When We Kissed

by Kim Roshell

  “Lemme rescue you again.”

  “No.” The reply is automatic, because there’s foolish pride and then there’s survival.

  “C’mon, Simone. It’s rainin’ cats and dogs. Gonna catch your death.”

  “Not your problem.”

  “Alright, lemme drop you off, anyway. After this, you can go back to avoidin’ me.”

  I sigh, swear I see my breath form into crystals right before my eyes. Should that be possible? Maybe the cold is numbing my brain.

  Shivering, I resign to my fate. Like it or not, Whit’s offering me salvation from the elements. I can’t deny the sincerity in his expression, even with that easy grin. Whether furthering this pointless conversation is still on his agenda, or not, I do believe he really wants to help. And let’s be real, getting home before my limbs fall off really does hold a certain appeal.

  “Why do people say that? Raining cats and dogs? It’s stupid.”

  He laughs. “Won’t argue with ya’, darlin’, else you’ll be out there all night. Now, ya’ comin’?”

  What feels like a blade of ice cutting along my spine gives me my answer. Reluctance to climb inside a vehicle with my best friend’s boyfriend who I kissed? Perfectly understandable. Refusing a ride in deference of another two miles of hiking in the rain at night while wearing muddy, rain-soaked shoes? Plain ol’ idiotic.

  “Before I do this, you need to know I can’t spar with you tonight, Cowboy.”

  “I can live with that.”

  “No talking about the kiss.”

  The smile returns. “Fine.”

  “Absolutely no speeding. Keep your eyes on the road the whole time, both hands on the wheel.”

  “Course, ‘cept when I have to shift. Promise I’ll be quick about it, though” he adds when I take a step back. Two cars buzz by, heedless of the wet pavement. Anxiety grips my heart.

  “Take me to the end of my driveway, then leave.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Okay.

  Can I do this?

  A welcoming blast of heat shouts yes when I tug the door open. I whimper with joy, shamelessly breathing the warmed air into my lungs. Tears of gratitude sting the backs of my eyes as I purposely look his way. Silent thanks, because no way can I verbalize how right he is about me needing this intervention.

  The pungent scent of ketchup fills the interior the second I ease my bag onto the floorboard. Whit sniffs, his brows dipping low as he looks for the source making his Jeep smell like the inside of a fast food restaurant. He scratches his jaw, stays silent. What if he’s contemplating a resignation on the offer?

  I move my butt into motion.

  Except my already soaked foot slips off the shiny chrome bar, landing in a half-frozen puddle because I apparently haven’t lost enough circulation in my toes. The numbness spreads so fast, I stop breathing.

  Whit slides out on his side, rounds the vehicle. Scoops me up, drops me into the seat as though I weigh next to nothing and shuts the door without comment. I’d be a little offended, but you know, heat. My body instantly aches from the chill, making my hands useless as I fumble with the seatbelt. I’m midway through another attempt when he climbs back in the driver’s seat. Without a word, he reaches over, slides the strap from my hands, buckling me in like we do this all the time.

  “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” Fiddling with the knobs on his dashboard, he adjusts the heat to the face and feet setting, then cranks the blower on high.

  God, I could kiss—

  No. No I can’t. It takes everything in me not to lean forward and lay my face against the vent, though. I whimper, settling for holding my hands over the stream of hot air.

  “Ready?”

  I should walk. Being alone with this boy isn’t smart. We’re most assuredly poking the bear. Ashley would kill both of us if she knew how we’ve already betrayed her. That’s if finding out doesn’t kill her first. Lord knows I’ve lost enough people in my lifetime without adding another.

  “Mm.” I hum in response.

  True to his word, Whit drives right below the speed limit, keeps both of his hands on the wheel for the duration unless he has to shift until we reach my driveway.

  “Least let me pull you closer to the door, Simone.”

  Pride. Fear. One of those wants me to say no. Maybe both.

  I nod.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him studying the darkened windows of my house, at least a million questions probably forming in his brain, some of which are.

  Why do you walk so much?

  Why don’t you drive?

  Did you know you kiss like you like me?

  Questions I really don’t feel like answering.

  “Stop here,” I demand, though with my teeth still chattering, I don’t sound very stern.

  He complies anyway, leans over me once more, unlatching the belt. For once, I’m in no hurry to get away. I’m nowhere near thawed. Water sloshes in my shoe, numbing my leg from toes to hip. My partially defrosted fingers sting as I wrap them around the handle of my bag.

  “Ashley wants a break,” he blurts, buying me a little more time. “That’s where I’m comin’ from. Her house,” he adds, unnecessarily. “Somehow she has it in her head takin’ time apart will help us. Some nonsense about helpin’ us handle separation come fall.”

  For the life of me, I can’t fathom why Ashley is set on this idea. In her mind, a month or so of “missing her” will somehow change Whit’s mind about their immediate future.

  Stu. Pid.

  Believe it or not, I argue on his behalf every time, imploring her to be happy for him. Trust their relationship. Whit’s stock will skyrocket with a degree from Yale. Everybody knows he plans on following in grandfather’s footsteps. Justice Whitney “Deuce” Devereaux walked the halls of the Ivy League school long before becoming only the second judge from the state of Louisiana to be appointed to the United States Supreme Court. The boy is a legacy.

  A long distance relationship will be more than worth it in the next six to eight years when the top law firms in the country are wooing her man with high-dollar offers. Not to mention she could easily transfer to another school in, or near Connecticut. Better yet, she could get over her fascination with going “C-Blue” and try getting into Pratt. They have a way better Interior Design program and she’d still only be like an hour and a half away from Yale.

  Whether a day, a year, one mile or a thousand separating them, she’d be foolish not to try and make things work.

  “How’d you end up with the name Whitney, anyway?”

  He winces. “Had to go there, huh?”

  I know the answer just like I know how much the fourth Whitney Devereaux hates the question. I also know there’s no way I can sit here talking about his relationship status as long as that gleeful clapping inside my chest won’t take a chill along with the rest of my body. Plus, I can’t have the boy thinking I know all his 411.

  “You don’t like it?”

  “Ain’t the most masculine name on the planet.”

  “It stands out from the usual list of Michaels, Davids, and Johns.”

  “‘Cause it’s s’posed to be wit’ the Heathers, Ambers, and Jessicas,” he counters, which makes me smile before I can catch myself. Smiling is a no-no. He notices my slip, narrowing his eyes. “But since you asked, the name was passed down from my daddy, and two generations before that.”

  “Southern to the core.”

  “That’d be us.”

  “Guess defecting to the Midwest with us Yankees goes over real well at family reunions.”

  “We’ve relinquished our seats at the big table when we visit, but Nana still fixes us a plate.”

  I check myself, denying another grin. Lift my bags from the floor. “Thanks for the ride.”

  “Wasn’t no trouble.”

  I know I should keep my mouth shut. Mind my own business. Regardless of what I think about this break Ashley is so intent on enforcing or how I feel
about Whit—about both of them—getting in the middle of their mess can only lead to hurt feelings, namely mine.

  But he did save my life. I owe him something.

  “Give her time, Cowboy. I think the news rocked her a little more than either of you expected. She’ll come around.”

  I open my door, slide out of the seat. A river of water runs from my shoe as soon as my feet hit the driveway. I’m seconds away from hypothermia, for sure. Still, I turn, look at him because I’m a hopeless idiot. His expression is somber, thoughtful.

  “Maybe,” he murmurs.

  “Good night.”

  “'Night.”

  I tug the fob from my pocket, use the remote that unsets our alarm, then use the key to unlock the door. I’m one step inside when he calls my name. I step back out to see his beanie-covered head up over the roof of his Jeep.

  “Yeah?”

  “Know we ain’t talkin’ ‘bout it, but you said my name.”

  “Huh?”

  “In the closet. You called me Whit. Really liked it.”

  He hits me with The Grin and a wink, warming me all over.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  In order to get where you want to go, you’ll have to leave where you are.

  —Granddaddy

  Whit

  I hit the sack earlier than usual because, first and foremost, I’ve barely slept a wink this week. I’m well past exhausted. Furthermore, I don’t feel like heading back downstairs and running into Dev. His PDA with the bottle had waned some after our move, but over the last few weeks, they’ve been at it hot and heavy. No doubt his veins are imbued with his lifeblood, which means he’ll be itching for a fight.

  I have a pressing inclination to oblige him after three rounds of Chutes and Ladders with Chirp. On a good night, that’s grounds for pulling your hair out. Coop’s constant texting during the games didn’t help. Took us forever to finish that last go ‘round. I damn near wept when he offered to handle story time tonight.

  Now, if he’ll do me another solid, break his usual routine of invading my space, I may actually catch some Zs. Something is on his mind tonight, heavy enough to make him forget he’s not a fan of cabbage. He cleaned his plate. Either he’s in serious trouble at school or there’s a girl. Whichever, I need a solid night’s rest before he unloads on me. Holding conversation with Coop is dangerous while tired. Last time I made that mistake, he landed himself in detention for arguing with a teacher.

  If only my room didn’t feel like a sauna. Mama has the heat set on Summer in the South, so even with the steady whirring of fan blades directly overhead, I’m sweltering. Sucks since I’m already stripped down to boxer briefs. I don’t dare go further. Locking the door isn’t an option. Cheyenne suffers the occasional nightmare. The move was rough on her. Hasn’t happened in a while, but in the event one occurs, my room is where she runs. I like knowing she can get inside.

  I push the cotton sheet down further with my foot until it’s bunched at the edge of the mattress, then yank the pillow from beneath my head, tossing it to the floor. Will my brain into shutdown.

  It won’t.

  This shit with Ashley has me wound tourniquet tight. Breaking up, taking a break—whatever she wants to call it, has left me time to reflect. More I think on it, more I worry this school thing really is too much for us to overcome.

  Or, maybe I’m feeling this way because of the burgeoning desire I’m fighting to know more about a certain someone else, and that has me questioning what I thought I knew, like Granddaddy said.

  God help me, the awareness thing is getting worse. No matter where I turn, Simone’s flying all up in my radar. I notice everything. Shit normal guys don’t see, like the color of her nail polish and how she favors shades of pink, or how the hue of the day complements her outfit.

  A tiny mole dots the left side of her neck.

  She’s a fan of spearmint gum.

  She squints when she reads.

  She also hums when she reads, but not during class.

  Discovered that one when I stumbled upon her hidey-hole in the reference section. Thought about talking to her, but I wasn’t sure of Ashley’s whereabouts.

  Ashley. The girl meant to be my girl. I’ve turned down other girls because of that very fact. And I love kissing Ashley. The way her lips . . .

  Don’t taste like strawberries.

  How the hell am I supposed to get Simone out of my head when I can still taste that damned gloss?

  Forget the gloss. Stop thinking.

  I roll out of bed, head into the bathroom I share with Coop. Grab my toothbrush, squeezing a mound of cinnamon-flavored paste over the bristles.

  Brush. Hard. Swish a capful of mouthwash in my mouth until my eyes water.

  Strawberry memories linger.

  Reading. That might work.

  I grab the book of short stories we’re studying in English, then drop back down on the bed. For sure this O’Connor chick will knock me out. Reading her stuff is a guaranteed literary sleep elixir. Course, if tonight goes similar to just about every other night since I sampled Simone Bruckner’s lips, with sleep, dreams will come.

  About her.

  Okay. Sleep’s out. Same with reading.

  I toss the book, roll back down to the floor. Assume plank, settle on my other go-to. Crank out some push-ups, squeeze in a few sets of crunches, I’ll work out until I’m too tired to dream.

  My phone vibrates on the nightstand as soon as I finish my fifth set. Ryan’s face appears on the screen.

  I flop onto my back. The textured loom of the fluffy rug my Mama laid beside my bed to keep my feet from getting cold first thing in the morning makes my skin itch. I drag the inside of my elbow over my face, rubbing sweat right into my eye. Stings like hell.

  “S’up?”

  “Cover me.”

  “Got it.”

  Cover me: Code for slept at one or the other’s house if parents happen to ask. Can’t count how many times Ryan and I have done this for one another over the past two years.

  “She worth it?”

  “Dude. Courtney Miller.”

  I give him an appropriate grunt of approval. Ryan’s been vying for Courtney’s attention ever since our class trip to Washington, D.C. last year. Word has it, she wasn’t always top rank the way she is now. Baby fat, acne, braces. The whole nine. Name a typical teen affliction, Courtney had it. The same summer we moved north must have been the time ushering in her metamorphosing period.

  Ryan’s bided his time, gave her room to get comfortable in her newly blemish-free skin. Made his move over summer, which ended in him making a major ass of himself when he puked beer all over her feet after asking her out. I believe her exact reply was “When Hell freezes over.” She hasn’t given him the time of day since, least not until recently.

  If memory serves, they took a seven-minute trip to Heaven, too. “Somebody finally fiddled with the thermostat down below, eh?”

  “Seems that way.”

  “Congrats, bro.”

  “Not staying on too long, she’ll be back in a few. Called for something else.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Everything cool? You sound a little out of breath. In general, I like kink, but add a few moans or something.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Ry. I’m doing push-ups.”

  “Been doing a lot of those lately. Ashley still got you on hold?”

  I grab the t-shirt lying on the floor next to me, use it to mop my forehead instead of my arm this time. “Yeah.”

  “Sucks.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So it doesn’t suck?”

  “I said yeah.”

  “You hesitated.”

  Did I? “Catching my breath.”

  “Uh, huh. You’ve been doing that a lot lately, too.”

  “Come again?”

  “Every time the subject of you and Ashley comes up, you get quiet.”

  “Not much to say. She wants time, I’m giving it to her. End of story.”
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  “Oh, okay. Thought maybe it had something to do with Simone and the way you watch her when you think no one’s looking.”

  Shit. I’m still that obvious? “Nah. well, I do think she’s pissed at me again for this shit with Ashley. Wanna clear the air, that’s all.”

  “Huh, here I was thinking it was because you liked kissing her more than you admit.”

  “Nope.” Liked kissing her? Talk about understatement of the year. “I mean, the kissing was all right.”

  “Just all right,” he repeats.

  Ryan has this way of asking questions without them sounding like questions. Usually when he already knows the truth. “Fine. She knocked me on my ass. Happy?”

  “Yep. Sucks to be you.”

  “True story.”

  “Plan on doing anything about it?”

  “Nothing to do. She’s Ashley’s friend.”

  “So, you’re not interested?” he digs in typical Ryan fashion.

  “Nope,” I lie again.

  “Uh, huh.” Ryan’s not fooled.

  “Okay, a little, but it’s nothing. More like that feeling you get when you first hook up with a girl. You know, when shit’s new and exciting. Right before it fades.”

  “Yeah, could be that. Or, maybe you’re seriously developing a thing for her. Not that I blame you. Simone’s hot.”

  Option #2 deflates my hope, mostly because it sounds way closer to the truth. “Don’t mean I’ve got a thing for her. When you think about it, I know next to nothing about the girl.”

  “Hotness counts for a lot.”

  “So do brains.”

  “She’s got one. A good one, too.”

  “Right, but I don’t know much other stuff about her, though.”

  Liar.

  “Such as?”

  “Basic shit, like her favorite color—”

  Pink.

  “—or her favorite food,”

  She eats a lot of PB & J.

  “—or song.”

  I totally know it. Even hummed it in the shower earlier.

  I hit speaker on my phone, then set it on the floor. Position myself in plank. I’m good for another fifty, easily.

  “Where’re you gonna be tonight?” I ask, changing the subject.