“Thanks,” she whispers. Her words and breath are warm in my ear, and I close my eyes. Then immediately pop them open again, because Jesus Christ, I’m driving a vechile.
“And for the record,” she continues, her voice whispery and feather-light, “I’ll be mad if you don’t study. Because I want you to speak at graduation. Because I think you have lots of good things to say.”
My whole body feels fuzzy and warm and buzzing with anticipation, and her whispers make me shiver, and I’m gripping the steering wheel so tightly, like I’m afraid I might burst out of my own skin.
And then we turn the corner, and there’s that big empty field, where my truck ran out of gas. Where we spent the night. And I’m not even thinking as I yank the wheel to the right, as the truck rumbles across the grassy terrain, as I pull into the clearing and throw the truck in park and turn to see Josie’s face wrinkled in confusion.
Chapter Thirty-One
Josie
My heart is racing, and my feet are off the dashboard and firmly planted on the ground. I bite my lip. “Mitchell?”
He’s staring at me with wide open eyes, deep and brown and shining, glancing from my hair to my lips to my eyes and back. He’s scaring me a little.
I try again. “Mitchell, what are you—?”
“Josie, I know I said I would wait for you to make the first move.” His leg bounces nervously, a fast onetwothree, onetwothree, and he runs his hand through his hair. “But—”
Before he can say anything else, I lean over across the seat and kiss him. Not on the mouth, because I’m still nervous and scared and my heart is thumping a thousand beats per minute. I kiss him right under his jaw, where his skin is soft and smooth.
He closes his eyes, and I feel his sharp intake of breath. I linger for a second, my nose brushing his neck, before pulling away. Because oh my god, I should have kissed him on the lips like a normal person. Neck kisses are way too personal. I made it weird. I messed it up.
So I start to pull back. But I don’t get very far, because Mitchell slides his hand across the back of my head, warm and gentle, and tilts my head until our lips meet.
I am kissing Mitchell, I think. This is Mitchell Morrison, and I am Josie Sedgwick, and we are kissing.
We are really, really kissing. His hand is tangled in my hair, and his lips are soft and firm and nice and all over the place, on my mouth and my cheek and my jaw and my nose and then back to my mouth. I smile, because his lips can’t seem to keep still, and then his lips land back on mine, and they’re smiling too.
I need to take a break, to pull back, to make sure I’m remembering to breathe. But Mitchell tugs on my braid, pulling me back toward him. Tilting his head into my neck. Nuzzling my shoulder with his chin. Softly, carefully, kissing my neck, tiny kisses that land like butterflies from my jaw to my shoulder and back again.
I feel like I’m floating. Like I’m disconnected from my body, like my mind has shut down and my lips are acting of their own accord. And my hands too, because one cups Mitchell’s cheek, my thumb rubbing circles on his cheekbone, while the other slips around his neck. He turns slightly, pushes his face into my hand, and kisses my palm. My hand burns.
I could continue this forever, this tugging on hair and sighing and smiling and eyelashes tickling cheeks and hands on shoulders and forgetting to breathe. His skin feels warm, almost feverish, and his hair is messy, and his breathing is a little fast and a little loud, and he is so astoundingly, impossibly, cute.
But he breaks away, kisses the tip of my nose, and then leans his forehead against mine. My eyes flutter open, and his dark eyes stare right into mine, crinkled around the edges.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.” I smile back, my heart thumping, unsure of what to say.
“So.” He clears his throat.
“So.”
He moves back a few inches, giving me some space. “Good work.”
“Good work?” My eyebrows shoot up. “Are you evaluating my performance or something?”
“Nope.” He shakes his head, grinning. “Just giving some praise where praise is due.”
I press my lips together, but I can’t stop myself from smiling. “You’re so weird.”
“Hey, cut me some slack here. I’m a little distracted.” He slumps back against his seat and slowly, dramatically exhales.
“What?”
“It’s just . . .” He runs his fingers through his hair. “I’ve been waiting a long time. For that.”
“For what?”
“To kiss you.”
Warmth spreads through my face. “Please. We’ve already kissed.”
“Ha!” He sits straight up and points at me. “So you do remember!”
“Our kiss, when we were little?” Now my face is really red. “Of course I remember. It was my first kiss.”
“Mine too.” His grin widens as he studies my face. “Someone’s blushing.”
“No, I’m not,” I reply automatically. I look determinedly down at my hands.
He leans in close again, so close our noses are practically touching. “Am I making you nervous?” His voice comes out low, almost a whisper.
“God. No.” But I don’t sound very convincing.
He tilts his face forward. “Because you make me nervous.”
Slowly, he trails his nose across my cheek. My eyes drift closed.
“Somehow I really doubt that.” I take in a deep breath and let it out slowly.
He kisses my earlobe, and my heart pounds.
“I’m serious,” he says. “I would’ve kissed you a whole week ago. At least. If you didn’t make me so nervous.”
“Well, I wasn’t sure if this was a good idea.”
“This?”
“You know. Us.”
He pulls back and looks into my eyes. “And?”
“Leah said I should go for it.” I grin. “So I did.”
He laughs. “Cord said the same thing!”
“Really?” I shake my head. “They’re diabolical, those two.”
“We have to make sure to never let them meet. They’d destroy us.”
“And then the world.”
“Exactly.”
Our conversation hangs in the air as he looks at me, and I look at him, and then we’re kissing again, and I am lost in this moment, even as it etches itself into the marble of my brain.
He pulls away, too soon, and I blink up at him. “What?”
He sighs. “You have to study. Remember?”
“No.”
“Well, I remember.” He leans across the seat and kisses me on the forehead, and I lean into his kiss. And then he reaches down and turns the key, and the truck shudders to life.
“We’re leaving?” I cross my arms. “This is stupid.”
He laughs, reaching down and squeezing my knee. “This is great.”
He turns around on the grass and pulls the truck back out toward the road. His brow furrows as he checks both ways for traffic, and all of a sudden, I get the impulse to reach out and smooth his forehead, to clear away the frown.
But I don’t, because a thought just occurred to me. “So.”
He glances toward me. “So.”
“I was thinking. Maybe we shouldn’t tell anyone about this.”
He looks concerned. “Anyone?”
“Anyone at Paintbrush,” I clarify.
His expression immediately clears. “Oh, thank god.”
I laugh.
“I didn’t want to be the one to suggest it,” he says. “But the thought of everyone there knowing our business . . .”
“Is horrifying,” I finish. “Agreed. So let’s just keep this between us for now.” I glance at him. “Is that okay?”
Mitchell reaches over and laces his hand through mine. “It’s perfect.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Mitchell
I am floating. I am happy. I would be skipping right now, if I were the type of guy who skips. I’m not, though—at least not yet
—so I just walk across the grass to my cabin and focus on trying to walk in a straight line, like a normal person, and on keeping a goofy grin from taking over my whole face.
It’s a Monday evening, after a long day at school, and I’m at Paintbrush, and my family sucks. All I should be thinking about is graduation in two weeks. I should be counting down the seconds until I can throw my stuff in my truck and peel out of the parking lot and never look back.
But I’m not. I’m humming with energy and breathing in the fresh mountain air and feeling so, so much like I’m going to burst out of my skin. But in a good way. In the best way.
I left Josie at her cabin so she could study. To be specific, I left her behind her cabin, where I pulled her into the shadows so I could kiss her again and touch her face and smell her hair one more time, before she laughed and pushed me away and said she had to go.
She’s right. I should study. But even if I sit down and crack open a book right now, I know I won’t be able to concentrate. The words would swim in front of me, and my mind would spin in cartwheels because I finally got to kiss Josie Sedgwick.
And until I get to again, I won’t be able to think of anything else.
So I go on a run to get rid of some of the energy burning inside of me. Swimming season ended in March, and I don’t plan on swimming in college, so I have to find a way to stay in shape. I run a mile and a half down the mountain and then a mile and a half back up, and it feels good—chest heaving, muscles aching, sweat burning my eyes and matting my hair to my head. It feels cleansing, therapeutic, as my mind clears and my eyes focus on the road, and all I can think of is breathing in, then out. In, then out.
But then I come back and take a shower, and it’s still only five. My dad taught in town today, and he’s still not back. After a minute of pacing back and forth, I walk into the kitchen, throw open the cabinets, and start grabbing spices.
When my dad walks through the door an hour later, a pot of chili is happily bubbling on the stove and I’m pulling a pan of cornbread muffins out of the oven.
“Mitchell?” He stops just inside the door, sniffs the air, and then slowly, almost suspiciously, makes his way toward the kitchen.
“Hi, Dad.” I smile at him as I stir the chili. Partly because I’m happy the chili turned out so great, and partly because I’m excited to devour what I’ve made. At least two bowls. Maybe three.
He frowns and glances around. “Is . . . is your mom here?”
“No.”
“But there’s dinner.”
“I cooked.”
He raises his eyebrows, and I shake my head.
“What? I’ve cooked before.”
“Pancakes. A can of soup.” He inches his way to the stove and peers into the pot. “Boxed mac and cheese.”
“Fine.” I move in front of him, blocking his view of the stove. “Then you don’t have to eat it. It’ll just be for me.”
“No!” He grins at me. “I’m not sure how you did it, but it smells incredible.”
“It’s just cooking, Dad. No big deal.” But the expression that spreads across his face as he sets the table—a little bit tired but mostly genuinely, truly happy—makes me feel really happy. The first time I’ve felt at home in my own home in weeks.
I almost make it through the whole meal like this. Almost. Until my dad takes his last bite, wipes his mouth, and puts down his fork.
“Excellent meal, Mitchie.” He grins at me, and I don’t even care that he used my embarrassing old nickname because I’m just happy that he’s happy.
“Thanks, Dad.” I stand up to clear the plates away, but he stops me.
“Wait a second.” He clenches his hands.
I sink back down. “What?”
He exhales, long and slow, and leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “I know you don’t want to hear this.”
“Then don’t say it.” I don’t mean for my words to be snappy, but there they are.
“You have to talk to her, Mitchell.” He winces, and for a second I feel bad for him. He doesn’t want to be dealing with this any more than I do. “She calls me twice, three times a day. Shows up here at least once a day, but you’re never here. She’s dying to talk to you. She’s desperate.”
Blood pounds through my veins, my heart thumping at double speed. “She should have thought of that before she started hooking up with a sixteen-year-old guy who can barely form coherent sentences.”
He sighs. “You’re being too harsh.”
I stand up and grab my plate. “No. I’m not.”
“Look, Mitchell, I know you’re mad at your mother—”
“No, Dad.” I drop my plate back down, and the whole table rattles. “I’m mad at you.”
He blinks at me. I’m standing, and he’s sitting, and from here he looks so tiny. But I keep going.
“You always taught me to stand up for myself. To have self-respect and self-confidence and all that.” I’m pacing the kitchen now. “And now here you are, letting her walk all over you.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“You keep saying that. But you’re wrong. It is that simple. She screwed you over, Dad. She made a choice, and it was a shitty choice, and now she has to face the consequences.” I pause and plant my hands on my hips, trying to catch my breath. “Don’t let her talk to you. Don’t let her come over here. Don’t even let her live here.” I stop pacing and look him straight in the eye. “Next week, at the meeting? Kick her out of here, Dad.” I shake my head. “She doesn’t deserve to be here anymore.”
“She’s your mother, Mitchell.” His words are soft, his eyes downcast. “I can’t push her out of your life like that.”
“I’m leaving, Dad. It’s not my life I’m worried about.” I grab my plate again. “It’s yours.”
And with that, I drop my plate in the sink, turn around, and stride right out the door.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Josie
I make up a rule for myself: For every five minutes of studying, I can have one minute to think about Mitchell. I do two Calc problems, hastily sketching derivative graphs and equations into neat solutions in my notebook. I carefully box in the final answers so I can come back and study these problems later.
Then, I move my pen to the margins and let it float over the blank white space, doodling spirals and sunbeams and other nonsense as I let my mind wander to Mitchell. Mitchell and his soft, scruff-free baby face chin. Mitchell and the hard muscles of his back under his worn gray t-shirt. Mitchell and his deep, dark eyes and lazy, easy smile and the way he rubs his palms on his jeans when he’s nervous.
Mitchell, Mitchell, Mitchell.
It’s not the most productive study system in the world. Because sometimes the studying part turns into the thinking-about-his-cute-nose part. Or the thinking-about-his-hands-in-my-hair part. I’m a little bit worried that I’m confusing my brain. That my final next week will ask: What is the square root of 687i? And I will answer: Mitchell Morrison’s adorably crooked front tooth.
But I guess that’s a risk I’m willing to take.
I stop studying after a couple hours to help my mom make dinner.
“You don’t have to, sweetie,” she tells me as I join her in the kitchen. She’s making eggplant parmesan.
I grab a loaf of bread, fresh and crusty and buttery, and start to slice. “I know.”
We work in silence for a while, her stirring the pot of sauce and adding spices, me buttering slices of bread and dusting them with fresh garlic. The aluminum foil crackles as I wrap it around the bread, and then I slide the loaf into the oven.
I watch my mom as I work. She’s really pretty. I always thought so when I was little, and then I got older and noticed the way guys stare at her when we’re out running errands and knew I was right. She doesn’t wear any makeup, and her hair is always in a ponytail, and she mostly wears jeans and plain, solid-colored shirts.
But she’s young—only thirty-four, just sixteen years older than me—a
nd her skin is clear and smooth, and she’s thin and fit and tan from working outside all day. She could date any number of guys—the single men who have come and gone from Paintbrush, the men who try to chat her up at the grocery store or at the farmer’s market. Most of them nice, genuine, well-meaning guys.
But she would never. She has never, not since my dad. And it makes my jaw clench, makes my chest tighten to think about. Because with all his searing words and punches thrown and drunken rages, he did his best to destroy her. And she let him.
I mean, she’s happy now. At least I think she is. She hums quietly as she tastes the sauce and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She seems happy.
But she also seems . . . small. Delicate. Breakable, even. Like she needs someone to stand in between her and the world, to keep her from breaking again.
It’s not going to be Mae. It’s definitely not going to be Libby. So it’s me. As long as I can remember, it’s always been me.
My mom switches off the burner. “Ready?”
I slide the bread out of the oven. “Ready.”
“Libby! Mae!” she calls over her shoulder as she gathers plates together. “Dinner!”
After a few bustling minutes, silverware is set out, four heaping plates are steaming on the table, and Mae has wandered out of the bedroom and plopped herself in her chair.
“Libby!” my mom calls again as she carries a pitcher of water to the table.
“She’s not here,” Mae says.
“Oh.” My mom pauses, water pitcher hovering above the table. “Where is she?”
Mae shrugs. “I don’t know.”
I slide into my seat. The cabin is quiet for a moment.
“Well.” My mom plasters a too-bright smile across her face, placing the pitcher on the table and dropping into her seat. “She can have leftovers, then. Whenever she gets back.”
I bite my lip to keep from talking as she pours three glasses of water.
We dig into our food and talk about school and summer and Paintbrush until all our plates are scraped clean.
Paintbrush Page 16