When We Kissed

by Kim Roshell

  “Oh, shit. I forgot about that.”

  Wish I could.

  Memories of life before CPS swooped in, rescuing me from a dingy one bedroom apartment are have grown hazy, but I remember Leann Coleman and how I used to think everyone who said, “you” was actually calling me. I remember a dingy white shirt tucked inside brown corduroy overalls that were a couple sizes too small, a patch sewn on the front—a Tonka truck.

  Wore that showstopper a lot.

  I’ll also never forget the dispassionate expression on Leann’s face when she told a caseworker that bringing me into the world was a mixed blessing. Webster’s defines blessing as a thing conducive to happiness or welfare. Sound like something you leave out on the street? I don’t think so, either. Regardless, she’s begged for a face-face so she can explain.

  Ashley slips her hand over mine, gives it a tight squeeze. “Sure you’re ready?”

  That’s a question I’ve asked myself almost every single day. Seeing the woman who thought nothing of giving me away isn’t going to be some Hallmark moment where we pore over baby pictures, reminiscing sweet memories. I harbor zero latent desires to form some kind of bond with my biological ride into the earth realm. Still, seeing her again, more the fear of what I may feel from us being in the same room, is something I’ve been avoiding.

  “I don’t know, but that’s one goal I’ll be ecstatic to cross off my list.”

  “Understandable.” She lets my hand go to pull me into a hug. “No matter how things go, you know you’ve always got me, right?”

  There’s my bestie. The girl who camps out in sleeping bags with me on the hardwood floor in my foyer once a year just so I can wake up with my family one more time.

  “Goes both ways chick, which takes me back to what I was saying, I think you need to give your boyfriend a break. Real love, like what you two have, will withstand the distance.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A solid foundation is important in every aspect of your life.

  Fail to build on it? All you’ve got is future wasted space.

  —Granddaddy

  Whit

  “Thanks for letting me know where I stand.”

  “Quit overreacting, babe.”

  “Oh, my God. So, you’re finally admitting you won’t miss me, but I’m overreacting?”

  “You ain’t making sense, and I never said I wouldn’t miss you. You said, ‘think about how much you’re gonna miss this when you’re gone’ while your hand was down my pants. I responded with truth, I wasn’t trying to think about a damn thing except how good it felt.”

  Angry tears stream down her face. Confused, I study the tense set of her jaw, searching my brain for clues to how this entire evening took such a horrific turn.

  Worry over Simone’s guilty conscience being the biggest threat to my relationship was utterly ridiculous compared to Ashley’s mercurial mood swings. My girlfriend—who, by the way, is currently giving me the cold shoulder again—has went from the sweet, carefree girl who sent me pictures, fresh out the shower this morning to the teary-eyed, petulant five-year old sitting on the other side of the room. Tropical storms in the Gulf of Mexico have been far less unpredictable than her crying jags the last few days.

  I’ve discovered the key to surviving these emotional downpours is to watch my words like a hawk. That, or keep my trap shut, altogether. Unfortunately, in a moment of pure idiocy, I mentioned how I’m missing a playoff game on ESPN because she wanted to watch a movie we’ve already seen, somewhere around a million times.

  Something Borrowed.

  Trippy thing is, she complains every single time how the movie really don’t do the book justice. A worthless complaint, in my opinion, seeing as only somewhere around .001 percent of movie adaptations can claim such an honor. If by the end, you still like the movie, what’s the big deal?

  Tonight, I made the sacrifice. Figured it’d be worth it. Ashley’s my future. Happy wife, happy life. And, I’m not blind. Kate Hudson is hot. The other chick’s nothing to sleep on, either. Passing on the game in deference of watching a movie with three beautiful women? No-brainer. Coop’s recording the game so I’ll still see it.

  Plus, when Ashley is happy, she likes to make me happy.

  Thanks to my off-the-cuff remark, that won’t be happening. She looks like she wants to throat-punch me. We’ve done nothing except argue since we came up to her bedroom.

  I face the wall, take a woosah. My eyes zero in on a snapshot from Homecoming—me, standing to Ashley’s left, looking anxious as all get out to leave. If memory serves, she’d leaned in, whispered something quite promising in my ear. Whoever took the picture caught her movement, causing a slight blur over her face.

  Simone, dressed in a tiny black bandage, stood to her right. Staring directly at the camera.

  Her image?

  Flawless.

  Noticing that a lot lately. Frankly, I’m having a hard time getting Simone out of my head. I’ve kissed plenty of girls. Not bragging, but I’ve been told I’m pretty damn good at it. I feel comfortable stating these lips have engaged in some fairly enjoyable lip-locking experiences. Never so much I’ve lost sleep over them, though. And that’s kissing girls I liked.

  Which begs the question, are Simone and I even friends? Sure, we hang in mixed company, but does that count if when we cross paths in the halls or sit in the same classes, we barely exchange a look?

  Admittedly, I’m looking a helluva lot more lately. Impossible not to, really. Fact is, Simone may have a prickly reputation amongst the guys, but no one—white, or otherwise—denies her beauty.

  Anyway, my point? She can strut right on by me without a blink.

  So, how fucked up is it for me to concede, even to myself, that with each passing day, Simone’s rapidly becoming all I see? More than just how hot she is, too. Like I said before, it’s like everything she does or says is for my attention, which I know sounds incredibly self-centered.

  I’m in over my head.

  “I’m in over my head.”

  Great. Now I’m talking out loud to myself like I can’t hear my own thoughts. This thing with Simone has gotten so out of control. I fully expect to start acting like a stark raving lunatic the next time I see her. I’d blame some of this awareness on what happened in that pool, but truth is I’d been restless prior to that night, and have been for weeks since. Awaking hours before the alarms sounds, drenched in sweat, sheets tangled around my ankles. My hand having somehow found its way underneath my waistband. Wrong girl’s name on my lips.

  This has to stop.

  Digging my keys out my pocket, I turn around, put my focus back on my future. “Gonna head out.”

  “Seriously, Whit? You’re leaving for some dumb game?”

  The game? Really? “Nope. Leaving ‘cause you’re itching for war, and I ain’t up for it.”

  “Of course, you’re not.”

  “What’s your deal, Ashley?”

  Unfortunately, sleep deprivation is doing a number on me, which is why I follow with a question that tends to make really bad situations exponentially worse.

  A certain question pertaining to a particular biological event only attended by women.

  I know. That’s easily in the top three of Things No Guy Should Ever Ask. Mama would have a full-on hissy fit if she knew I let that one slip. Nana would have my head. Once, I made the gross error of asking Pastor Trey’s wife if all the women in her family had those little hair under their chins.

  I was five. Beards fascinated me.

  Needless to say, more than just my ears got a blistering in the parking lot that day.

  The twist of Ashley’s lips is affirmation my careless slip was the equivalent of throwing gas on another unbanked fire. Worse, a verbal blunder of this nature is laughable, given I know the answer. Don’t even need a calendar. That tidbit of biological info is something I’ve mentally charted since we started having sex. Ashley isn’t on the pill. Condoms aren’t foolproof. Lord knows last thing we nee
d is diapers in place of graduation gifts.

  “You did not ask me that,” Ashley snaps with an inflection in her tone, that until this very moment, I thought was exclusive to women over the age of fifty. Wisely, this thought, I keep to myself.

  “Didn’t mean to.”

  Again, I know. A weak argument, at best, but nothing I’ve said tonight has been right. Nothing.

  Or maybe it’s the opposite.

  I’m tired. Exhaustion, both physical and emotional, pushes me to the end of the rope. God knows, for weeks, I’ve done the best I can to avoid conflict, waved the white flag. Like I’m about to do right now.

  “Can we just pretend I didn’t? Like a do-over?”

  Ask me, this is the rightest thing I’ve said all night. A do-over is exactly what I need.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Simone

  Geez Louise, talk about a crap day.

  First, Beckham Glass, the pain in my—

  He caught me on the way out of the bathroom, then proceeded to harass me all the way to eighth period.

  UGH!

  Poor deluded soul imagines himself a Ryan Gosling lookalike, a la The Notebook. He actually wrote that as an answer for an All About You essay on the first day of class.

  To which I say, “Boy, bye!”

  Nothing is further from the truth, unless that fine specimen (Ryan) was victimized by a few botched surgeries.

  Oh, fine, Beckham isn’t that hideous.

  Still, dude owns little real estate in the neighborhood of Cute. Then there’s his lack of ambition. His parents are loaded, so he’s already settled on doing nothing past high school.

  Beckham is not a contender for number one.

  However, my day spiraled into the great abyss. Class no sooner started before Mr. Kelley, our Health teacher, dropped the bomb that my delusional pest will be my newly assigned “parent partner.” We’re “raising” a flour baby together for the next four weeks. This means I’ll be forced to hold regular conversations with the troll in order to maintain my grade point average. Bad enough I have to take the class during my senior year because my AP classes combined with my last year of counseling sessions conflicted with the ridiculous half credit required for graduation. Now I have to endure the rest of this year in a classroom overflowing with sophomores and juniors, all while being civil with the one guy who rides my nerves harder than a kid on that ancient electric horse rusting away outside of Duff’s grocery.

  I looked forward to life improving once I got to work.

  Good thing neither Beckham nor I get paid for imaginations.

  End of shift, and I’ve barely netted twelve dollars in tips, even though we were swamped. Worse, Aunt Katie texted to let me know her flight was delayed, which means I get to walk tonight since I refuse to call Shawn for a ride. Ashley’s out. This is her night with Whit. I’m sure Mr. Tate would drop me off if I asked, except we’re already shorthanded and there’s still a crowd.

  Topping off my run of bad luck, I officially hate ketchup. Someone tipped an uncapped bottle over onto my backpack. No one’s fessing up. My brand new blouse I had stuffed over them along with my denim skirt, on the other hand, is ruined. Silver lining is my books escaped major damage.

  I trash the shirt, toss my backpack on my shoulder. Gag from the strong aroma of vinegar.

  “Don’t forget your dinner, girlie.”

  I double back for the bag my boss passes through the window. This is his thing, feeding me whenever I work the dinner shift. He uses the excuse that I’m too thin.

  I’m not. I’ve got clothes shoved in the back of my closet to prove it. He really does it because I help Dina.

  “Thanks, Mr. Tate.”

  “Uh, huh. Better get a move on before that rain catches you. And don’t forget those shoes tomorrow,” he reminds me, gesturing toward my feet with a spatula.

  “Yes sir.”

  I head back to my original destination, stuff the crumpled bills from my pocket into the jar under the counter before waving goodbye to Ms. Ida. In my rush to get to the bus stop on time, I inadvertently left the mandatory black steel-toed restaurant quality Skechers we’re supposed to wear in my school locker. Like the day wasn’t bad enough, right? Of course, the memory lapse left no other choice except to work in the pristine white Keds I’d paired with a miniskirt and leg warmers, along with that now trashed top I rocked this morning.

  Eighties day.

  The shoes, much like my shirt, did not escape unscathed. They, too, will be taking an untimely trip to the city dump. Amazingly, I didn’t bust my butt, busy as we were. Any other night I probably would’ve gotten sent home, but Mr. Tate is in a good mood.

  Much as I hate our uniform, I appreciate the rusty red button-down shirt and ill-fitting black slacks as I push my way out the door into the brutal night air. Biting wind chomps away at my exposed skin, gnawing down to my bones. The temperature has dipped in the last hour, or so. Plump clouds droop overhead, swollen with another slushy mix for the morning commute.

  I send a quick prayer skyward that I don’t freeze before I make it home, tugging my hood over my ears. But because this day can’t end on a high, rain falls in decisive plops, weaseling into every exposed spot it can find to prove my poor decision of not calling Shawn for a ride. The leg warmers I wore earlier are bunched under my pants legs, but now I’m thinking I should’ve used one to wrap around my face, ketchup or no ketchup. Already, the wet ground is slickening each step. Running in these shoes will be impossible. Dangerous, too. I soldier on, grateful for the small bits of gravel lending me some traction.

  The asphalt ahead glows under the beam of oncoming headlights, alerting me of the need for retreat onto someone’s neglected lawn. With no sidewalks here in Parkland Hills—hills either, actually—a stingy berm edging the grass is all I get. Mud-frosted pinecones litter yards down this entire street. Tipping my way through a veritable obstacle course, I’ll qualify for American Ninja Warrior if I make it home without face-planting. I’m almost happy for the light source creeping closer until I recognize the engine’s rumble, torpedoing the day from worse to just shoot me.

  “Simone? That you?”

  That lazy, small town Louisiana drawl takes some of the bite out of the blustery wind by sending a rush of warmth over me. Without looking, I know Ashley’s not with him. My pulse does this kickboxing thing whenever he’s nearby and alone. Call it a sixth sense. Call it whatever. I call it inconvenient.

  I dart a dismissive glance in his direction, hoping he’ll take the hint I’m not feeling especially social.

  “Thought that was you. Why’re you . . . ? Hey. Hey. . . Oh, so you’re jus’ gonna keep walkin’?”

  I hunker deeper inside my coat.

  “Sim—you do realize it’s pourin’ out there, right?”

  I so don’t need this tonight. I’m cold. I’m wet. He looks entirely too huggable. Resisting Shawn is easy. Battling the temptation that is Whit Devereaux? “Go away.”

  “So you can hear me.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “What?” He laughs. “Seriously?”

  “Leave me alone, Cowboy.” I slip on a pinecone, nearly losing my balance.

  “Watch your step.”

  “I’ve got this.”

  “Yep, I can see that.”

  He’s grinning, I just know it. He has very audible grins.

  If I keep my eyes trained on the mud oozing around my already ruined shoes, maybe he’ll leave. I refuse to look his way again.

  “For the record, not every guy born in the south is a cowboy,” he drawls.

  “You were raised on a ranch. Close enough.”

  “Can’t ignore me forever, Simone.”

  “Who says I’m ignoring you?”

  “You tuck tail and scurry off if we’re within twenty feet of one another—”

  “Rodents scurry. I do not.”

  “—ignorin’ me in class,” he continues, completely ignoring my outburst. “Skippin’ lunches. We preten
din’ all that, same way we’re pretendin’ we didn’t kiss?”

  His question halts my steps. Truth will do that sometimes—bring everything to a stop. Personally, I think I’ve done an admirable job of keeping my distance. Ashley has grilled me at least ten times over everything that happened while her boyfriend and I were locked in that closet, so I know he hasn’t fared any better. I know her. She’s still giving him a hard time about the school thing. In between subtle inquisitions over what Whit and I discussed during those meaningless twenty-one minutes, she rants about distance and temptations.

  Why add fuel? Pretending is the smartest thing we can do.

  Rain has niggled its way through the front of my coat. Glacial sheets of air wrap around my body like linen on a mummy, holding me in place. Whit eases to a stop, flicks on his hazards and backs up until I’m parallel with his passenger side window. For the first time in weeks, I look him square in the eyes. Not because I’m so brave, because every muscle in my face is freaking freezing.

  “Silly me. I thought you’d appreciate the effort seeing as your girlfriend is still suspicious. Seems to me we both ought to pretend as much as possible.”

  That easy grin slides from his face. “What if I can’t?”

  Then I’m either going to lose some serious weight by skipping lunch for the rest of the year, or I’ll be big as a house by graduation from all the binge eating sessions in front of the TV every weekend since there’s no way I’ll be hanging out with the group anymore.

  All because of one foolish kiss and an unexpected dunk in a pool.

  I send him another scathing glare—at least as scathing as I can manage with a frozen face. “Don’t do this, Cowboy. She loves you.”

  “I know.”

  “K, good talk. Now, go on about your business so I can get home before I freezer burn.”

  Because this night can’t get any better, wind slips underneath my hood, lifting away what little protection it offered. Icy rivulets of water snake down the back of my neck. Rain also means my natural curls will conspire into militant tangles. Tumbleweed will be easier to manage within the next five minutes.