34

Grant and I are quiet on the way home.

I’m not quite sure why, but it feels like the words we’re not saying are bouncing around in the car with us, creating a cacophonous roar that no one can hear but me. Maybe he’s just tired or maybe I’m just too distracted by the smell of his jacket over my shoulders. Whatever the case, we’re fine. We’re always fine—we’re just not actually talking.

“Gen?”

“Yeah?” I ask, surprised that he broke the silence just as I was thinking about doing the same.

“Could we…I mean, could you pull into the cul-desac and park for a minute? I got you a little something. A present.”

“A present? Who’s gonna turn that down?” I glance over and see him smile as he looks out the window.

I pull into our neighborhood, take the curves slowly, and pull all the way around past the last few houses into the darkened, circular bulb of concrete at the end of Grant’s street.

“Okay,” I turn to look at him, and he reaches under the passenger seat. “When did you hide that under there?”

“Oh, days ago.” He smiles so hard that his eyes almost close. “I wrapped it myself. Only used one piece of tape!”

I laugh. “Well, you are a master of efficiency.”

He hands me a flat sort of rectangle with a lump on one edge. I tear off the paper and see a notebook with a beautiful, swirly cover. And a lock.

“A lock?” I ask with a smirk.

“Yeah, well, you know. Creepers gonna creep.”

“I love it. Thank you.”

“Sure. It’s not a big deal. I was just hoping you planned to keep journaling. You know, I thought it really made you happy, and I was just scared that her shenanigans might have turned you off from it or whatever.”

“No, I get it. And I love it,” I say. “Thank you.”

Silence falls on us like a heavy snow. Bit by bit, we’re covered with the soundlessness. The words we’re not saying are back, floating around us and filling our lungs.

“So.”

“So.”

We laugh at the sound of our pitiful attempt, and I notice he’s tangling his fingers up in his lap. He’s so twisted together that I can’t even make out which fingers are from which hand.

Without thinking, I reach over and stop him. “Why are you fidgeting?”

He separates his hands, and I look down and see that I’m only holding one. And he’s holding mine.

We’ve held hands dozens of times. But tonight, with the moon pouring in through the windshield and with the sound of the breeze creeping through the slightly open windows, it feels different.

He inhales and then breathes out through pursed lips. His breath makes a loud rushing sound that reminds me of trying to learn how to whistle when I was little.

“Okay. You can’t interrupt me or I’ll never get this out.” He gulps down air again. “Do you remember last winter? When you were…when you weren’t doing so hot?”

I turn from him and look out the window. “You mean when I was in such a state that they almost admitted me? Yeah. I think that’s vaguely familiar.” I smirk and lower my chin.

“Well, you may not remember, but this one day, you were really out of it. And you weren’t really yourself or thinking clearly.”

“I remember that day,” I say. I look back down at our hands. “I remember everything about that day.”

“You do?”

“I do.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about that day a lot lately. And I’ve been…worried.”

“You shouldn’t. I mean, don’t worry. It’s in my top five most embarrassing moments, for sure.”

He looks down and chuckles to himself. “No. I’m not worried about it happening again. I’m worried that it won’t.”

I know what it sounds like he’s saying, but I’ve been wrong before. I want to feel joy, but I’m shrouded with doubt.

Our tangled hands are the only things I see, and then he’s moving his thumb across my palm and then his fingers intertwine with mine, one on top of another on top of another. We’re not “holding” hands anymore. We’re capital-H “Holding” hands. I clear my throat to cover the sound of my heartbeat, which I’m sure he can hear from where he sits.

“God,” I say. “I’m freaking out thinking that I’m misunderstanding something in a really major way because…you definitely pushed me away last December. So I’m obviously confused, and things are about to get really embarrassing.”

He laughs at me, and I smile.

“Then I’ll say this as clearly as I can.” He grabs my knees and turns me even further around in my seat. “We were little kids and your mom walked in on us, all of six years old, playing on your kitchen table. Do you remember?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so. What were we doing?”

“You had begged me to play Sleeping Beauty. And you were lying on the table, it was so cute, and you were holding this clump of weeds like they were flowers. And I climbed up on the dining chair, right? And I’m looking at you, laying there with your eyes closed, and I’m just about to kiss you, you know, to wake you up, and your mom walks in.”

“What?” I ask, with a breathless laugh. “Why don’t I remember this?”

“Well, she comes in, and she scoops me up and tickles me and whispers to me, ‘It’s not time for her to wake up quite yet, Prince Charming,’ and then you sat up crying and told her she’d ruined your game.”

“Oh my God, no, I didn’t.”

“Oh, yes, you did. You had a flare for dramatics even then.”

He’s still looking into my eyes, and he reaches up and draws his finger down the top of my nose.

“So last winter, you’re lying there, and you’re such a mess. You’re so sad and empty, and you’d spent so much time with your eyes and your heart closed to… everything. And I just kept hearing your mom’s voice. And I knew that it wasn’t time yet. I knew that I didn’t want to be something that you just did because you were sad and didn’t know what else to try. I didn’t want that moment to happen while you were still…asleep.”

My heart stops beating. The silence of it fills my head.

His thumb sweeps a rogue tear from my cheek, which causes me to breathe in abruptly as my heart thuds back to life. Slowly, sweetly, he brings his face so near to mine that our noses are almost touching.

“Grant.” I exhale his name so softly, I’m not even sure I said it. “It’s time for me to wake up.”

My lips drift into a smile and brush against his, and then we’re pressed together, and I feel heat and tenderness and hope rushing through me. My lips and my heart soften and melt. All I can smell is his hair and it’s all over me and settling on my skin like dew. His arms lower, and soon, they’re all around me, holding and comforting me as they have so many times before. And his lips on mine soothe my fears and assuage the ache that follows me around like a shadow.

The ebb and flow of his mouth and mine is the exact sort of thing that would inspire the stories I constantly resist.

But it’s better than those stories because this one is real.

My whole body aches as I pull away from him.

“Gen…” He wraps his arms around me tighter, but I hold up my hand and stop him from speaking.

I reach up, run my fingers through his hair, and say, “I have never not loved you. Never.”

I start to laugh because it’s like neither of us considered that there would have to be a follow-up in a scenario like this one. He giggles too and brings his face closer to mine.

“But—” I start.

“No buts!” He keels sideways, feigning exasperation, and I pretend to punch him in his ribs.

“Who’s being dramatic now?” I grin as he sits back up and envelops me in his arms. His nose is buried in my hair, and as he exhales, my skin catches fire and ice and I’m only flesh and nerves.

With his arms around me, it’s hard to think, but I collect myself enough to whisper in his ear as I swing my arms around his shoulders and bury my head in the hollow of his neck.

“But…I’m scared,” I say. “Like, tonight was a good night, right? And I’ve got all this makeup on and there was dancing and serotonin, but tomorrow’s coming, and it really might suck.”

“You’re right. It might suck. And if tomorrow doesn’t suck, then next month might or next year. Suckiness will probably be a part of life until the day that we die.” He runs his thumb across the lace of my sleeve. He places his forehead on mine and continues with a grin, “But, I mean…if I’m too late, I understand. I guess, technically, Andrew got to you first.”

“What?” I search his face for the glow that seems to be leaking like water down a drain.

“Well, I mean, he was your first kiss.”

Just hearing Grant say the word “kiss” makes me feel like I am going to spontaneously combust. I sit up straight and say, “Well, according to the first kiss charter documents, there is a loophole that applies to delicate situations just like this one.”

His eyes shimmer with mischief and fire. “Oh, is that so?”

“Yes. According to paragraph thirty-one, a first kiss is null and void if only one side does the kissing. And technically, Andrew kissed me. I certainly did not ‘kiss him back’ because I wasn’t even paying any attention to him. I was trying to remember my next line. So it would seem that, in accordance with the law, his kiss must be stricken from the record.”

“Well, I definitely want to uphold the law,” he says.

“Definitely.”

The breeze stills, and the quiet is floating between us again. Every molecule in the air shudders to a stop and time itself shrinks into this tiny, meaningless thing.

His hair looks almost blue in the moonlight, and I reach up and run my fingers through it again until my hand is on the back of his head, and those eyes—more green than brown, but definitely both—cut me and cure me so completely.

I lean forward, mustering every ounce of trust, bravery, and hope I have within me, and I push myself close to him. His eyes sparkle as I close mine just before I pour my lips onto his.

Kissing…even better than being kissed.