21 Stolen Kisses

by Lauren Blakely

  Chapter Sixteen

  Kennedy

  The May sun beats down on me as I walk along Central Park on Saturday afternoon. It’s warm but not hot; a perfect spring day in New York, and the trees are bursting with green. Lush and blooming. I breathe in the scent of newness, embracing it, wishing I could spend the day away from my home.

  I haven’t seen my mom since yesterday’s lacrosse game, when I told her to stay away from Amanda’s dad. I’ve avoided her all morning, slipping out to have lunch and coffee with Amanda, but now I’m heading home.

  As I walk up the steps to the brownstone, I nearly trip on a folded-up letter on the top step. I recognize the ivory paper. It’s one of our letters from a few nights ago–the James Joyce we left outside Bailey’s house. An anonymous letter is boomeranging back to my doorstep, and seeing it stills my heart.

  Carefully, I open the letter, even though prickles of worry tap dance on my skin. But there’s nothing on the paper except the words I printed out. The fear of the unknown dissipates. An extra must have fallen out of my backpack the other night. Nothing to worry about. I unlock the door and walk inside.

  My mom’s feet are propped up on the coffee table and she has on her reading glasses. She’s marking up what looks to be the latest Lords and Ladies script. “I picked up a six-pack of Diet Coke for you. I even checked the expiration dates, just like you say to do, to make sure it’s in the acceptable range,” she says with a bright smile, sketching air quotes as she uses my phrase for Diet Coke verification.

  “You have been well trained,” I say, relieved. Perhaps, being honest yesterday about Amanda’s dad was the trick. Perhaps, all that was needed was just the saying of it, the voicing of the request—keep your hands off my friend’s dad.

  “By the way, the weirdest thing happened,” my mom begins in a cool, even tone. “My publicist Bailey Waltham received an anonymous card in the mail wishing her everlasting love.”

  “Really?” I do my best to appear disinterested while my heart speeds to rabbit time.

  “And here’s the other odd thing. She said a neighbor saw a young couple tacking up letters near her home in Gramercy Park,” my mom adds, sounding the slightest bit like a lawyer starting up a cross-examination.

  “What’s weird about that?” I ask, calling on my best acting ability.

  “Well, she said the girl—the neighbor said this—was riding a silver bike. Just like the one she’s seen you on.”

  I open the fridge with shaky hands, keeping my eyes away from her as I stare at the shelves. I don’t want her to see my face and read my face. “That is weird,” I say in a monotone, even though my voice wants to rise many octaves. Was Bailey the one who left the letter on my stoop as some sort of sign? Did she know it came from me?

  Then my mom laughs. “I said to Bailey, ‘Well, I’m sure it wasn’t Kennedy.’ Right? You didn’t send her a card, did you, baby?”

  “Of course not,” I say, as if the idea that I would is incredulous.

  I tap the can of soda and flash a big, fat false smile. “Thanks for the soda.”

  “Anything for you,” my mom says, and I can breathe again. I make my way upstairs.

  As I reach the second floor, I hear her phone ring.

  “Hello, Daniel. So good to hear from you,” she says, and I stop walking, watching her from the landing.

  She crosses her ankles together, resting them on the coffee table. She is a beautiful woman. She is long and lean and put together; her hair is raven and her eyes are green and she has never not commanded a room, or a party, or an entire block. Men fall at her feet; she is the Pied Piper and I don’t know how she does it, but she plays her tune and they follow and they fawn and they lay down before her.

  “Well, of course you should talk to your sweet wife, Daniel. You love Tokyo. Let her know how hard you’ve been looking for work, how much it means to go on this trip.”

  My insides twist as I witness how she does it. She worms her way into his life, posing as the friend, the confidante, giving him marital advice.

  She pauses and waits for his volley. “I totally understand. But you need to help her see it that way,” she continues, and I know she is just laying the groundwork, because soon she’s suggesting they discuss the matter of his Tokyo trip over coffee. It’s as if someone or something just cranked me up a notch, turned the timer on a once-dormant, now-ticking time bomb inside me. I try to ignore the noise and the sound and the tightness in my body because nothing matters, nothing ever changes.

  I walk back to my room, scribble Amanda’s dad’s name down in one of my notebooks, then the conversation I overheard. I want to remember every detail. I want to be able to call them up if I need them. I hide the notebook away, slam my backpack on my shoulder, and head downstairs. My mom is still on the couch, still chatting with him. “Of course. We’ll meet tomorrow. I’ll help you with everything.”

  I bet.

  She looks at me and asks where I’m going.

  “Out,” I say

  “Can’t you stay? Hayes is coming over to review the latest foreign deal, and then we can all get something to eat.”

  I pushed my fingernails into my palms. Don’t say a word.

  “You used to love going out with Hayes and me,” she adds.

  Say nothing.

  I’m so red-hot with rage right now, that if I speak I’ll reveal all the things about Hayes that I’ve never wanted to share. I press my lips together. Words could destroy me right now.

  “Kennedy, are you okay?”

  “Fine,” I mutter. “Just need to exercise.”

  I grab Joe. I need to get my mind off the fact that I’m about to lose another friendship because of her appetite for men. I push down hard on the pedals, putting distance between myself and that phone call, myself and my mother.

  Our Stolen Kisses

  Two days later we went to the Chocolate Cafe. I chose a seven-layer bar and you ordered a chocolate milkshake.

  We were on a date. Holy smokes. WE. WERE. ON. A. DATE.

  I was sure my emotions were apparent to anyone and everyone, like a neon sign blaring across the night. You must have known. But then, I could sense your nerves too. I saw it in the way you fumbled with the paper on the straw, in how you swallowed as you held open the door for me, in the way your fingers slipped the first time you reached for the bills in your wallet to pay.

  We wandered over to nearby Abingdon Square Park, that tiny little triangular patch of park atop the Village that’s like an oasis in Manhattan, stuffed cozily inside its own walls of trees and flowers. We sat down on a park bench and you had your chocolate drink in hand.

  “It’s so good. It’s like an iced hot chocolate,” you said, back to your cool and confident side that I adored as much as your nervous one. “Do you want to try it?”

  “Yes,” I said, and took a drink, using the same straw. My lips had touched where yours had been. I looked at the straw, at the mark my lip gloss had just left on it. “Lipstick marks.”

  “I like them,” you said.

  My skin tingled. I was so keenly aware of your nearness. “My lipstick marks?”

  “Your lips,” you answered, your blue eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them before. Full of heat. There were no nerves anymore. Just sheer sexiness. Unabashed want. I thrilled inside, hot tingles racing through my bloodstream. The questions were over. We were both in the same place, same zone, same need.

  “Can I kiss you?” you asked, and my skin sizzled from head to toe.

  “Yes.”

  Our lips barely brushed, but it was electric. It was fire and lightning, and the sky breaking open. In that whisper of a kiss, we became a we, even as we both held back, aware that too much too soon would ruin us. But we both knew, in the soft press of our lips, in the hands on arms, hands on hair, hands so eager to touch, that there was no turning back.

  With each breath, I felt the daring rush of danger, of skiing a black diamond, of speeding without getting caught, of hiding somethi
ng wild and naughty and wonderful. I was on top of the world.

  When you pulled away, that dazed look in your eyes told me you were buzzed too. I memorized that look, and the feel of our kiss. It was the kind of kiss that erased any others before, that blotted out any to come, that stood its ground as the kiss against which any and all would be measured.

  “Wow,” you said under your breath.

  Then we stopped kissing and we did what we came to do. We cast the revival, choosing the three leads. We were pleased with the selections, and with our own ability to play co-casting directors.

  I ignored the fact that the musical didn’t have a happy ending.

  You and I will have a happy one, won’t we?

  We will rewrite Chess.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kennedy

  I need speed. I need danger.

  I strap on my helmet and blast off the sidewalk onto the road.

  I hear a voice call out my name. I turn my head momentarily, but all I see is a flash of color—bright orange—before I turn my attention back to the traffic I must navigate on Central Park West and Columbus Circle. Soon, I weave over to Seventh Avenue into the early evening traffic, riding into it, blaring toward downtown, streaking past cars and trucks and delivery vehicles. I keep going, pedaling, squeezing in and out of tight little jams when Broadway cuts Seventh Avenue. With each block, the memory of my mother’s conversation with Amanda’s father sheds in a trail behind me.

  A car door opens and I swoop. I’m off to the side, scooting around a cab as I soar ahead, my focus narrowing solely to the street and my role in it. The cab slams its brakes at the red light, but I whip through as the cars from Thirty-Ninth Street bang their horns at me. I’m faster than they are and I bolt past them. Then I tear across Chelsea, and I fly as the streets jut out at crazy angles in the Village. There’s an ambulance now, catapulting toward me, zipping into St. Vincent’s as I swing around the back of it, nearly clipping my leg on the bumper.

  By the time I hit Tribeca, the back of my shirt is sticking to me, and my lungs are searing, but I haven’t stopped once, not for a light or a pedestrian or a car. Then Seventh turns into Church Street and my lungs jump into my throat. I push them back down again. A minute later I’m jetting past the Federal Reserve Bank and soon, soon, soon the edge of Manhattan grows bigger and I see trees looming closer and Battery Park is just one stinking block away. I tuck my body even tighter, my head lower, my eyes fixed only on the prize.

  Almost there.

  Seconds later, I stop, my breath coming in heavy pants as I yank off my helmet.

  I made my best time ever. Sixteen minutes.

  Little victories, Caroline would say.

  My phone rings.

  “Hello?” I answer without even looking.

  “Don’t tell me I’m going to have to visit you in the hospital again like that time when you broke your foot from skateboarding into traffic.”

  His voice sends a charge through me, lighting me up. He hasn’t called me in four months. We’ve only texted. He knows me. He knows I needed more than a text tonight. He knows me better than anyone. “I am safe and sound in Battery Park,” I say, loving that he worries.

  “You ride like a Kamikaze fighter pilot,” he says in a careful warning.

  “I know.”

  Then there’s a pause. The air between us crackles like it always has, like it has its own energy or frequency. One of us is going to bend. One of us is going to break.

  “Come back,” he says, so much longing in his voice.

  “I don’t want to be there right now,” I say, running my hand roughly through my hair.

  “Come back later then.”

  “I don’t want to be there later.”

  “Someplace else?” he asks, and there’s so much hopefulness in the way he speaks. I can’t help but match it. I feel it too. I want it too. I want the hope and the happiness and the escape I’ve always felt with Noah Hayes, the only man I’ve ever loved.

  “Anyplace else,” I say, and as I give voice to the giving in, a feathery lightness dances through me. I am ready to stop staying away from him.

  “I’ll see you at our place in three hours.”

  Our place. I am lit up, I am ignited; a sweet return to the past that’s become the present again. It’s all so familiar and safe in its own way. The memories race back, tapping on the wall, poking their heads around corners, wanting to be seen. I give in to them; I hit Play and watch the reel of my favorite times from the six months when I was in my own secret affair with my mom’s business partner, her agent, her best friend.

  Like the time we went to a Yankees game late last summer.

  He was at our house one afternoon, and he wielded two tickets, showing them like a magician would a playing card. Naturally, he gave my mom first dibs. But she declined. “I detest watching sports that my daughter isn’t playing. Why don’t you take Kennedy?”

  Like it was her idea.

  Like we hadn’t planned it that way.

  The day of the game, I went to the Mac store nearby and asked the makeup artist if she could paint a blue-and-white New York Yankees logo on my cheek. Then I went home, put on jean shorts, a blue T-shirt, and flip-flops and said good-bye to my mom.

  “Be sure to take a cab home, my dear,” she said, pressing one hundred dollars into my hand. “Hayes will make sure to get you one.”

  “Yes, Mom,” I said, then smiled to myself as I left the house as if I were heading to the nearest subway stop and planning to meet him at the ballpark. Instead, I walked a block up and a block over to the town car he’d ordered that was waiting. He pushed the door open from the inside and I slid in, shutting it with a satisfying click. All the people walking by after work or starting their early evening summertime jogs in the park were on the other side of the tinted glass.

  “Hi,” I said, with a conspiratorial grin.

  “Hi.” His eyes twinkled.

  I ran my fingers along the leather seats. “Nice town car.”

  “You like me for my town car?”

  “Oh, exactly. Yes, that’s it exactly.”

  “Say it,” he teased. “Say you like me for my town car.”

  “Never!”

  “C’mon. Just a little?” he said, egging me on, but I knew that he craved the reassurance of why I liked him—and it wasn’t for the town car, because I didn’t care if he had a town car or not. I liked him for him, and not for the trappings of his job, not for the accoutrements of being a young, hot agent. I was probably the only person he interacted with on a regular basis, except maybe for his friend Matthew, who didn’t have an agenda. Or rather, it was that my agenda was the one he wanted—it was an unfettered agenda. I liked him for him, plain and simple, nothing more.

  “I’d walk with you to Yankee Stadium,” I said, placing my palm on his thigh.

  “All right, we’re pulling over now.”

  “Okay, maybe not that much,” I said, and then fingered the edge of his khakis. “You’re wearing shorts.”

  “You’ve seen me in shorts before. When I run in the morning.”

  “I’m just used to you in your perfect pants and perfect shirts.”

  “Then spend more time with me on weekends or at night and you’ll see what else I wear,” he said, raising his eyebrow in invitation.

  “Someday.”

  “Someday soon?” His voice rose the tiniest bit.

  “Yes,” I whispered, making the promise I’d made to him over and over and over. That someday we’d be together for real. He was twenty-five then, and I had turned seventeen at the start of that summer. There was time for together for real. Down the road, not too far away, after I made it to college.

  He sighed deeply, a relieved sigh, like I’d just given him the present he’d always wanted. I was the present, I was the gift, what he wanted was me, all of me. He ran a thumb along my jawline. “How am I going to put my hand on your cheek and kiss you without messing up your Yankees logo?”

&nb
sp; “Were you going to be licking my cheek?”

  “No, funny girl,” he said, and placed a hand on my cheek. “I just like touching your face, okay?”

  “Why don’t you just try and see if you can not mess it up?”

  We spent the rest of the ride kissing in the town car, our own little private world, blind to the rest of the city. I had no interest in stopping, nor did he. We barely came up for air. We couldn’t get enough of each other. We were unstoppable in our kisses, in the way our lips needed to meet again and again, over and over. His hands were in my hair, cupping my cheeks, his fingertips tracing my collarbone.

  When we arrived my lips were raw, but my painted-on logo was pristine.

  We watched the game, and we cheered and clapped and shouted all the players’ names when they came to bat, and he wrapped me in a huge hug, those strong arms circling me, when the shortstop hit a home run in the seventh inning to pull ahead, and I turned the hug into a kiss in the middle of Yankee Stadium. A deep, wet, hot kiss full of passion and fire, and lust for more. We were in a sea of happy strangers and the fact that we were lying to my mom didn’t matter to any of them. No one knew us. No one could know us. I didn’t live in a small town. I lived in a gigantic one. A massive one that could swallow you up, or let you swim in it. I was swimming in it and the water was nice and the current was pulling me along. New York City was my accomplice. New York City made my affair with Noah Hayes not only possible, but easy.

  He took me home after the game and came inside.

  “Safe and sound, like I promised,” he said to my mom.

  “You darling, man,” she said. “Now tell me everything. Tell me all about the game. Wait. Don’t tell me about the game. I don’t care about baseball. Tell me a story. Tell me something interesting about the fans.”

  I let him do all the talking as I walked into the kitchen to grab a Diet Coke. I opened it and leaned back against the counter, listening to him telling her stories. He’d look over at me a few times, and every time he did I thought how I was the one who finally had a secret, I was the one who knew something my mom didn’t know, and I was going to keep it that way forever and ever and then some. For the first time in my life, I had the upper hand on her.