When We Kissed Read online

  Given how close our bodies have drifted together again, she should have an inkling of just how stoked I am.

  Her hand falls away. A startled “Oh” slips past her lips. This time, I take the step back. Either that or humiliate myself in reputation-ruining speed. I take a deep breath, try to get ahold of myself.

  “I was. I am. Ashley ain’t, though. I, uh, never mentioned I applied. She thought I’d settled on Columbia.”

  “Uh, huh, I thought so, too, but I mean, Yale.”

  “Exactly.” Columbia’s a great school, but when comparing the two? Decision’s a no-brainer. I’d hoped Ashley would rationalize the same way Simone just did.

  “Forty-five seconds,” Ryan announces obnoxiously loud from right outside, and I sincerely hope he hasn’t had his ear pressed to the door the entire time.

  Who am I kidding? This is Ryan I’m talking about.

  Had I an ounce of brain function, I’d use his warning to create a little more distance and get these skis off my back. Park myself in the corner where Mrs. Ellsworth’s furs are hanging at the end of the row.

  I lower my head, succumb to the Cake Seduction.

  I know. I’m a glutton.

  A sharp rap from the other side of the door causes Simone to jump. The top of her head lands a solid blow under my chin.

  “We’re going to pretend this didn’t happen,” Simone declares with finality. “None of it. When we go back out there, I’m done with this game. And Ryan, you better go make coffee before Whit takes Ashley home.”

  Seems Simone knows Ryan pretty well, too. We both fall silent, listening to Ryan’s heavy footfalls on the stairs. Her warm breath fans over my neck again. The pain in my chin evaporates.

  “Her parents will flip if they catch her like that.”

  Ashley will flip if she catches us like this.

  “I know. Thank God you’ll be there to cover.”

  “Uh, no I won’t.”

  “Uh? Yeah you will?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why the hell not? You’re spending the night. How hard can it be for you to cover her?”

  “Boy, are you crazy? I’m not crashing at her house tonight. Not after this.”

  “You have to.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Look, I know you’re pissed about the drinking and whatever, but you really want her to get busted?”

  “I’m going home and forgetting this whole night.”

  “What?” Forget slipping me that amazing Frenchie? “You can’t do that.”

  “Oh, yes I most definitely can,” she assures me with a vigorous nod.

  I blurt the best argument I can conjure. “I won’t let you.”

  Lame.

  “Like you have a choice.”

  I really don’t, but I try again, anyway. “I’m your ride.”

  “Not anymore.”

  Right. “Okay. How you gonna get home, Simone? There’s over a foot of snow out there. You can’t walk.”

  She can.

  “Yes, I can,” she confirms, punctuating the statement with another poke to my chest. “I haven’t been drinking and it’s not that far. Besides, I’m not your girlfriend, which means I’m not your concern.”

  I grasp that offensive pointer of hers, bring it to my lips for a kiss. “But you’re Ashley’s friend, and she’ll worry.” Good one, Devereaux. “How ‘bout I have Ryan drive you? He can use the Jeep.”

  Note of high importance: Ryan has wrecked two cars in less than a year. Two.

  My offer is crazy generous. Or, just plain crazy.

  “Ride shotgun with Wreck ‘em Ryan behind the wheel? Seriously?”

  Moving on. “What about Hayes? He hasn’t sipped a drop. Sure he won’t mind—c’mon Simone—”

  Someone calls time from the other side of the door,

  “This. Never. Happened.”

  The door barely opens before she slips from my grasp, ducks beneath my arm and bolts out of our intimate confinement. The sweating gets worse. And I’m still sporting major evidence for why I can’t go after her.

  “Uh, huh, never happened,” I mutter to the empty space in front of me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Simone

  Must-Do List—preferably before turning 18

  5) Deal with Leann

  4) Drive

  2) Relax the nest on the top of my head ☺ Bone straight for the 1-8, baby!!!!!

  1) Get over a boy/Get a boyfriend

  None of these sound all that significant to someone else, but for me? Major milestones. Living, for me, is day by day. Minute by minute, really. Makes me sound like a slacker, but I’m not. It’s just after everything I’ve lived through, I can’t fathom any other way to exist.

  Believe me, that list is aiming high.

  Although that boyfriend thing? Not really a goal.

  Yeah, I know how it looks. Had my therapist—ex-therapist—not insisted one of the best ways to move past grief and fear is to make lists of goals that challenge those emotions, I never would’ve penned it. His theory is, by doing so, I’ll rebuild my confidence and ability to trust in relationships outside my usual comfort zone.

  Stupid.

  How does someone rebuild something they scarcely possess in the first place?

  Nevertheless, I’ve followed his advice, made a list of at least ten goals every year for the last seven. Doesn’t mean I consider them all attainable. Sure, I’ve crossed off a few majors, like ending the silent manifesto I staunchly held against my aunt after the first year together. Rediscovering the bliss of bubble baths in year four. Venturing into the unoccupied bedrooms inside our house somewhere around year five.

  I’ve even semi-trusted others beside my aunt and Mrs. Goodwin to drive me places from time to time, although I won’t lie, some days, that’s still a struggle.

  Six-year rollover, that one.

  Aunt Katie challenged me to make number one a priority, mostly because she foolishly believes there’s such a thing as being too safe and, in her words, I’m one step away from wearing bubble wrap underneath my clothes. Personally, I think she’s wrong on both fronts. For all of my issues, she knows I hate turning down a challenge, though. She threw down the gauntlet, told me to prove it. Added incentive of a possible theater room added onto the house sweetened the pot.

  I really wanted one of those.

  Oh, well.

  Having a boyfriend means I’ll have to be in a relationship with a boy I might actually fall for. Then, something could go wrong, and in a blink, he’ll be gone like too many others I’ve loved. That’s what people do. They let you down, leave. Die.

  I’m not risking it.

  I’ve tried.

  Sort of.

  Went on dates. Firsts, seconds, thirds. Even had some fourths with two guys who made no secret of letting me know I was their Plan C for the evening, Plan C consisting of standing next to me at a party while they check out other girls. I knew the deal. It’s the price you pay when you’re known for being the girl who doesn’t put out. Not that I’m holding out for a husband, mind you. I just don’t believe promiscuity has to go hand-in-hand with commitment issues.

  So, an amendment may be in order if I’m going to fulfill the first part of that goal. Maybe find a Mr. Until-the-End-of-Summer? I’ll stand a better chance of stamping the thing with an expiration date, dump him before the relationship sours, right?

  I’ve narrowed my focus on two prospects. Neither attend Grant, unlike a certain someone who shall never again be kissed by these lips. Trust me, kissing my best friend’s boyfriend wasn’t what I had in mind when I made my list. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  That stupid, stupid game.

  In the aftermath, I’ve gotten pretty good at avoiding one-on-one encounters. Kept it stealth, dodging him in the halls. An assembly kept us from having a class together yesterday, hallelujah Jesus. The effort has been worth it, believe me. Stress does terrible things to my stomach.

  I won’t bore you with details of how b
olting up a flight of stairs after lying to my best friend after tonguing down her boyfriend in a closet after downing two Dr. Pepper’s and inhaling three greasy slices of Chuck’s pizza—

  Chuck is definitely not Italian, but I missed lunch on Friday, and—

  Point is, there was a mandatory pit stop beside the driver’s side door of Cody McCutcheon’s pickup and now, well, he’s sort of pissed at me.

  I’m dodging him, too.

  From the looks of things, however, one of them may have figured out a way of catching up to me. Without even reading that folded slip of paper that’s protruding from the top of my locker, I have a pretty good idea who won.

  I’m Eve in the Garden.

  That paper? The proverbial snake luring me closer. There’s no telling how many people have read that piece of paper. Maybe even Ashley. If not, someone still could’ve seen him put it there.

  People talk.

  What was he thinking?

  The Mary Janes I strapped on this morning feel like cinder blocks tied around my ankles. I hurriedly pluck the incriminating evidence from public view, steal a peek over my shoulder in case anyone’s watching.

  We need to talk.

  Puh-lease. So not happening.

  Talking to Whit Devereaux is the last thing I want to do.

  Okay, maybe not the last thing, but he has to know I’m avoiding him. He’s witnessed my deliberate sprint in the opposite direction. In heels. I’ve already ghosted him twice today. Talk about a prime example of action speaking louder than words. A sane boy would skip the desire for post-action commentary, give up. We’ve gone this long without getting all chummy. So we kissed? Doesn’t mean we have to talk. People kiss all the time.

  I just happened to kiss my best friend’s boyfriend, that’s all.

  Annnd, I just happened to like it.

  A lot.

  Ugh! I’m like, a living, breathing Katy Perry song. Soooo not good.

  Kissing The Cowboy ranks high on the list of no-no’s. A tremendous err of epic proportion. Bad enough he’s my best friend’s boyfriend—

  Okay, that’s the worst of it.

  —but truth? He’s the only guy who’s ever pushed my buttons. Heart palpitations, clammy palms, irrational urges to scribble his initials beneath mine on the back of my Trapper Keeper. The whole nine.

  Southern born and bred, Whitney “Whit” Devereaux is the walking personification of Do Not Freaking Touch, Simone. Smart, athletic. The Cowboy is six feet of lean muscle, covered by perpetually tanned skin, proving he's all about being in the great outdoors. Add those hypnotic, hazel eyes framed by long, dark lashes and those come-lick-me lips that are forever curved into a God-made-me-perfect smile even teachers can't resist, along with a lush headful of hair the shade closer to burnt whisky than black.

  Whit Devereaux is head-to-toe anatomically astounding.

  Short of hanging a radioactive stop sign around his neck, he can’t be any more off limits. I can be on the low with Assistant Principal Warner (pretty much everyone is convinced he works nights as a stripper) before I can be caught batting my eyelashes at that boy.

  And I’ll go to my grave before admitting this out loud, but Whit is the only person who’s ever made me wish, for the briefest moment, that Ashley and I weren’t friends.

  How’s that for motivation to buckle down on scratching off at least part of number one?

  With exception of family, a term I use loosely, seeing as Aunt Katie and I tip Parkland Hill’s population scale with our bustling household of two, Ashley is the best friend I have. We’ve been tight a long time, too long to throw it all away over a guy. Even if said boy does have a PhD in Philematology.

  That’s the study of kissing. Look it up. I did right after I limped home.

  Word to the wise: Letting your BFF talk you into wearing platform heels, regardless of them looking amazing with your one and only pair of Dylan George’s, is a bad decision if you’re set on taking a nighttime hike through the snow.

  Not my worst decision of the night, unfortunately.

  Also one I’ll never forget.

  Whit. Can. Kiss.

  That boy possesses all the necessary skills for amazing lip-locking. Soft and curious one minute, intense and probing the next. Thorough. None of that excessive spit or teeth-clinking mess. I unequivocally declare Whit’s execution the best I’ve ever experienced.

  But, you know, won’t again.

  Not that I have tons of experience for comparison. There are freshmen walking these halls with far more practice. Random kissing just for the sake of something to do isn’t my style. A few guys peaked some interest, though. Mistakenly believed one might’ve been the one, too, Learned soon after I was wrong, but whatev.

  Anyway, from now on, this chick is living by a new self-imposed rule: Maintain a fifty-foot radius between myself and tall, muscular boys with vibrant hazel eyes, and mesmerizing smiles that probably makes the devil green with envy.

  Steering clear of dark closets might be in my best interest, too.

  Even better, I can forget that night entirely the way I told Whit I would, no matter how heavily it has weighed on my brain since the moment I bolted from Ryan’s basement. Today marks a new beginning. Whit Devereaux and his amazing lips will not occupy another second of my daydreams. Night dreams, either.

  I yank open my locker, crumple the incriminating evidence, tossing it on the top shelf, then stoop down to grab the book I need.

  “Secret admirer?”

  Crap. “What?” I cough. “Oh. Hey.” With any luck, Ashley will mistake my probable grimace for a passable smile. “Thought you were working the office?”

  “What was that?”

  “Gum. Almost swallowed it.”

  “I’m talking about the paper you just tossed back there, goof.” She nudges my over-crammed bag out of the way with her foot, spinning the dial on her lock.

  “Oh, that?” God, I hope I look way more casual than I feel. I dismiss the heart-stopping note with an exaggerated eye roll. “Nothing. Forget something?”

  “Mascara.”

  “The horror,” I tease, happy to see she’s more concerned with her reflection in the magnetic mirror adhered inside her locker door than the ticking time bomb threatening my safety from inside mine.

  “Shut up, Miss B. Not everyone is blessed to have those perfect lashes and zit-free skin.”

  Her comment doesn’t warrant a response any more than the use of the nickname she’s taken to addressing me by lately, which, depending on the situation, the B stands for something other than Bruckner.

  Fact: Ashley’s gorgeous.

  She’s that girl most other girls want to be like, while not so secretly hating her because they aren’t. Can eat whatever she wants, though she rarely does. Has just the right amount of hips and legs to make any pair of jeans look good. People tell her all the time she could be Kaley Cuoco’s prettier long lost sister.

  And we’re both blessed with relatively blemish-free skin.

  Mason Porter, in his usual poor attempt at nonchalance, validates this as he openly gapes as Ashley touches up her gloss. That puppy dog expression of his is hilarious. The poor boy has had a jones for her since sixth grade after she kissed him every day in exchange for Twinkies from the vending machine.

  Never underestimate the power of snack cakes, gentlemen.

  Unfortunately for Mason, Ashley’s palate got a little finicky after a particularly in-depth lesson on fat calories and how they affect the way her jeans might fit.

  I give him a discreet signal to wipe the drool from the corner of his mouth.

  “Ms. Hoda called a PTA-mom in to work the counter, so I can do study hall. Speaking of, Mom asked about you this morning.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Uh, huh. She was like, ‘You two fighting?’ just because you didn’t sleep over. Dumb, right?”

  Okay, so I used my aunt as the excuse for why I left. I told Ashley she’d sent me a text saying she came home early. Luckily for
me, Ashley was too preoccupied at the time to call bull on my lame excuse. Had she been on her P’s and Q’s, she’d have remembered me telling her I’d left my phone at home on the charger.

  I nod, sense what’s coming next.

  Good thing I have a legit reason for stalling down here. This way, I have a clear view of where her feet are in proximity to my butt. I’m not a very convincing liar. Lying stresses me out.

  Unfortunately, from here on out, everything I say or do will have to be Oscar-worthy. My only other option is truth, which sounds good in principle, but probably won’t earn me too many loyalty points.

  I practically climb inside the tiny pocket of space left in my bag, digging in the bottom for, well, nothing or anything that will save me from having to look Ashley in the eyes.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask,” she murmurs with a calm I doubt either of us feel, “did, um, something happen the other night? You know, while you and Whit were in the closet?”

  Boom.

  My stomach grumbles, muscles tense.

  I’ve expected this conversation. I spent the entire weekend dreading the inevitable. Turned my phone off just to avoid it. Not the smartest decision, since I knew the silence would only leave her quiet to imagine the worst.

  “Did he say something happened?” I deflect, making a show of reorganizing my books so they’re lined by size. “Because nothing happened, at all.”

  I know. My nose just grew six inches.

  “Right, that’s what he said, too.” Her rushed tone holds a noticeable hint of relief. If Ashley smells the stench of my deceit contaminating the air, she doesn’t let on. “But, you know, I wanted to make sure. I mean, I practically have to force the two of you to be civil most of the time. I thought maybe you two bumped heads or something.”

  You could call it that.

  My entire body must be a shade of vibrant cherry. Tension knots my shoulders.

  Relax, Simone.

  Whit and I must be on the same page, which is good. One less reason for worry. Matter of fact, I can probably nip this whole situation in the bud.

  “We didn’t. Fight, I mean. He, uh, told me about Yale.” Thank you, Cowboy! His going all true confession the other night just provided me with a “safe” pass. “Guess you’re still mad?”