I CLOSE MOM’S CAR door and head up the path to Isabel’s house. It’s one of those modern walkways of concrete squares spaced out on grass, with decorative cacti on one side. When I reach the frosted glass front door, I ring the doorbell, the sound echoing into Isabel’s entryway. I see her form vaguely outlined behind the door before she opens it.
“Alison. You made it,” she says, a hint of judgment in her voice. She scrutinizes me, looking perfect despite the paint-speckled sweatshirt she’s wearing.
I ignore how harried I must look, frustration still fresh in my cheeks. Swiping one strand of hair from my forehead, I play the part of someone who’s late for non-embarrassing reasons, someone who didn’t just fail her driving test. “Of course,” I reply. “You know I would never shirk my ASG responsibilities.”
Isabel’s expression doesn’t change. “Well, you’re not exactly an asset when it comes to making posters.”
I frown for a moment. Admittedly, Isabel’s not wrong. I know we’re remembering the same incident. Last year, I was responsible for several homecoming posters. They ended up resembling kindergarten artwork, which I know wasn’t the look Isabel had in mind since she frantically repainted them the day of the dance. It was not one of the finer moments of my distinguished career in student-government service.
“I’m dedicated to improving,” I say, stepping into the entryway.
Isabel watches me. “I just want to make sure you and Ethan won’t disrupt our work. There’s such a collaborative energy in the room right now.” She pauses delicately. “You guys sometimes turn things a little . . . toxic.”
I blink, realizing Isabel just repeated Williams’s complaint. It’s an unnerving reminder of how caustic our relationship can get. “I promise we won’t be disruptive,” I say, knowing if I were Isabel, I wouldn’t be convinced.
Isabel gestures with resignation down the hallway. “Everyone’s in the kitchen.”
I follow her farther into the house. Isabel’s home has a minimalist design, with white marble floors, austere furniture, and wide windows revealing the modern landscaping outside. We enter the kitchen where a dozen members of ASG work on posters in various stages of completion. Parchment paper is laid down on the kitchen island, the expansive dining table, even the floor where people paint ASG FOOD DRIVE on red rectangles of cardstock.
Ethan’s leaning by the sink, looking bored. I notice a fleck of white paint on his cheek. It’s irritatingly cute. I push the observation to the very back of my head. Knowing him, the paint fleck is probably part of a facade designed to further distract me, offsetting his crisp wardrobe with just the right dash of unruliness.
His eyes fall on me slowly.
“You’re here early.” He sounds . . . pleased? It’s a trick.
“I hurried. Didn’t want to miss this,” I say evenly. Whatever push-and-pull we’re engaged in right now, I’m not giving him an inch.
“We’re not letting you paint, you know.” Pleased turns to patronizing in his reply.
I grit my teeth. We’re not even fighting about the right thing now. “You look hard at work.” Ethan gestures to the poster on the floor next to him. I inspect what he’s done, doing my best to look unimpressed. When I open my mouth to critique his letter spacing, Isabel clears her throat. Plastering on a pleasant expression, I hold in my comment. “Ethan, could I have a word with you? In private?” I ask.
Ethan raises an eyebrow. “Am I in trouble for something?”
I laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I say, keeping my gaze narrowed for only him to see. Without giving him a window to reply, I walk out into the hall.
I hear the soles of Ethan’s sneakers on Isabel’s marble floors following me. In the middle of the hallway, I spin to face him. He pauses purposefully close to me, his hands resting casually in his pockets. When he grins, the fucking fleck on his cheek winks. “So, we celebrating?” he asks.
I can hear chattering from the other room. If I’m going to lay into him for his stunt with my driving test, Isabel’s hallway won’t work. I step into the nearby bathroom, holding the door for him. I’m already forming my points, organizing my arguments.
He walks past me, eyeing me curiously. Maybe even eagerly.
The moment I close the door, his lips hit mine. His hands find my waist, long fingers encircling my hips with deliberate urgency. I kiss him back, because goddamn it, I kind of knew we were going to do this regardless of how mad I am. Possibly because of it. How drawn I feel to Ethan is intertwined enough with my hatred for him that I’m no longer entirely sure when my desires are fighting each other or feeding each other. I let my hands skim the skin under his shirt, the outlines of his hipbones. It’s great he’s not wearing one of the oxfords he typically tucks in. Really great.
I know I have reasons to not want him. Enough that I could fill dossiers or hour-long debates. He’s almost definitely doing this to mess with me. What’s more, it’s a stupid cliché, hooking up with the guy you were convinced you hated. This can’t possibly go anywhere real—it’s just a combination of hormones and restlessness.
But those rational reasons don’t hold up while Ethan’s kissing me like there’s nothing he’d rather be doing.
It’s magnetic. We’re pressed to each other, skin and lips and breaths aligned, like the pages of a closed book. I feel his fingers on my back, in my hair, trailing shivers with his touch. His mouth is hot on mine. I cling tighter, wanting the heat.
I’ve known Ethan’s got a couple inches on me. I’d resented the height difference, hating how nature itself decided to give him the upper hand. Right now, I don’t dislike the opportunities it presents. The unconscious necessity of raising my chin to kiss him, giving him room to bring one hand to the curve of my neck.
It’s unlike the locker hall or the party. While our first kisses felt like collisions, this one feels like running hand-in-hand into whatever we’re going to be.
His lips part from mine for one moment. “This skirt is nice,” he says. He runs his hand up the fabric of my pleated skirt, planting his next kiss on my neck.
“You hate this skirt,” I murmur, remembering the last time I wore it, he specifically commented that he loathed my wardrobe.
“Hmm. I like it now,” he replies immediately, like he’s hardly registered what I said. His fingers move up to trace the V-neck of my sweater. “I like this too.”
Surprise surfaces above the sensations overwhelming me. I pull away, heart still racing while confusion seeps in. “What did you just say?”
“I said you look nice,” he says. I feel his hand on my waist, pulling me closer again. “Is that a problem?”
I stay where I am. “What are you playing at?” I’m searching for his next trap, struggling past how dizzy my head still is with him. But I don’t find it. It feels striking how fast my emotions shift, passion spiraling into skepticism.
“Shit, I’m just complimenting you,” Ethan says, lightly indignant.
“Why?”
Impatience hardens his features. “I need a reason?”
I step out of his arms. “Yes, Ethan. You do.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.” He shoves the hand that was just moments ago sliding up my thigh into his pocket.
“I want a straight answer.” I push aside his fervent kisses, flirtatious texts, his invitation to have fun. “Did you kiss me that day in the locker hall as some sort of payback?”
His eyes widen. “Payback?”
“For pulling your story from the Chronicle.”
He laughs, short and bitter. “First, I didn’t kiss you. Second, how could our kiss possibly figure into any kind of payback?”
“It’s not payback to make me think I might want you?” The word gets strangled in my throat, but I don’t drop his gaze. “To mess with my head that way, then pick the perfect time to drop me when it’ll humiliate or cost me?”
Ethan’s silent for a moment, his shoulders rigid. “Not everything is about our rivalry, Alison,” he finally says, his tone dangerous.
“You know it is.” His denial sends my heart pounding. For years, absolutely everything has been about competing, winning. Endless late nights, obscenely early mornings, frantically written essays—it’s all been for one thing. Hasn’t it?
“Not this.”
“Then why?” I ask. I’m desperate now, more so than ever. I thought I understood, but his words have destroyed every conviction I’ve been clinging to, leaving me defenseless.
He doesn’t say anything. His eyes leave mine, dropping to the floor.
My blood freezes. No. It’s not possible. It can’t be. “Why, Ethan?”
Green irises flick up. His jaw is squared, ready for the impossible, and I already know.
“Why?” I ask. I need him to say it.
“Because, despite everything, I’m attracted to you.” He reaches for my elbow, caressing with some combination of urgency and frustration. Half resistant, half enthralled. In the bright bathroom light, I catch every uncomfortable flicker of his expression. This confession isn’t a victory, it’s a vulnerability. Ethan’s never vulnerable. “Because I like you. There. Are you happy now?”
“You . . . like me.” I’m mute except to repeat his words. It’s unthinkable. Nothing, none of it was a game. This . . . is real. Or it could be. If I let it.
Ethan’s irritation visibly increases. “Unfortunately,” he says. I pace the floor from the sink to the window, glancing up every couple steps, studying him like a formula I don’t recognize on my homework. “Do you have anything to say in response?” he prompts when I’ve stayed silent for too long.
I stop, facing him. “I failed my driving test.”
Ethan opens his mouth, the instinctive way he does when we’re mid-fight. Then he closes it. “I’m sorry, did you just say you failed?” he finally asks.
“Yes. I failed, Ethan. Texting with you left me completely distracted.” It feels like I’m reminding myself. The heat coursing through me isn’t the good kind. It’s annoyance and shame I keep letting myself hook up with the source of my every misfortune. Predictably, Ethan’s stunned expression splits, and he laughs. He literally laughs right in my face. My cheeks redden further. “So hilarious,” I say, crossing my arms. “Alison Sanger failed something. You win.”
I head for the door, passing him. He catches my arm.
“I didn’t text you to mess with you,” he says. I search his eyes. “Honest. I really was just trying to flirt with you.” He pulls me toward him, reaching for my hands. I let him. What’s more, I believe him. While sabotaging me would be fiercely in character, deflecting the credit for it isn’t. If he’s not gloating, something is very different. “Not that I’m not amused you failed,” he adds, humor in his voice now.
I shove his shoulder. “You’re serious.” I say, softening. “You like me.”
He nods.
I narrow my eyes. “When did you know?”
Ethan grins wryly. “You’re going to keep rubbing it in my face, aren’t you?”
“Wouldn’t want to disappoint,” I confirm.
“I guess I realized after my party,” he says eventually, neither humorous or resentful. “When we first kissed, I was . . . surprised. I’d never thought about you like that.”
“Is this still flirting? I can’t tell,” I reply dryly.
“Like you’d ever thought about me that way, either.”
“Fair,” I say, resting my hips against the marble counter behind me. Ethan’s hand moves to grip the ledge, his waist pressing mine. “I knew you were objectively attractive, but not in a way that interested me.”
“Objectively attractive, huh?”
I roll my eyes and hook a finger into his belt loop. “I’d like you to continue declaring your feelings now.”
He laughs. “Like I said, I was surprised. Then confused, then angry. I didn’t want to accept it.”
His sincerity sobers me. “And now you’re not angry about it?”
Ethan leans in, the white paint on his cheek brushing my skin. “Only a little,” he says close to my ear, then pecks a quick kiss on the curve of my jaw.
I bring my lips to his in reply. Every day is full of hundreds of decisions—priorities, organizational efficiencies, editorial choices—and they’re often not easy. This one, right now, isn’t exactly easy, either. It’s not impossible, though. I know what choice I’m going to make and what choice I want to make, and they’re the same. It’s like someone’s illuminated neon lettering I could already read.
I kiss Ethan, deciding I want this too much to worry what it means for the future.