“Ready?”
I turned around and saw James leaning against the wall by the door. He looked H.O.T. in his white T-shirt, khakis, and scuffed-up Vans—so hot that I had to exhale slowly and tell myself to keep it together. Sometimes simple is best. More people should understand that. Maybe that would be my first column, called “Miniskirt,” for the new Skirt. My mind was meandering because I was nervous.
“Sure,” I said. “Let me just get my stuff.”
I grabbed my bag and felt myself blush for no apparent reason. It was odd. I see James day in, day out, but it was like there was this new shift; we were both swingin’ single and now he could potentially be mine. I could be on an episode of Maury: “When Friends Become Lovers.” Although I was getting ahead of myself.
We barely spoke to each other as we exited the office because there were so many people around, so it wasn’t until we got in the taxi (I was planning on taking the subway but James wanted to splurge) that we had a chance to chat.
“Congratulations on your new gig,” I said to James. Alida had made him senior photo editor.
“To you as well,” said James.
The leather seats felt hot on the back of my legs, and I just prayed when we got out that I wouldn’t have all those weird markings and red lines smashed on my thighs. Maybe it was a bad idea to wear a short frock.
“Cute dress,” said James. I blushed, but then realized he must have seen me adjust it over and over again.
“Thanks.”
Why was I so mute and fidgety? I was acting like a mime in Central Park. So much had transpired but I didn’t know what to say.
“And thanks again for, you know, saving me the other day. It was just my luck that you had cameras in there and caught Cecilia on tape.”
“I have a confession to make,” said James with a smile. “I didn’t have cameras in there,” he said. “I was bluffing.”
Shock. “What?”
James crossed his ankles, put his hands behind his head, and stretched like a cat who’d just chowed a canary. “I knew you didn’t steal, and I knew that you’d go down for it, and I couldn’t let that happen.”
My mind raced. “James, what, what if they called you on it?” I sputtered.
“I kind of didn’t have that part covered. But I knew I had to do something, and it was the first thing that came to mind.”
His unflinching gaze suddenly made me bold. “Why did you know you had to do something?” I asked coyly.
James looked at me, cocked his head to the side, and then smiled again. “Because I like you, Kira.”
Before I could talk myself into a bumbling lather, James leaned in and kissed me. His lips were soft, and he slowly put his arms around my waist so that I felt myself falling backward into the leather backseat. It had been nice with Matt, but something now just clicked and I knew that this was what it was supposed to feel like. It was all tingly and strange and too good to be true. We kissed the entire way downtown; the beeps and honks and sirens of New York seemed to fade to mute as we kissed deeper and deeper, almost as if we were making up for lost time. The whole summer, we were meters apart down the hall but miles apart in terms of being at this moment. Better late than never.
When we got to the venue and I revealed my surprise, his jaw hit the floor as he pulled me into him.
“Kira Parker. I can’t believe you!”
I could tell he was overjoyed by my secretly hatched plan and euphoric at the rush of the music starting—as I myself was on cloud nine thousand just to be beside him. Radiohead’s songs made everything that much more explosive as we made out under the blue-hued lights, but the truth was, we could have had a soundtrack of cacophonous sirens and it would have felt like Eden in that sweaty concert hall. We kissed nonstop throughout the set (we must have looked like those annoying people that you tell to get a room) and continued at the bar we went to after. It wasn’t until after James had walked me home and I floated to bed that I realized what this feeling was—I was in love.