26 Kisses

by Anna Michels

  “Are you okay?” Jeffrey comes around the side of the barn, his hands shoved into the pockets of his khakis.

  I nod but don’t straighten up. “Just hungover,” I say.

  He kicks at the ground, sending dust into the air. “I wish they would have told us first.”

  “Well, we all know how good Dad is at communication. Especially with us.”

  Jeffrey sinks to the ground and drops his head into his hands. “This is so messed up,” he says, and it takes a moment for me to realize he is crying.

  “Hey.” I drop to my knees next to him, ignoring my white dress, and put an arm around his shoulders. “It’ll be okay.”

  He hesitates for a moment, then pushes me away and stands up, running the back of his hand across his face. His nose is red, his hair matted with sweat. “He already left us once. Why does he have to leave again?” His shoulders heave. “Mom is always busy. And everyone is talking about you, Vee. Everyone. I’m going to start middle school soon, and everyone will be telling jokes about you and asking me if you’re really a ho.”

  “Jeffrey.” I kneel in front of him. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what else you want me to say—”

  “Stay away from me.” Jeffrey backs up, holding his hands out to stop me from trying to get close to him. “Just leave me alone.” He turns and runs, and I stare out over the beautiful Michigan farmland, hating every single thing I see.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I pace back and forth in the grass behind the barn, unable to stop thinking about my little sister flying all the way to the West Coast, gazing out the window of an airplane as Dad and Lila take her about as far away from us as she can get without leaving the country. How often will I see her, every year or two? A year is an eternity when you’re that little. She’ll grow up without me. She might not even recognize me and Jeffrey the next time we see her.

  I have to get out of here.

  Mel is at work. I can’t call Seth—it would be too weird now that he knows about the Twenty-Six Kisses thing. Killian doesn’t need to know any more about how screwed up my life is.

  I text Mark.

  The last time I rode in Mark’s car, my world was falling apart. I never would have thought I could feel worse than I did at that moment. But—surprise!—life is funny that way. It can always be worse.

  “Please don’t ask any questions,” I say as I climb inside the little blue car I know so well, the one that witnessed so many important moments in my life. “Just drive.”

  “Okay,” Mark says, his hands at ten and two on the steering wheel, and I feel a flash of relief that he’s not Killian, that he doesn’t need to ask a million questions. He understands that sometimes it’s better not to talk.

  I send Jeffrey a quick text as we pull onto the road. tell dad i’m leaving. sorry. about everything.

  I roll down the window and close my eyes, focusing on the comforting, familiar smell of Mark’s car and the feeling of the wind in my hair. I erase everything from my mind and imagine myself running on the beach, not letting anything into my head but the rhythm of my feet over the sand, repetitive, soothing, unending.

  I jolt awake when the car stops and forget where I am for a moment. “Mark?”

  “Hey,” he says, tilting his baseball cap off his forehead. “Sorry. I didn’t know where else to go, so . . .” He shrugs.

  We’re parked on the street in front of the library, our go-to meeting place back before either of us could drive. We’d each have our parents drop us off here under the pretense of doing homework, then hole up in a study carrel together or sit outside on the broad concrete steps if the weather was nice.

  “This is fine.” I climb out of the car and walk up to the top step, our usual perch. Mark follows slowly behind me and sits down, locking his hands together between his knees. Now that I’m used to Killian’s bulk, Mark’s legs seem almost comically skinny. He’s always been gangly, but he seems even thinner now, maybe going through a late growth spurt. We sit there as clouds gather over the sun, watching people walk by with shopping bags and cameras.

  “Thanks for picking me up,” I say finally. “I had kind of a rough day. Actually,” I say, pushing my hair behind my ears, “I’ve had kind of a rough summer.”

  “Yeah.” Mark nods. “I know what you mean.”

  I shoot him a questioning look, but he doesn’t elaborate. “Why has it been rough for you?” I ask.

  He shrugs and fiddles with his sports watch. The leather bracelet, I notice, is gone. “It’s weird at work without you. Everyone kept asking me why we broke up.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just worried about college, wondering if I made the right choices.”

  I snort. “Don’t talk to me about bad choices.” Mark shifts uncomfortably. “I know what Gabriel and Ryan told you,” I say, staring straight ahead. “And I know what people are saying. Most of it isn’t true.”

  “I know,” Mark says quickly. “Ryan told me later it was all a big joke. But I never believed it anyway. I know you better than that.”

  I nod. “Thanks.”

  There are so many things I wanted to say to Mark, things I rehearsed over and over in my head during the first week after our breakup. I had four or five different conversations all mapped out, each crafted to first make Mark understand what a terrible person he was for breaking up with me and then convince him that all he wanted was for us to get back together. Now I can’t remember how a single one of those conversations was supposed to go.

  “I’m sorry for breaking up with you,” Mark says, reaching over and laying a hand on my knee. “I thought it was going to make me feel less nervous about leaving for college, but it didn’t.”

  “Oh,” I say. I wish he had said he was sure he made the right choice, that he was excited to head to college in a few weeks and leave Butterfield—and everyone in it—behind. Has everything I’ve gone through this summer just been a waste? “It’s okay. I mean, it was really hard, but I’m fine now.”

  “That’s good.” A dark cloud passes over the sun, throwing the bustling downtown scene rushing past us into shade. I wipe my hands on my shorts and am about to stand up and suggest we get going when Mark clears his throat.

  “Can I say something?” he says.

  I look at him, puzzled. “Sure.”

  He bites his lip. “I don’t want you to get mad.”

  I shrug and look away, bracing myself for the day I always knew was coming—the day Mark got a new girlfriend.

  “It’s just . . . I still miss you,” Mark says quietly. “Do you miss me?”

  I turn back to stare at him. My mouth opens, but I can’t seem to make any words come out. And before I can react to what is happening, Mark slips his arm around my waist and pulls me to him, hesitating for just a moment before bringing his lips to mine.

  Kissing Mark is simultaneously the most natural and the most bizarre thing I’ve ever done. I’ve kissed him a million times before, and nothing has changed except the fact that there have been several kisses with different guys in between then and now. Nothing, except the most important thing of all—I have changed.

  I jerk away and scramble to my feet, scraping my palms on the library steps in my haste.

  “Whoa,” I say, backing away from him. “What the hell, Mark?”

  He doesn’t answer and looks down at his feet, cradling his head in his hands. “Sorry,” he says, his voice so soft, I can barely hear him. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “No,” I say, the confusion in his eyes almost more than I can take. “You shouldn’t have.”

  And I walk away.

  By the time I get home, it’s past noon and my feet are sore from walking more than a mile in sandals. The house is empty and I pound upstairs to my room, pulling my dress over my head as I walk down the hallway, unhooking my bra without bothering to close my bedroom door. I grab a dirty sports bra from the laundry basket, pull a T-shirt and running shorts out of my dresser, and slap a couple Band-Ai
ds over the new blisters on my feet. I barely have enough patience to stretch before I launch off the front porch and start running. I don’t care that I’m still hungover, or that my knees are screaming in protest as I hit the ten-mile mark and keep going. I run and run and run until I’m too far out to ever have a hope of running back, and I have to call my mom to pick me up and bail me out of the mess I’ve gotten myself into.

  Grandpa Phillip

  Family reunion

  l/l0

  Mark

  On the library steps

  –l0/l0

  When Dad drops Jeffrey off later that afternoon, he comes inside to talk to Mom about my “embarrassing behavior” at the reunion. I lie on my bed and listen to my own father make it very clear he doesn’t particularly like me.

  “Veda’s nearly an adult,” Dad says, his voice tight. “She needs to start acting like one.”

  Mom murmurs something unintelligible and then says, “Kaylee, sweetheart, would you like some juice?”

  Kaylee’s squeaky voice tugs at my heart, but I stay where I am. What will happen when Dad and Lila move to California? Will Kaylee even remember me when I come to visit?

  “Jeffrey, take your sister outside,” Mom instructs. The screen door slams, and I peek out my window to see Jeffrey carrying Kaylee around our small, bare yard, letting her ride on his back like he’s a horse.

  “Veda told me about your little surprise today,” Mom tells Dad, her voice like ice. “I can’t believe you sprang it on them like that, Barry. How could you?”

  He clears his throat, and I can imagine the way he’s leaning away from Mom, getting defensive. “We were going to tell them in the car on the way over,” he says. “But then Lila decided not to come, and I just didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t sure they’d care.”

  Mom sighs. “Of course they care, Barry.”

  I roll over and shove my pillow on top of my head, holding it tight to my ears so I can’t hear anything else. I stay under the pillow until I feel the vibrations of Jeffrey’s feet going to his room, and then the hard slam of his door.

  My phone buzzes with a text from Killian. i know you’re busy today, but i’ve been saving this to show you, and i can’t wait any longer. I click on the link embedded in the text and am transported to a Pinterest page (why does it not surprise me that Killian uses Pinterest?) dedicated entirely to George Bernard Shaw. I scroll through the pictures and quotes, smiling every time I spot something Killian has clearly created himself in a gesture of fandom to a dead Irish playwright.

  One of the quotes in particular catches my eye: “Life isn’t about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.”

  I must have read this quote before at some point, but now the words sink in and knock the breath out of me. I send Killian back a quick smiley face and set my phone down. I sit up and look at myself in the mirror across from my bed. I stare at my reflection for a long time, trying to understand what everyone around me sees—the things that might make people believe I’m nothing more than a debate team nerd, or a huge slut.

  I walk over to the bulletin board and touch the ragged edge of the Twenty-Six Kisses Challenge, meeting my own gaze in the mirror. It doesn’t matter how sad I was at the beginning of the summer, or what people may be saying about me now. All I can do is look ahead and figure out what the hell should happen next.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Killian bounds into work the next day like a puppy, his face breaking into a huge smile as soon as he sees me.

  “Vee!” He holds his hand up for a high five and then pulls me to him, squeezing me tight for a second before letting me go.

  I can barely look at him, nearly overcome by the butterflies that wing their way through my stomach when I remember our kiss at the dunes.

  “Hey,” I say, grabbing the clipboard and shoving it into his hands. “We’d better get going.”

  His smile dims briefly, but then he salutes me and climbs onto the bus. “Yes, ma’am.”

  The hours crawl by. We’re past the midsummer rush, so Killian and I actually have some downtime, which we would normally use to gab our heads off. But he keeps bringing up new subjects, trying to get a conversation started, and when I try to respond, the words dry up before I can spit them out. By the end of the day, he’s given up and just blasts the radio.

  As soon as everything is put away for the day, Killian grabs his backpack and heads for the Jeep.

  “Killian, wait.” I hurry after him, catching a glimpse of Mel’s concerned face in the office window as I go past. “Hold on.”

  He tosses his backpack into the backseat and turns to me, his arms folded. “It’s okay,” he says, not meeting my eyes. “I know what you’re going to say, and I’d just rather not hear it.”

  “What am I going to say?”

  He rolls his eyes. “That the other night was a mistake and you were drunk and it shouldn’t have happened. ‘Sorry, Killian, my bad. I think you’re a great guy, but I just want to be friends.’ ”

  I stare down at my beat-up tennis shoes. “That was pretty much the speech I had planned,” I admit. “But it’s not the truth.”

  “Oh yeah?” He leans back against the Jeep. “So what is the truth?”

  I shrug and take a deep breath. “The truth is, I don’t want to be just friends.” Killian’s head snaps up in surprise, but I keep going, knowing that if I don’t say this now I never will. “I like you way too much to be just friends. You’re the smartest, most interesting person I know.”

  Killian runs a hand through his hair. He’s not smiling now. “But?”

  “But . . .” I drop my arms to my sides. “God, this is hard to say out loud. But I want to finish the twenty-six kisses thing.”

  He opens his mouth to protest, but I cut him off. “I was a mess at the beginning of the summer, Killian. I could barely function. And it sounds crazy and desperate and I’m not even one hundred percent sure it’s the right thing to do, but something about this dumb task of kissing my way through the alphabet has helped me. I just want to finish it, to prove to myself I can do it.”

  Killian laughs softly and looks down at the ground, scuffing his sneaker in the dirt. “Okay.”

  “Okay, what?”

  “Okay.” He shrugs. “If that’s what you want to do, then go ahead.” He turns away, shutting me out.

  “Killian.” I reach for him. “Come on. That’s all you have to say?”

  He shrinks away from my touch as if I have electricity flowing through my fingertips and he’s scared of getting shocked. “Don’t.”

  I cross my arms, panic rising inside my chest. This is the worst thing he could do—shutting down, freezing me out. “Please.” My voice cracks.

  “You were my lifeline, Vee.” He stares off into the woods as he talks, his voice low, the words rushed. “You still don’t get it. I don’t have friends at Trawley. A year ago I was the short, weird guy in drama club. The only guy in drama club. This”—he gestures down at his tall, broad body—“all happened in the last six months. I’ve lived there my whole life, and no matter what I look like or what I go on to do in the future, those guys are only going to see me one way—as someone they can pick on.”

  I stare at the ground, wondering how anyone could see Killian as less than he is—smart, talented, amazing. “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t need you to be sorry.” He clears his throat. “I need you to be there for me.”

  “We’re friends, Killian. Of course I’m there for you.”

  “We’re more than friends, and you know it!” A couple of people walking by look up at the sound of Killian’s voice, and he takes a deep breath, trying to rein himself back in. “I thought this year wouldn’t be so bad. School would suck, but then I would get to see you.”

  I imagine what that would be like—Killian and I each going through our school days, fifteen miles apart, then meeting up afterward for ice cream or just to do our homework together. It sounds great, but it also sounds like anothe
r serious relationship. For the first time, I can kind of understand where Mark was coming from when he said he didn’t want to go to college still dating his high school girlfriend. “I can’t think about that kind of thing right now,” I finally say. “I’m just not ready.”

  “Okay.” He turns away and climbs into the Jeep, clearing the tarp away with one angry swipe. He’s gone before I even have the chance to apologize.

  debate team reunion?!?!?!?

  The group text appears on my phone a few days later. I had forgotten about Zane’s invitation to the underclassmen debate team get-together but, apparently, he remembered to include me even without the help of his trusty planner. Responses from other team members start blowing up my phone immediately.

  yes yes yesyesyesyesyesyes.

  this is everything i need in my life right meow.

  affirmative.

  The plan is to meet tonight at the Dune Buggy, a terribly gimmicky ice-cream parlor near the dunes. I don’t really feel like going, but I need to get out of the house. Mel and Seth have been working nonstop on the album, and Killian has called in sick to work the last two days in a row. I’m starting to go crazy stuck inside my own head—even to the point where I asked Jeffrey to show me some tricks on his skateboard just so I would have someone to talk to for half an hour. Besides, I can’t pass up the opportunity to restart Twenty-Six Kisses. After all, Z is not a terribly common letter. I go for a quick run with Ryan before dinner, barely leaving myself enough time to eat and shower before I have to leave.

  Mom even lets me take the car to the Dune Buggy so I don’t have to face the humiliation of asking an underclassman for a ride. Most of these kids can’t even drive yet, but I recognize Jason Winslow’s car, and Becca Fong’s. They’re already in line, along with a few other people from the team, when I swing open the door and step into the overly bright, sugary-smelling shop.

  “Strawberry is clearly the superior flavor,” Zane says to Tracy, a small girl with braces that take over her entire face when she smiles. “The frozen strawberry chunks are certain to contain more nutritional value than whatever is in those lumps they call ‘cookie dough,’ which probably also contain uncooked eggs. If that’s not a public health hazard, I don’t know what is.”