The Last Best Kiss

by Claire Lazebnik

“When we split up at the music festival,” I say to Hil’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “Remember? Finn and Lily and Lucy and I went to see that other band, and then we ran into my cousin and his friend, and then we all got a little stoned, and then—”

  “Everyone started swapping spit but me and that other guy,” Lucy interrupts. “And that loser actually thought he had a chance—”

  “Not the point right now,” I say.

  “I don’t think Lily remembers anything about that,” Hilary says. “She’s never said anything about it to me, and she’s forgotten most of what happened that night. She always says she doesn’t remember much other than arriving at the festival. And eating kale chips—for some reason she remembers the kale chips.”

  “That’s so weird,” I say. A little giddily. Because if Lily doesn’t remember that she and Finn had gotten physical with each other that night, and if she really likes this guy James (and her foot certainly seems to), then—

  I stop myself. Then what? Even if she doesn’t like Finn anymore, that doesn’t mean that he’s stopped liking her. Or has started liking me again. All that stuff he said about her being brave and my being a coward—none of that goes away just because Lily has a new crush.

  “I’m pretty sure Finn remembers making out with her,” Lucy says lightly. Then, more seriously: “Did you see his face when she was unconscious? He looked like he’d been shot.”

  “I know,” Hil says. “And he was constantly texting me to see how she was doing.”

  “Tell Lily to let him down easy,” I say. Because I don’t want Finn to be hurt again by a girl. Once was too many times.

  “You could comfort him,” Lucy says. For a second I think she’s talking to me, and I freeze, embarrassed to be read so easily, but then I realize she’s looking over her shoulder at Hilary. “I mean, if he’s available now, why not? You’ve always had a thing for him.”

  Hilary shakes her head. “Not if he already made out with Lily. That’s gross. There are rules.”

  “There are?” Lucy says. She appeals to me. “There are?”

  “Not that I know about. But I’ve never been attracted to the kind of guys”—I correct myself—“the kind of people my sisters like. So it hasn’t ever come up with us.”

  “Maybe it’s a twin thing,” Hilary says. “The idea of kissing someone Lily’s already kissed . . . Bleah. Anyway, I gave up on him a long time ago. Maybe it’s sour grapes, but I have issues with someone who’d choose Lily over me. You know what I mean?”

  “Yeah,” Lucy says. “That’s definitely sour grapes.”

  “Shut up,” Hilary says. “It’s not. It’s a matter of taste.”

  I want to ask them if they really really really think Lily’s over Finn, but there’s no way to ask without sounding like it matters to me, and I don’t want them to know it matters to me. Because even if she’s over him, he could still be in love with her, and even if he’s over her, she could still be in love with him, and even if they’re both over each other, he might still not be interested in me, and anyway the conversation’s moved on, and I’m mostly relieved that it has.

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  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  twenty-three

  The next day, Friday, I check my texts after school and see one from Wade.

  You talked to your father yet? I could come talk to him myself, if that’s better

  No, I’ll deal with it

  Great. Like I said, I already sent in my EA application

  Cool

  I’m deliberately missing his point—that there’s a rush on this. My goal is to drive him a little crazy, by letting him think he’s got a shot at getting a letter out of my dad but never actually making it happen. I’m enjoying the thought of him staring at his phone, trying to figure out how to get me to move faster on this without alienating me altogether. He’s going to tie himself in knots trying . . . and then it will be too late, and I’ll blithely tell him I never bothered to ask Dad for the letter.

  It’s a small, petty revenge, but I’m enjoying it. He should have picked a different alum’s daughter to target.

  I’m on my way to the art room, but I come to a halt in the mostly empty hallway when I see Finn leaning against his locker. He’s staring somberly at something on his own phone.

  “Hey,” I say, and he looks up. “Everything okay?”

  He holds out the phone to me without a word. I take it and read the text. It’s from Lily.

  I’ll always think you’re great. But a lot’s changed for me.

  “Oh.” I hand the phone back to him, trying to read his expression. He looks unhappy. Well, why wouldn’t he be? Lily’s broken up with him. I can’t be equally sad about that, but I can be sympathetic. “That doesn’t sound good. I’m sorry.”

  “Did you hear about this James guy?” he asks.

  “I met him.”

  “Me too. She told me they connect on some deep, emotional level.”

  “I guess being in the hospital at the same time turned them into soul mates.”

  “Did you know she liked him this much?”

  I shake my head. “Only that they had bonded. Not that she was going to . . . do that.” I gesture at his phone. “Are you okay?”

  He rams his phone into his pocket and stands there biting his lip for a second before taking a deep breath. “If I tell you something, will you promise not to hate me?”

  “Easiest promise I’ve ever made,” I say lightly. But I mean it.

  “I feel so guilty right now. Not just because of the accident—”

  “Which wasn’t your fault.”

  He waves that off. “I could have prevented it. I should have. Anyway, that’s just part of it. Mostly I feel guilty because just now, when I got that text from Lily, I was relieved.”

  “Relieved?” I repeat. That’s not what I expected him to say.

  But I like hearing it.

  He nods and leans back against the lockers. Some kids walk by, and he gives them a chin-jerk nod as they pass. “That night at the festival . . . she was driving me crazy. She wouldn’t listen to anything I said. She was totally out of control.”

  “I thought you liked that she was so impulsive. I mean up until the pool thing—”

  “I liked it at first. Then I tolerated it. But even before we left town, I was starting to feel like maybe I couldn’t tolerate it much longer. I kept trying to convince myself it was a good thing that she always did just what she wanted at any given moment, but it was seeming less and less good—especially the night of the festival. If she hadn’t gotten hurt, I was going to try to pull back. But then, after the accident . . .” He trails off.

  “I don’t know,” I say slowly. “You looked like you were enjoying her company plenty that night . . . when we were all sitting in that circle . . .”

  He flushes and looks away. “I was caught up in the moment.”

  “Yes. Yes, you were.”

  “What about you?” He wheels around with sudden energy. “That guy you were inhaling—”

  “Inhaling?”

  “Practically.”

  “I was caught up in the moment?”

  “Seriously—”

  “Seriously. In the light of day, he’s kind of a jerk. Long story. And that night, we were both a little stoned, and it was just the thing to do at the moment. . . . But you and Lily—I mean, you told me you thought she was brave.”

  “I still think she’s brave,” he says. “But also irresponsible.”

  “That’s not what you were saying to me when we were waiting for the Molten Pops.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I was sort of trying to make a point. But I was pretty sure we were doomed as a couple.”

  “You sure you’re not just saying that because she likes someone else now?”

  He gestures at himself with a grin. “Do I look heartbroken?”

  Actually, no. He
looks kind of happy. But he hadn’t when I first came upon him in the hallway. The smile just appeared.

  Roughly around the time I said Wade was a jerk.

  That realization makes my heart speed up. I tell myself not to get too excited by this whole conversation. The past hasn’t changed. The past never does. Still . . .

  I say abruptly, “Come with me to the art room. I want to show you what I’ve been working on.”

  He hesitates. “I was supposed to meet Oscar five minutes ago.”

  “Oh.” So I was right: nothing’s changed, and I read too much into one quick smile.

  But then he says, “Just give me a second to text him.”

  Oh. Okay.

  He sends his text, and then we move down the hallway side by side, falling into step together without trying.

  Mr. Oresco is organizing some supplies in the art-room cabinet. He looks over his shoulder when we enter. “Anna! Come to finish that painting?”

  “I was thinking about it. Is that okay?”

  “Fine. I’m leaving in two minutes, though. Do you mind locking up when you go? You know the drill, right?”

  “Yep. No problem.” I retrieve my painting from the drying rack and spread it out on one of the tables, beckoning to Finn to come see.

  He joins me at the table, leans over and studies it, then looks up again. “You used the photo I sent you!”

  I nod. I painted those thick, curly, leaf-laden trees with the shiniest, most intense greens I could find. The branches intertwine so much, you can’t tell which belongs to which trunk, just like in the original photo.

  “I want to go there,” Finn says, gazing down at it. “It’s so beautiful. Except . . . there’s something hidden, right? There’s always something hidden. Ah, there you go.” He’s spotted the little figures I’ve drawn off to one side. “What are they? They look . . . rusty.”

  “They might be made of metal,” I say coyly. I like to keep things a little vague with my art. I have my own ideas about what’s going on, but it’s fun to me when people come up with different ones.

  “It’s not a good world for someone who’s made out of metal,” Finn says, staring at it thoughtfully. “All that greenery—it must rain a lot.”

  I nod. “Maybe they’re far from home. Or aren’t supposed to go outside.”

  “I wonder how they got there.”

  “There might have been a spaceship crash,” I say.

  “Or a wormhole?”

  “Or maybe there’s a guy who lives in an old, crumbling mansion just outside this forest who makes his own metal slaves, and a couple of them escaped.”

  “That one,” Finn says. “I like that one.”

  “Me too.” It’s how I imagined it.

  Mr. Oresco calls out a cheerful “Good-bye! See you tomorrow, Anna,” and the door shuts after him, leaving us alone.

  Finn studies the painting some more. “There’s fruit on the tree they’re standing under. I didn’t see it before.”

  “Just on that one.”

  “Oh my god.” He stands up straight, and he’s shaking his head and laughing a little. “One of them has its little robot hand on a piece of fruit! But the other’s backing away. It’s Adam and Eve, isn’t it?”

  I’m so pleased he got it that I bounce up on my toes like a little kid.

  “So the one reaching for the fruit—that’s a female?” he says.

  “I don’t know. Maybe they don’t have genders.”

  “It’s Eve,” Finn says. “She has to be a female. She knows she shouldn’t eat the fruit, but she does it, anyway. Because she shouldn’t. Which makes her a total girl, and I’m allowed to say that because I’m a card-carrying feminist.”

  “But the other one gives in, which makes him just as guilty.” I point at the painting. “He’s scared, but he’s not leaving. The second she offers him a bite, he’s going to take it.”

  “Maybe he’ll distract her. Offer her a Snickers bar or something.”

  I shake my head. “That’s not how the story goes. They have to eat the fruit. Adam and Eve always have to eat the fruit, or we’d still all be in the Garden of Eden.”

  “It’s possible,” Finn says, turning his head to look at me, “that that would be a boring place to be.” We both stand all the way up, still looking at each other. He says, “I think—” and stops.

  “What?”

  “It’s just . . . I’ve been thinking.” He stops again.

  “What about?”

  “About you,” he says, and my pulse jumps. “The thing is,” he says slowly, not quite meeting my eyes, “not many people can do this.” He gestures at the painting. “And the fact that you just do it, quietly, on your own, not shoving anything in anyone’s face, not dancing all over the place saying Look at me, I’m so creative and wild and free . . . You just make art because you can. And that’s cool, Anna. Genuinely cool. Not forced or fake cool. The real thing.”

  My cheeks are flushing with pleasure. Even my nose feels warm.

  I’ve gotten used to feeling overlooked and dismissed. Especially by him. This feels so good, I don’t know what to do with it.

  I struggle for a response that will let him know how much his praise means to me without making myself look needy. “Thanks. And just so you know, every photo you’ve ever shown me . . . they’ve all inspired me. You’ve inspired me.” I quickly add, “Don’t feel weird about that or anything. It’s just that you have good taste in photos. That’s all.”

  He laughs a little, and I realize how stupid that sounded, and I laugh too, sheepishly. My embarrassed smile freezes on my lips, because he leans forward and hesitates, his face near mine, his eyes scanning mine uncertainly.

  Like he’s thinking about kissing me but isn’t sure I’ll want him to.

  And I do. I do want him to. More than anything else in the world. So I tilt my face up toward his. Then panic. What if that wasn’t what he meant at all? I start to pull back, wondering if he noticed how eager I looked, wondering how I can cover this stupid stupid mistake of thinking he wanted to kiss me when he was probably just shifting his feet—

  And then his mouth comes down on mine.

  So it wasn’t a mistake.

  Maybe I’m done making mistakes. Or at least ones that concern Finn Westbrook.

  That would be nice.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  twenty-four

  Once upon a time, Finn Westbrook and I kissed each other a lot. But that was years ago.

  Now his lips are on mine again. Again and for the very first time.

  His mouth touches mine, lightly at first, then, as I lean up into the kiss, more confidently. For a while that’s enough, just that awesome warmth against my mouth and the sense that his body’s close to mine.

  I’ve been wanting this so much, missing it so badly.

  I grow hungrier, and I guess he does too, because he pulls me firmly against his chest as our mouths linger and explore and remember. He’s a lot taller than he was the last time we held each other this close. I like the way his shoulders feel under my tightening fingers. I like that they’re so much broader than his waist. I like that now I have to arch my neck up to reach him.

  But I also like that his hair feels the way it used to—thick and alive under my twining fingers—and that he tastes the same, a heady mixture of peppermint and something warm and earthy and unique. He’s definitely the same Finn, the one I’ve missed so much these last few years. The layer of familiarity under all this discovery—it’s like having a wild, exciting adventure and then finding your childhood blanket waiting for you when you make camp. Everything’s new and wonderful, but there’s comfort and safety here too.

  I don’t want to stop kissing him. Not ever. He starts to pull away, and I grab on to his waist, almost panicking, but he just wants to whisper something.

  “I’m kind of glad
Eve ate that fruit.”

  I express my wholehearted agreement with that sentiment by rising up on my toes and seeking out his lips again.

  This has to go on forever. I don’t ever want to do anything else. I can’t think of a single thing that’s more important than being held tight against Finn’s chest. I would happily wave away any and all college offers if it meant I could spend the next four years in this room alone with him.

  He doesn’t seem to be in any rush to move along either.

  I’m planning to stay there with him until the building falls down around our ears sometime during some intergalactic planetary war in the far distant future, but the plan is ruined by the stupid door, which bangs loudly open.

  “Well, what have we got here?” says a delighted voice.

  We aren’t doing anything wrong—I’d say we’re finally getting something right—but we jump apart guiltily, anyway.

  Ginny Clay regards us from the doorway, her arms folded, her narrow face alight with sly amusement. She wags her finger at me and sings out, “Busted!”

  Life is funny: one moment I’m in pure bliss, the next I want to commit murder.

  I should have locked the door. Oresco told me to lock the door. Why didn’t I lock the door?

  Finn touches my arm and, when I look at him, says softly, “I should go. I totally forgot about Oscar. He’s waiting for me.”

  “Go?” I repeat forlornly. How can he go? We just found each other again.

  He laughs at my expression. “I know where you live,” he says. “Expect to see me soon.”

  “How soon?”

  He leans his head toward me, his eyes so close, I can see the outline of his contacts around the irises. “I’ll come over tonight. Promise.”

  I nod, and he heads toward the door. I feel stunned as I watch him walk away. He’s mine again. He was and then he wasn’t and now he is. Somehow I got back the thing I missed so deeply and wanted so badly. I’m not sure how. But I did.

  He slips out the door with a polite nod in Ginny’s direction as he passes her.

  “Well, well, well,” Ginny says, once we’re alone, tilting her head to the side with a little wink. “Looks like someone’s made the art room her very own little love nest.”