“Romantic.” Tom rolls his eyes as he stands up. He rubs his bare palms on his pants. Gross. At least I know I’m not the only nervous one here. Tom and Annelise trudge a path through clumps of frozen brown grass toward the rundown tool shed.
What a special memory for their first kiss.
Gemette sighs and I pat her gloved hand with my own. I’d feel worse for her, but Gemette likes every decent looking guy in town, including a few boys a year younger than us. She’ll recover from missing out on a special moment with Tom.
I glance again toward Andrea, an acquaintance from my time in Agriculture. She and Tom trained together for years. She may have liked him as long as I’ve liked Wesley. She looks into the fire while her foot digs a messy hole in the soil. I wonder how I’ll feel if Wesley spins and gets Andrea. Or worse, Gemette. I’ll have to sit here and twiddle my thumbs while I know he’s in there kissing a friend. My stomach lurches. Coming tonight was a stupid idea. I clearly didn’t think this through.
No one speaks to distract me from my anxiety. The shed isn’t far. We could easily eavesdrop on them if the wind would shriek a little less.
“How long does this take?” Evan asks.
“Who the heck knows?” Gemette points at the bottle. “Impatient for another crack at it?”
Kids around us chuckle.
After another few awkward moments, Gemette grabs the bottle and gives it a twist. “No reason we have to wait on them.”
“Sure,” Wesley says. “Whoever it lands on can go next.”
“Wait,” Evan asks, “whoever it lands on goes next as in it’s their turn to spin? Or goes next as in Gemette’s going to kiss them?”
The bottle stops before anyone can respond, pointing directly at Wesley. His perfectly shaped brows draw together under disheveled black hair. Gorgeous hair. His lips form a perfect “o”. His bright blue eyes meet mine again.
My heart races and the baked beans sit like a lump in my belly. I shouldn’t have come. Of course Wesley will want to kiss her. Gemette’s gorgeous, curvy, and smart. Ugh. Am I going to have to sit here while my best friend kisses the guy I like twenty feet away? This is all my fault. If I’d only told Gemette, she’d beg off.
I bite down a little harder on my lip and taste blood this time. I really need to kick this particular habit, especially with kissing in my future. Maybe. Hopefully. I’m such an idiot.
Wesley clears his throat. “I think I’m going to sit this game out. I’m more of a moderator than a participant.”
“No,” I blurt out. “You can’t. You’re here, you’re seventeen, you have to participate.” What am I doing? Why am I shoving him at my friend? But if I don’t make him play, I’m flushing my chance to kiss him down the toilet. I want to cry.
“Well, then I guess it’s my turn to spin.” His deep voice sounds completely different than any of the other kids here tonight. My stomach ties in knots when I hear him speak, which is ridiculous because I’ve heard his voice a million times.
I glance at Gemette. She looks disappointed and I want to cry with relief, but I don’t blame her. He could’ve kissed her but didn’t pursue it. I imagine most any girl here would be disappointed. He glances up and his eyes lock with mine again. Caught. I start to shiver and try to stop it. This look is different somehow from any before, like something shifted. Wesley clears his throat, looks down at the bottle, gracefully reaches over, and snaps it between his fingers.
It spins evenly, not moving to the right or the left. It spins on and on, and I wonder if it’ll ever stop. It slows, whirling a little less with each rotation, the butterflies in my stomach swooping and swirling with each pass.
Until it finally stops. On me.
My eyes snap up reflexively, wide with shock. Wesley doesn’t even seem surprised. He simply stands and inclines his head toward the shed.
“Isn’t it still...” I clear my throat. “Umm, occupied?”
“We can wait over there.” He gestures at the hill to the right of the shed. One side of his mouth lifts in a smile and I feel an answering grin form on my lips. Which makes me think about what we’re about to do with our lips.
Swarms and swarms of butterflies flutter in my chest.
“Sure,” I say.
I stand up, and without even thinking, I wipe my palms on my jeans. They aren’t even sweaty and what’s more, I’m wearing mittens! I really hope no one noticed. Okay, more specifically, I hope Wesley didn’t notice. Gemette holds something out to me when I stand. I can’t tell what it is from feel alone, thanks to my thick mittens, and in the dark I have to squint to make it out at all. A tube of something. “What—”
“Lip gloss,” she whispers. “A gift from my mom. I was going to use it, but looks like you need it more, you lucky, lip-biting brat.” She winks.
I’m glad Wesley’s still across the fire from me and that it’s dark. Maybe he somehow miraculously missed both the palm wipe and her wink.
I walk as slowly as I can toward the old shed, partially to avoid tripping, but also so I won’t look overeager. I try to hide my face while I apply the fruit-scented lip-gloss so that Wesley won’t notice. It’s dark, but I don’t want him to be put off by dry, scratchy lips, or worse, dried blood. Gemette’s a good friend. I feel guilty for overreacting earlier when I thought she might kiss Wesley. Not super guilty, but you know, a little.
Neither of us speaks a word, but I feel the eyes of the other teens follow us toward the shed. We’re only a few crunching steps away when the swinging door flies open and Tom and Annelise barrel out. I jump when it bangs shut behind them.
Tom looks as ruffled as I feel, his eyes darting back and forth. He ducks his head and reaches down to take Annelise’s hand. They walk out and away from the fire and the rest of Port Gibson’s teens. I can’t tell where they’re headed, but somewhere far away from here.
“Did you know almost a third of the couples in town trace their start to the Last Supper?” Wesley asks.
“No way.”
He shrugs. “We’ve only been an Unmarked town for seven years, so it’s even more impressive. Not all of them are matched up from a bottle spin, but I think the game helps people realize how they feel.”
A thrill rushes through me. Does Wesley feel the same as me?
My hand reaches for the door handle and collides en route with his. I’m wearing mittens, of course, and he’s wearing shiny, brown gloves, but a thrill runs through me when we touch, even through layers. He doesn’t move his hand away, but instead draws my hand in his and pushes the door handle back in one fluid movement. My heart skips a beat and time stops. When the door’s completely open, he slowly releases my hand. I lower my eyes and step over the threshold into the rundown little building.
Although there’s clearly no power, and consequently neither heat nor an overhead light, the walls at least cut the wind. It’s at once both warmer and quieter. Two tall candles burn softly on a pile of rusted metal boxes in the corner. Someone prepared this dump, I realize. I wonder whether it was Wesley. The flames provide enough light that I can see his face. His dark brows are an even more startling contrast to his dark blue eyes than usual, accentuated by his hair falling in his face.
“So,” I say. “Here we are.”
Wesley looks at me from less than a foot away. The shed’s small and crammed full of moldering farm implements. The air around us practically hums, but that isn’t new. It’s always like the moments right before a lightning storm when he’s near. Supercharged almost, like the electrons around my body might fly off at his slightest touch. The difference is that here, away from the town’s work projects, away from my family and his, it feels like anything really could happen.
Wesley’s so close I can smell him, the same citrusy, woodsy smell I’ve secretly savored for years. It’s even stronger tonight, like he put on more of whatever it is he usually wears. I breathe deep, and all the memories of him re-imprint on my brain. Scrubbing, sanding, painting, digging, cleaning, hammering. Projects his dad
made him attend, but I suffered through to be near him. When I’m with him, I belong somewhere for the first time in a decade.
When we become adults next week, Wesley’s mandatory attendance at work projects ends. Wesley steps into his role as an administrator, and I’ll become part of Port Gibson’s janitorial crew. It’s now or never if I want to make any kind of permanent place with Wesley.
I never thought I’d be close to him like this, and I know I may never be again. I lean toward him and tilt my face upward, eyes closed, ready for what comes next. Maybe I’m even a touch impatient. I have waited for this for years.
Except I keep waiting, and then I wait some more.
Not a single thing happens. The trouble with being ridiculously small is that Wesley, who’s on the tall side anyway, towers over me. Even with my face angled up, his lips are pretty far away. I can barely make out his expression, but it looks guarded.
Maybe he doesn’t know how to do it?
No way. Wesley must know. I mean, it’s not hard, right? You just push your lips onto the other person’s mouth. Why isn’t he doing anything? This is the moment. THE moment!
Until it passes. And then another moment falls on top of it, and another. All passing. Even the butterflies in my stomach get bored and go look for flowers elsewhere.
I’m not sure exactly how much time has elapsed, but the seconds drag, heavy with my growing frustration. Soon, someone will bang on the door. “You’ve been in there forever,” they’ll say. “Make room for the next couple.”
I want to smack them in their eager faces.
I know I don’t have much time, and I want to say something, anything. I need to tell him how I feel, say the words, take a gamble. But like it always does, my tongue shuts down. My throat closes off. The words stick inside my throat. Why am I such a coward? Our perfect moment withers and dies. Tears well up in my eyes, and I can’t breathe.
Wesley isn’t similarly affected. He steps back and says, “We don’t have to do this, Ruby. It’s not safe at all. I don’t know why my dad even lets these dinners happen.”
“Why’d you spin the bottle in the first place?” I hear the desperation in my voice, but the words pour out in spite of myself. “I know you, and you know me. How’s it dangerous for us?”
He takes another step back, his expression registering surprise. “People get Marked, Ruby. It still happens. Every few weeks, in fact. Maybe I’m Marked. You don’t know. It happens, even here, even with all our rules. It may take years to die once you’re Marked, but it’s inevitable.”
I roll my eyes. “Well I’m not Marked, if that’s what you’re worried about.” I point at my forehead. “See? Clear.”
“We shouldn’t be taking these risks.” Wesley scowls. “Not now, not right before our real lives begin. This whole thing’s supposed to be a time to say goodbye to being a kid, not act like an idiotic five-year-old, breaking rules for no reason.”
Our real lives? Maybe he never thought it felt right, the time we spent, the way we are together. Maybe I never belonged with him at all. “Why’d you even come, then? Why follow me in here if you’re not going to kiss me?”
Was he hoping for someone else? Was he stuck with me and looking for any excuse to bolt? Am I Evan in this scenario?
I look up, but I’m too close. The hair cascading over his face obscures my view. I want to touch his hair; I want to kiss him; I want to tell him I love him, and that I always have. My fingers and toes and everything connecting them zings in spite of the bitter cold, in spite of the indifference of his words. Energy spins round and round in my body, a closed circuit with nowhere to go.
“Look, Ruby, I don’t know what to say . . . but the thing is . . .” He sounds torn, confused.
Suddenly, I don’t want to hear “the thing,” whatever it is. I’ve been talking to Wesley for years, talking and talking, and working alongside him, but I don’t want to talk to him anymore. I know what I want and I’ll never have a better chance to play things off as part of a game, if he feels like I now suspect he does. The notion of an excuse appeals to my cowardly heart. I can’t speak the words, but I won’t stand here and do nothing, not anymore, because he’s the real life I’ve longed for.
I stop thinking and step toward him instead. He tries to step back and slams up against the back wall. I quickly take one more step and use my gloved hand to pull his head down to mine. I push my lips against his. In my haste, I push too hard and pull a little too fast. Our teeth smack into each other and my tooth knocks against my own lip, splitting it wide open again.
It’s the opposite of magical.
I look up at Wesley instinctively. He has blood on his mouth, but whether it’s his, or mine, I can’t tell. And if it’s not awful enough already, Wesley stiffens from head to toe like I mauled him, like I forced him into something torturous.
A tear rolls down my cheek and I inhale deeply. I won’t cry over this. I can’t, because there‘s no way I can play it all off as a game if I bawl my eyes out. I turn away from him. If I can’t stop the tears, at least he doesn’t need to see them. When did this go so wrong? I should be calm, cool, in control. I need to laugh it all off and tell him friends can’t be expected to kiss well. Whoops.
Except my heart won‘t listen to the screaming from my head. I’m not calm. I’m the opposite of cool. I’ve lost all control.
He grabs my shoulder and tugs me around. I turn, but my eyes stay glued to the ground, too ashamed to meet his gaze.
“Ruby, look at me.”
He puts two gloved fingers under my chin and lifts. His head comes down then, but slowly, too slowly. My heart stops pumping and I worry it might never beat again. His lips brush mine gently, then with more pressure. I ignore the discomfort of my torn lip and lean into him, connected to him in a way I can’t explain. I need more air, but I want less, because that means more space between us. If this never ends, maybe it’ll erase the moments that preceded it.
Suddenly, he lets me go and steps back. Emptiness fills the space where he stood. I reel again, sucking air in and blowing my breath back out to steady myself.
When I raise my eyes, our gazes lock. All my sorrow from before is gone, replaced with a feeling like I’m flying, soaring, floating on top of the world. His sapphire blue eyes reflect candlelight back at me. He’s breathing as deeply as I am; he’s as affected as me. I can’t look away from his strong, almost hawkish nose, his square jaw, his flashing eyes and thick black lashes. I continue to stare as Wesley reaches up and brushes his unkempt hair away from his eyes.
I almost faint.
Such a simple movement. Small in the grand scheme of things, but also vast, earth shattering, all encompassing. My dreams crumble. My world spins out of control. He moves his hair off his forehead, and suddenly things make sense. His reticence to touch me, his skittishness, but also his quick recovery. Once he knew it was too late, he didn’t hesitate to kiss me. Because we’d already touched.
There, on his otherwise perfect forehead, is a rash. Before it wouldn’t have mattered. Before the Marking no one would care. Acne on a teen, a reaction to hair product. It shouldn’t matter that his forehead has a blemish. It shouldn’t terrify me, but it does. Because that small rash means Wesley is Marked, and in under three years, he’s going to die terribly.
And now, so am I.
* * *
If you want to read more, click here: Marked!
Acknowledgments
My mother continues to be my biggest fan. Thank you for all your unfailing support.
My husband is my biggest supporter, in every single way. I would be nothing without you. You may not have a tattoo, but you’re every bit as cool as Mason.
My kids are amazing, and they force my books on their teachers and friends. Keep it up, tiny sales force. Cutest pushers ever.
My friends are wonderful. Esther, Shauna, Jennifer, and the Writing Gals. Thanks for moral support, beta reads, promos, and on and on. Your support is transformational and means everything
to me.
Major thanks to Brooke Oldroyd and her gorgeous daughters Kate and Lauren as well for being the faces of my cover!
About the Author
Bridget loves her husband (every day) and all five of her kids (most days). She’s a lawyer, but does as little legal work as possible. She has a yappy dog, backyard chickens, and a fish. She makes cookies too often, and believes they should be their own food group. To keep from blowing up like a puffer fish, she kick boxes every day. So if you don’t like her books, her kids, or her cookies, maybe don’t tell her in person.
Also by Bridget E. Baker
Marked: Sins of Our Ancestors Book One
Suppressed: Sins of Our Ancestors Book Two
Redeemed: Sins of Our Ancestors Book Three
Finding Santa: Almost a Billionaire Book One
Already Gone Page 23