“Huh?” I replied before swallowing at my drythroat. God, I was nervous, and I didn’t quite understand why.
“Do you like me?”
My eyes rolled to glare at him sidelong. “Duh.”
His brows had begun to darken in adolescence,and they pinched together. “No, not … not likethat.” He shook his head, pushing the point.
“Well, like … l-like what?” I tripped over mywords, my tongue suddenly bound by a racket of butterflies.
His head flopped backward, exasperated by myneed for more clarification. “Y’know!”
I did know. I swallowed again.
My heart pounded violently in my ears, with theteetering in our bond. The boy I had loved as my friend had somewhere along theline become the boy that I like-liked as something my young mind struggled towrap itself around. What it meant for me, for us, was a mystery, and I wasterrified to find out, to nudge myself through that door to a whole new worldof experiences and firsts.
“Do you … Do you likeme?”I had urged the brave words out of my mouth, forcing them along with heldbreath.
“No way. You first.”
He said the words playfully, as a hand reached aroundto tickle at my ribs, just as he had always done since we were toddlers. But inthat moment, it was different—wewere different. The teetering had rolled over into an all-encompassing change,and I think we both knew it as I flopped sideways, giggling and clutching myarms around myself defensively. Patrick leaned over me, relentless in histickling, egging me on to be the first to admit what we both already knew.
And then, with one single look in my eyes, hestopped. His hands were frozen at my sides, resting just below the bra mymother had urged me to start wearing on the regular.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hi.”
I was almost too young to be thinking aboutsex, but I knew where babies came from. I was also almost too young to becaring about boys, but I had noticed the way Patrick’s eyes made my stomachfeel when I gave myself permission to linger just a second too long.
Those eyes. It had always been those eyes.
I stared into them then, during that handful ofsmall, panicked moments, as he brought his uncertain lips down to mine, leaningover me on the couch where we had watched countless cartoons and eaten a younglifetime of afternoon snacks. I remember thinking in those seconds that we hadkissed before, when we had been “married” in my backyard by my older and wisersister. I did this to calm my nerves, to tell myself it was nothing new. It wasPatrick, just Patrick Kinney, but when his mouth touched mine, I knew I hadbeen wrong, and I closed my eyes.
Our lips met for a second time, and we closed thedoor on our childhood of best friends. We stepped into the next room ofcrushes, of boyfriends and girlfriends. And on that couch, our fumbling lipsand hands had brought us our first kiss—our firstrealkiss—and had his mother not walked in and caught us, I don’t think we wouldhave stopped.
And I don’t think I would have minded.
?
The night was too quiet and the quiet made it too easy formy mind to drift. My breath hitched in my lungs, as I looked over at Patrick,gently swinging back and forth. The swing set continued to scream its threatswith every shift of weight, but Patrick wore this annoying little smile, likehe didn’t have a care in the world, and he hummed.
“What are you smiling about?” I asked, and he turned toface me.
“Kinsey, I’msittin’ here, withyou, in one of my favorite places in the entire world. Why wouldn’t I besmilin’?”
I pushed my eyes to roll, pushed myself to keep nudging himaway. “Give me a break.”
Patrick laughed as he stopped his swing from moving andreached over to grab my chains, pulling me alongside him until my side pressedagainst his. I know I could have gotten up and walked away, but that requiredwanting to. It required willpower, and he seemed to suck that desire away alongwith the air in my lungs.
His eyes found mine, and they held me while he brushed astrand of hair from my face and tucked it behind my ear. He inched closer,putting his lips centimeters from mine, and he hovered, watching me with thoseeyes.
“You want this so bad, Kinsey,” he said, his voice graveledwith desire.
“No, I don’t.” I shook my head for good measure, but I didnothing to put distance between us. Because while distance was needed, andwhile distance was good, distance, was also torture.
“Oh, really? So, if I just …” He inched forward, brushinghis lips against mine as he spoke, and my body betrayed me with a gasp.Traitor.“If I just … stayed like this, you wouldn’t beg me to kiss you? You wouldn’tbeg me to ravage your mouth, and lay that blanket out in the back of the truck?”
“No,” I said with trembling breath, imagining the wornfabric of the old blanket against my back.
