s a peaceful one. The only sound is the occasional splash or swash as we displace the surface of the lake.

  “What’s your middle name?” I ask abruptly.

  Wes eyes me apprehensively. “Why?”

  “I’m just curious.”

  “About my middle name?” Wes smirks.

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me the real reason, and I’ll tell you.”

  I sigh. “Most people in Glenmont insert a profanity.”

  Wes grins. “I’m flattered.” I roll my eyes. “So you’re wondering if my initials really are W.F.C.?”

  I scoff. “Forget it.”

  There’s a pause, then he answers. “Thomas.”

  “What?”

  “My middle name is Thomas.”

  “Weston Thomas Cole,” I repeat.

  Weston cringes. “Please don’t say my full name. My mom only uses it when she’s really mad about something. Not a lot of great memories there.”

  I laugh. “Okay, your secret is safe with me.”

  “I know,” Weston replies simply.

  “You also know I’m a Stallion, right?” I respond, only half-joking.

  “Does it bother you?” Weston asks. “That I’m from Alleghany?”

  It should be a ridiculous question, but somehow it’s not.

  “Not as much as it should,” I respond truthfully. “Does it bother you? That I live in Glenmont?” That I’m a Stevens? I silently add.

  “Not for the reason it should,” Wes answers. I wait, but he doesn’t elaborate further. Instead, he asks me another question. “What’s your middle name?”