Dear Diary,
Why do people in books always let themselves do things they know they’ll regret? It’s like they’ve never heard of self-control. I just want to yell at the page, Stop! Before it’s too late!
M.P.M.
tugging me gently in his wake. The sounds of the dance were muffled, like the distant thump of a clothes dryer.
“Ready?” he asked.
I said nothing, unwilling to expose my ignorance by asking, For what?
“It’s easy.” He stepped nearer, placing one of my hands on his shoulder while his other arm circled my waist. “Just follow my lead.”
My full attention was on the feel of his palm against my back, so it came as something of a shock when he started counting, one-two-three, one-two-three, stepping forward on the second one. I had no choice but to move with him, stumbling slightly in my heels. Alex tightened his grip to steady me.
“You know how to dance.” It came out slightly breathless, as we rounded the corner at the far end of the hall. Really dance, I meant. With a partner. Not like the scrum I’d witnessed in the gym. At the same time part of me thought, Of course he can dance. Alex could probably work up a decent sonnet or arrange flowers, too—anything that fell in the broader wooing category.
“My sisters made me take lessons with them at the rec center. There weren’t enough guys signed up for the class.” He pulled me to a stop. “I can just about fake my way through a waltz.”
I blurted the first piece of information that popped into my head. “It used to be considered scandalous—the waltz.”
“You sure you’re not thinking of the Lambada?”
I shook my head. “Back then the dances had a lot less contact.” My hand sketched the distance between our bodies, until I realized what I was doing and dropped my arms to my sides.
“I wonder what they would have said about the junior high sway.”
Seeing the blankness of my expression (my old school had not gone in for dances), he drew my hands up to his neck. Placing his palms at my waist, he pulled me closer.
“Nice dress, Merrily.” His gaze was warm across the bare skin at my shoulders and neck.
I pretended to be fascinated with something behind him, though the only thing on the wall was a tattered poster about the importance of hand-washing during cold and flu season. “We just rock back and forth?”
“Yep. It’s like a hug set to music.” He crossed his arms behind me, narrowing the gap between us even further.
“This is a lot closer than a waltz.” My voice sounded as wobbly as our side-to-side movements.
“Shocking,” he agreed as his cheek came to rest against mine.
“My sisters let me come to their stage combat class,” I said, when the silence was too much.
He leaned away far enough to look at my face. “Is that your way of telling me to back off?”
“No. It’s just an anecdote. About sisters.”
Although we were no longer dancing, neither of us moved away. At this distance, he hardly had to raise his voice above a whisper. “You know, if your sister marries my sister, we’ll be related.”
“I already have a brother. One is plenty.”
He gave an exaggerated sigh. “And here I was dreaming of family holidays. Group photos. Summer vacations.” I rolled my eyes, which only seemed to encourage him. “You and me, Merrily. Roasting chestnuts in our matching holiday sweaters.”
“Have you ever actually roasted a chestnut? They’re impossible to peel and you end up stabbing yourself in the cuticle about a hundred times. It’s a nightmare.”
The corners of his mouth twitched. “So much for that fantasy.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. “I can be a little bit of a wet blanket sometimes.”
When he didn’t respond, I took a breath, thinking maybe I should explain what I meant—and then his mouth touched mine.
My eyes flew open. He was already pulling away, the contact so fleeting it was over as soon as it began. “Why did you do that?”
He seemed bemused by the question. “You tell me, Merrily.”
“Um, shock value?” I racked my brains for another possibility. “Or maybe because I was being pathetic, and you wanted to change the subject?”
Alex smoothed the hair back from his forehead. “I can’t say I gave it that much thought.”
“So it was like an accident.”
“I didn’t trip and land on your mouth, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“An impulse, then,” I suggested. “Like walking past a bakery and thinking, ‘Hey, I could go for a doughnut’?”
“Are you calling yourself a doughnut, Merrily?”
I was too busy wondering which kind I would be to answer. Apple fritter? Jelly-filled? No, wait: an old-fashioned.
“You’re frowning, Merrily. Was that . . . not okay?”
“Hmm? Oh. No, it was fine.” Except I wished he’d given me a little notice, so I could have concentrated. The whole experience had been so abbreviated that when I tried to summon the memory, all that came to mind was a hint of softness, followed by a mild heart attack.
“Fine?” he repeated.
I lifted a hand to rub the lower half of my face before remembering my lipstick. “You know what I mean.”
“I don’t actually.”
“I wasn’t offended,” I assured him, since that seemed to be his primary concern.
“Uh-huh. So it was ‘fine’ and also inoffensive?”
“I’m not saying it was bad,” I clarified. “Just different. From what I expected. Not that I expected you to—you know. But if I had, I would have thought it would be more, you know.” I broke off, searching for the right word. “Elaborate.”
Without breaking eye contact, he raised my hand to his lips and placed a kiss above the knuckles. “More like that, maybe?”
I swallowed. “Maybe.”
Turning my hand over, he pressed his mouth to the center of my palm. “Or this?”
I gave a microscopic shrug, not trusting myself to speak.
“What about this?” he murmured, brushing a kiss against my cheek. “Is that how they do it in your books?” He dipped his head, breathing a feather-light kiss at the base of my neck.
I was too busy enjoying the feel of his slightly roughened skin against my throat to reply. He pulled back, watching me. I got the distinct impression he wouldn’t go on until I answered.
“They don’t go into a lot of detail. You have to read between the lines.”
“For example?” He was watching me with an expectant air. It occurred to me that Alex often looked at me that way, as if I might at any moment say something delightful and surprising.
“Like two characters go on a carriage ride and end up taking a detour through the woods. She lets him kiss her and the next chapter she’s having a baby and naming it Sorrow.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Tip of the iceberg. She ends up stabbing the guy later.”
His hand came to rest on my shoulder, thumb lightly brushing my collarbone. “The good news is you can’t actually get pregnant from kissing.”
“I know that.”
“Just making sure. I wouldn’t want you to shank me.”
I glanced down the darkened hallway. The music from the dance was faint as a lullaby.
“Should we go back?” he asked, following the direction of my gaze.
“Why?” I was frowning up at him as though he’d proposed a barefoot walk over broken glass. My reaction seemed to please him. Bending forward, he brushed his lips against my earlobe, making me shiver.
The entire situation felt dream-like, free from the rules of ordinary life, so I let myself act without thinking, stretching up on my toes to kiss his neck, and then his ear. His hands tightened at my waist, which I took to mean I was doing it right.
I stepped back just far enough to see his face, my palms resting on either side of his shirt buttons. “Alex.”
“Merrily.”
We looked at each other for a long moment, not quite smiling. When he kissed me again, I wrapped my hands around the back of his neck, both to hold him in place and because I’d secretly wanted to touch his hair forever. It was silkier than I’d imagined, the texture softer than mine.
Aha, said a distant part of my brain. So this is why people make a big deal out of kissing. It was like the first sip of a milkshake, dizzyingly sweet and delicious in a way that made you want to keep drinking forever.
We were both breathing unevenly when we broke apart. He leaned his forehead against mine.
“Is it always like that?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Like if I kissed someone else—”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Good.”
“It was, wasn’t it? Good, I mean.”
“It was fine.”
“Fine?” I repeated, outraged. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Not at all. Why, did you have any doubt? I knew the two of us would be a solid B-plus.”
I shoved his shoulder.
“Ow.” He rubbed that spot. “You have to leave something to aspire to, Merrily. For next time.”
I didn’t have long to wonder if he was speaking hypothetically, of some future occasion that might never arise. When he kissed me again my lips were slightly parted, which led to the revelation that French kissing was neither slimy nor gross.
This discovery was so absorbing I didn’t hear the gym doors clank, or the footsteps heading in our direction. It wasn’t until a voice called my name—not, I suspected, for the first time—that the world came crashing back into focus.