26 Kisses

by Anna Michels

  I have Ian’s phone number. I know he doesn’t currently have a girlfriend. And I’m pretty sure he’ll be up for scoring a free meal. There’s only one problem left: I’m not positive Ian Swanson even knows who I am. Luckily, that’s what Facebook is for.

  Two hours after I send a friend request, Ian has accepted it and appears to be online. I take a deep breath, open the messenger app, and dive right in.

  hey, ian. :)

  hey, what’s up?

  I pause, my fingers poised over the keyboard. This is going to be so humiliating if he turns me down.

  i was just wondering if you wanted to hang out sometime?

  It takes him a while to respond, although he doesn’t go offline. I wonder if he’s trying to figure out a way to say no without being a complete asshole about it. Or, an even more humiliating possibility, maybe he’s scanning my pictures to see if I’m cute enough for him to bother going out with.

  Finally Ian types back: sure, hit me up.

  He gives me his phone number, which of course I already have, and I tell him I’ll text him before signing out of Facebook as quickly as possible, my heart racing. I just asked a guy out! And he didn’t say no.

  I grab my phone and send a new text to Mel. okay, he said he’ll go. now, where the hell am i supposed to take ian swanson out on a date?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  If there’s anything I’ve learned from living with the human tornado that calls itself my brother, it’s that guys like to eat. And since Ian is an actual athlete instead of a skinny little skateboarder wannabe like Jeffrey, I can only assume his life revolves almost completely around food. So that’s what this date is going to be: food, a little physical activity to give me a chance to burn off some calories, some more food, and then we’ll round the evening out with a nice big helping of . . . food.

  I study myself in the bathroom mirror, trying to gauge how much the burned-out light bulb in the two-bulb fixture above the sink has affected my makeup-applying process. I wonder if Ian will think I’m pretty. I’m no cheerleader, that’s for sure. I don’t smile enough, and the hair around my temples tends to get kind of weird and halfway curly in the humidity, rather than lying long and flat and straight like theirs does. But I’m strong and lean from running, I plucked my eyebrows yesterday, and as long as nothing gets stuck in my teeth during our two-and-a-half meals tonight, my smile looks nice. This is as good as it’s going to get.

  “Mom, I’m taking the car, remember?” I stick my head into my mom’s bedroom, where she has a large piece of plywood and several yards of bright purple fabric laid out on the carpet.

  “Go ahead.” She sighs and sits back on her heels, a hammer in one hand and a hot-glue gun in the other. “I’m going to be here all night.”

  “What are you doing?” Whatever it is, it doesn’t look like it’s going to be worth it in the end.

  “I saw a tutorial on a blog about how to make your own upholstered headboard for thirty dollars,” Mom says wearily. “But that was assuming you already had a big piece of plywood hanging around and your fabric was on clearance. So mine is more like fifty dollars. And I can’t screw up because I don’t have any extra fabric.”

  “Well, maybe Jeffrey can help you with it,” I say.

  “He’s at your dad’s again,” Mom says, laying the hammer down in disgust.

  “What?” Jeffrey finally came back from Dad’s yesterday and stormed into the house in such a terrible mood that I thought he’d finally realized being here with Mom is way better. “When did you take him over there?”

  “While you were in the shower. He said he was bored here and it was more fun over there.” Mom bites her lip.

  “Oh my God.” I walk over and kneel down next to her, slipping an arm around her shoulders, mentally shaking my fist at Jeffrey. “I’m sure he didn’t mean that, Mom. He’s twelve. He’s a jerk.”

  “I know.” Mom’s voice shakes, and to my horror a tear slides down her cheek. “I just want him to be happy.”

  I’m going to kill Jeffrey. After Dad abandoned us and took all his high standards and important rules with him, there was only one rule left here: Don’t upset Mom. There have been so many times when I was stressed and annoyed and would have loved to take my feelings out on her, but instead I just stuffed them away and put on a smile. My mom has already lived through one of the most heartbreaking, life-ruining things that can happen to someone, and there is no reason she should have to put up with that kind of bullshit from her children. Even if Jeffrey somehow thinks it’s more fun to be over at Dad’s house, he should know better than to tell Mom that to her face.

  “I’ll talk to him,” I promise, giving her another squeeze. “He’s just being a boy, Mom. Don’t worry about it.” I draw back and look at her. There are no more tears, but her eyes are red. “Do you want me to stay home tonight? We can finish this up and then binge watch some HGTV.”

  “No.” Mom shakes her head and pushes me away. “Absolutely not. Go out and have fun.”

  I argue with her for a few more minutes, even offering to give her a foot rub. She hesitates for a moment, then smiles and says, “Rain check on the foot rub. And don’t try to get out of it later. But you should go.” By the time I grab her car keys and head toward the front door, she’s whistling to herself and happily pounding tacks into the plywood.

  Ian lives about a mile from me, in a modern ranch with an attached garage that is nearly as big as the house. He comes out the front door as soon as I pull into the driveway, dressed in basketball shorts and a gray T-shirt. I grimace and congratulate myself on not making a reservation at a fancy restaurant.

  “Hey, Veda.” He folds himself into the passenger seat and slouches down a little to stop the top of his head from brushing against the car’s roof. “What’s up?”

  “Not much.” I try to match his ultra-casual tone, which just makes me sound like I’m drunk and/or half asleep. I clear my throat and try again. “Ready?”

  “Sure.” He bounces his leg at high speed as I back the car out of the driveway. “So, this is kind of weird,” he says as we’re heading toward the lake. “I’ve never gotten picked up by a girl before.”

  “There’s a first time for everything,” I say.

  “Yeah.” He leans the seat back a little and stretches. “It’s kind of nice. Mind if I change the radio?”

  I shrug, and Ian scrolls through the stations until he happens upon a sports talk show. “This one is my favorite,” he says. He gives me a quick update on the host’s background and explains why the heyday of sports radio is over. I tune out, nodding or making little noises of approval every now and then, enjoying the murmur of the radio in the background and the way the air rushing past the open window slides across my skin.

  Twenty minutes later we pull into the parking lot at Touchdown, a sports-themed restaurant that also has arcade games, bowling, and darts. It’s known for blaring sports games on giant TVs turned up loud enough that they’re impossible to talk over, fifty-cent wings, and elaborate poker tournaments. An enormous American flag flies out front, and the whole place is still decked out in red, white, and blue bunting from Fourth of July weekend.

  Ian looks at me, his brown eyes wide. A slow grin spreads across his face. “No way!” he says. “I haven’t been here in forever. Veda, you are officially the coolest girl I’ve ever met.” He reaches over for a fist bump.

  “Here’s the plan,” I say, before he can escape from the car and go inside to run up a huge tab at the Skee-Ball machine. “It’s still kind of early, so I thought we could have some snacks at the bar, then play darts or bowling or whatever you want, then have dinner. And we can have dessert here or get ice cream on the way back.”

  Ian tents his fingers together and nods seriously. “Okay. Best. Date. Ever.”

  Ian and I rip through a basket of wings with garlic sauce, a chicken quesadilla, and soft pretzels with melted cheese, pausing only to grin at each other over our food-filled plates, before heading to the
bowling lanes. I feel self-conscious as I change into my red-and-white bowling shoes, which totally clash with my shirt, but Ian helps me up from my seat, smiling, and spends ten minutes hunting all over the place for an eight-pound ball for me.

  Watching him bowl is like observing a panther stalking its prey, all rippling muscles and measured movements. Even with his white athletic socks peeking out of the stupid bowling shoes and his ugly basketball shorts, Ian looks like he should be on TV somewhere, getting mobbed by adoring fans wearing jerseys with his last name printed across the back.

  “Your turn.” His score is nearly double mine, but he’s not being a jerk about it, and he actually seems interested when I tell him a little bit about debate team and how I’ve started running again after taking a few weeks off.

  “I hate running,” Ian says, passing his fourteen-pound ball from hand to hand like it weighs nothing. “I mean, obviously you run a lot in basketball, but there’s a point to it. Like, there’s the ball, go get it. But I hate just running for no reason.”

  “It sucks at first,” I agree, hitting a gutter ball on my tenth frame and sinking into my seat in defeat. “But once you get into it, it’s kind of addictive.”

  “Maybe,” he says, shrugging. He glances at his phone. “I’m starving. You ready to eat?”

  “Sure,” I say, although I’m still totally full of wings and pretzels. As we’re walking back to the sit-down restaurant area of the building, I feel a slight pressure on my lower back and realize Ian’s hand is there, guiding me through the maze of tables and chairs. I glance up at him, but he seems totally unconscious of the fact that he’s touching me.

  We’re farther away from the blasting TVs than I had hoped—I have no idea what to say if I have to make conversation. I ask Ian if he wants to move.

  “Nah,” he says, sliding into the cozy corner booth. “This is perfect.”

  I order a small salad because I’m still so full, but Ian goes for a giant cheeseburger with onion rings instead of fries. “I’m totally going to have to steal some of your onion rings,” I say without thinking. “I always get them instead of fries, too.”

  “Totally,” Ian says, shifting a little closer to me. “Have as many as you want.”

  And then he grabs my hand.

  In what universe did I ever imagine myself sitting in a dark booth at Touchdown, holding hands with Ian Swanson, the star of Butterfield’s basketball team and one of the most popular guys in school? None. No possible universe. I could never have imagined this in my wildest dreams. But here I am, and Ian’s big fingers are entwined with mine, and it feels strange but also pretty okay.

  Ian again seems unconcerned with the physical contact he has initiated. He toys with the saltshaker absentmindedly and peers over at the nearest TV to check the score on the game. “I’m having a really good time,” he says, not looking at me.

  “Oh.” His thumb bumps over my knuckles as he rubs my hand. “That’s good. That was kind of the point.”

  Now he meets my gaze, those soft brown eyes weirdly compelling in the blue light of the TVs. “No, I mean, usually I don’t have a good time when I go places with girls. They always want to go to, like, fancy restaurants where you can’t pronounce half the shit on the menu, and all they want to do is sit around and talk, instead of bowling or whatever.” He swallows, and his hand tightens around mine. “But you’re different.”

  I shrug, guilt building in the pit of my stomach. “I just thought you might like to come here.”

  Ian nods thoughtfully. “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying. You get me.”

  Our food arrives, borne by a twenty-something waitress who obviously thinks we’re the cutest things she’s seen all night. Ian is forced to let go of my hand to concentrate on his burger while I pick at my salad, wondering how I am going to live with myself after I kiss this cute, simple, good-natured guy and then have to tell him I actually didn’t like him that much after all.

  By the time we finish dessert and make our way back through the crowded parking lot, it’s getting late. The sports talk show has switched over to classic rock, and we drive home in the dark, humming along to Aerosmith. While I’m waiting for a stoplight to change, Ian leans over and brushes his lips against my neck, his hand hot on my thigh. “Want to go to the dunes?” he whispers.

  I stiffen. “Going to the dunes” is the local euphemism for finding a secluded spot in the parking lot and letting things go as far as you want them to go. The summer Mark got his driver’s license, he and I parked out by the dunes nearly every night.

  “I don’t know.” My voice comes out soft and strangled as Ian nuzzles my neck. He may not be a rocket scientist, but he definitely knows what he’s doing with his body.

  “Come on.” He nips at my ear and slips a warm tongue inside, tracing the tender skin at the edge of my hairline. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

  I want to. Oh God, I want to. I’ve been so tied up in my emotions all summer that I haven’t had a chance to miss the physical part of my relationship with Mark. But now it all comes back in a rush—the feeling of being wrapped up in someone’s arms, your bodies intertwined. I ache for that feeling now. But what if we go to the dunes, and Ian falls in love with me? I still have more than half the alphabet to get through. And then there’s Killian.

  Killian.

  “I’m sorry.” I push Ian away and smooth down my hair. “You’re awesome, Ian, but I really don’t think we should.”

  He stares at me disbelievingly. I’m sure no girl has ever turned him down before. Finally he lets all his breath out in a huff and shrugs. “Okay, whatever you want.”

  I drive him home and let him kiss me again as we sit in his driveway. “This was the best date I’ve ever been on,” he says. “Call me if you want to do it again. For real.” And the romance of the moment is only a little bit ruined by the enthusiastic high five he gives me as he gets out of the car.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Ian Swanson

  In the car after the weirdest date ever

  9/l0

  Ryan spins around and starts running backward, coaxing me along. “Come on, Bentley!” he yells.

  I glare at him and clench my fists, willing my aching legs to push forward just a little harder, a little faster. My heart hammers in my ears, and each breath burns my lungs. We’re supposed to run seven miles this morning, but I’m having a bad day and am probably going to have to stop and walk it out before we even hit five.

  “Can’t.” I gasp, slowing down so I’m barely jogging, my feet dragging over the dirt path.

  Ryan stops and waits for me to catch up to him, handing me a water bottle. I gulp gratefully, water spilling out over my lips and trailing down my chin. “Thanks.”

  He takes the bottle back and neatly squirts a jet of water into his mouth. “You’ve got to step it up, man,” he says. “We’re four weeks away from the race.”

  “I know,” I say, a little more forcefully than I had intended. “I’m trying.”

  Ryan claps a hand on my shoulder. “I know you are,” he says. “You’re doing a great job.”

  I shake my head and turn around. “I have to go back now if I’m going to walk most of the way. I don’t want to be late for work.”

  Ryan looks longingly down the trail, his fingers tapping his thigh. I can see how much he wants to keep running, and I feel bad for slowing him down. “Go ahead,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”

  He shakes his head. “No way. I’ll walk with you.”

  “No, seriously.” I give him a little shove, and he pretends to fall, stumbling dramatically.

  “God, careful,” he says, rubbing his shoulder.

  “Run.” I point down the trail, and he hesitates for just a second more before obediently ducking his head and loping away like a caged animal finally free.

  I’m halfway home before the stitch in my side disappears, and I stop at a gas station at the edge of town to buy a bottle of water. As I walk out, a familiar f
igure unfolds from the front seat of a giant SUV. I freeze, wondering if I can just step back inside and wait until he leaves, but it’s too late.

  “Hey there, Veda.” He beckons me over.

  “Hi, Dad.” I take a giant swig from my water bottle as he runs his credit card through the machine and selects the option for premium gas.

  “How’s it going? Are you ready for the reunion?”

  Is that this weekend? I try to visualize the calendar on the kitchen wall where I know I wrote the dates of Dad’s all-important family events. But now that I think about it, the stupid thing might still be turned to June, even though we’re well into July.

  “Uh, yeah. Totally ready.” I wipe my forehead. “When is it, exactly?”

  Dad sighs and gives me a little bit of a death glare. “Well, Kaylee’s birthday is the day before, so you and Jeffrey were going to come over for dinner. We have to leave for the reunion pretty early the next morning, so it would be best if you two could spend the night.”

  “Um, no thanks.” I haven’t slept over at Dad and Lila’s house since I got the right to decide who I spend my weekends with. I have my own room there, decorated in white and deep pink, but I don’t think I’ve set foot in it since I cleared all my “Dad’s weekend” clothes out of the closet and slammed the door behind me the day after my sixteenth birthday. “Can’t you just pick us up in the morning?”

  Dad turns away and pulls the nozzle out of the gas tank, replacing it with a clang. “I guess.” He prints the receipt and checks it over closely. “Where are you going now? Do you need a ride?” he asks.

  “No, I’m good.” We look at each other, and the awkward silence ticks on for a few more seconds than necessary. “Well, see you later.” I turn and walk toward the road.

  “Friday,” Dad calls. “Six o’clock.”