“Anything for you,” my mom says, and I can breathe again. I make my way upstairs.
As I reach the second floor, I hear her phone ring.
“Hello, Daniel. So good to hear from you,” she says, and I stop walking, watching her from the landing.
She crosses her ankles together, resting them on the coffee table. She is a beautiful woman. She is long and lean and put together; her hair is raven and her eyes are green and she has never not commanded a room, or a party, or an entire block. Men fall at her feet; she is the Pied Piper and I don’t know how she does it, but she plays her tune and they follow and they fawn and they lay down before her.
“Well, of course you should talk to your sweet wife, Daniel. You love Tokyo. Let her know how hard you’ve been looking for work, how much it means to go on this trip.”
My insides twist as I witness how she does it. She worms her way into his life, posing as the friend, the confidante, giving him marital advice.
She pauses and waits for his volley. “I totally understand. But you need to help her see it that way,” she continues, and I know she is just laying the groundwork, because soon she’s suggesting they discuss the matter of his Tokyo trip over coffee. It’s as if someone or something just cranked me up a notch, turned the timer on a once-dormant, now-ticking time bomb inside me. I try to ignore the noise and the sound and the tightness in my body because nothing matters, nothing ever changes.
I walk back to my room, scribble Amanda’s dad’s name down in one of my notebooks, then the conversation I overheard. I want to remember every detail. I want to be able to call them up if I need them. I hide the notebook away, slam my backpack on my shoulder, and head downstairs. My mom is still on the couch, still chatting with him. “Of course. We’ll meet tomorrow. I’ll help you with everything.”
I bet.
She looks at me and asks where I’m going.
“Out,” I say
“Can’t you stay? Hayes is coming over to review the latest foreign deal, and then we can all get something to eat.”
I pushed my fingernails into my palms. Don’t say a word.
“You used to love going out with Hayes and me,” she adds.
Say nothing.
I’m so red-hot with rage right now, that if I speak I’ll reveal all the things about Hayes that I’ve never wanted to share. I press my lips together. Words could destroy me right now.
“Kennedy, are you okay?”
“Fine,” I mutter. “Just need to exercise.”
I grab Joe. I need to get my mind off the fact that I’m about to lose another friendship because of her appetite for men. I push down hard on the pedals, putting distance between myself and that phone call, myself and my mother.
Our Stolen Kisses
Two days later we went to the Chocolate Cafe. I chose a seven-layer bar and you ordered a chocolate milkshake.
We were on a date. Holy smokes. WE. WERE. ON. A. DATE.
I was sure my emotions were apparent to anyone and everyone, like a neon sign blaring across the night. You must have known. But then, I could sense your nerves too. I saw it in the way you fumbled with the paper on the straw, in how you swallowed as you held open the door for me, in the way your fingers slipped the first time you reached for the bills in your wallet to pay.
We wandered over to nearby Abingdon Square Park, that tiny little triangular patch of park atop the Village that’s like an oasis in Manhattan, stuffed cozily inside its own walls of trees and flowers. We sat down on a park bench and you had your chocolate drink in hand.
“It’s so good. It’s like an iced hot chocolate,” you said, back to your cool and confident side that I adored as much as your nervous one. “Do you want to try it?”
“Yes,” I said, and took a drink, using the same straw. My lips had touched where yours had been. I looked at the straw, at the mark my lip gloss had just left on it. “Lipstick marks.”
“I like them,” you said.
My skin tingled. I was so keenly aware of your nearness. “My lipstick marks?”
“Your lips,” you answered, your blue eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them before. Full of heat. There were no nerves anymore. Just sheer sexiness. Unabashed want. I thrilled inside, hot tingles racing through my bloodstream. The questions were over. We were both in the same place, same zone, same need.
“Can I kiss you?” you asked, and my skin sizzled from head to toe.
“Yes.”
Our lips barely brushed, but it was electric. It was fire and lightning, and the sky breaking open. In that whisper of a kiss, we became a we, even as we both held back, aware that too much too soon would ruin us. But we both knew, in the soft press of our lips, in the hands on arms, hands on hair, hands so eager to touch, that there was no turning back.
With each breath, I felt the daring rush of danger, of skiing a black diamond, of speeding without getting caught, of hiding something wild and naughty and wonderful. I was on top of the world.
When you pulled away, that dazed look in your eyes told me you were buzzed too. I memorized that look, and the feel of our kiss. It was the kind of kiss that erased any others before, that blotted out any to come, that stood its ground as the kiss against which any and all would be measured.
“Wow,” you said under your breath.
Then we stopped kissing and we did what we came to do. We cast the revival, choosing the three leads. We were pleased with the selections, and with our own ability to play co-casting directors.
I ignored the fact that the musical didn’t have a happy ending.