When We Kissed

by Kim Roshell

  Have. They have a solid chance.

  “So,” she gestures towards what easily amounts to half my paycheck spread across the table as she eases back into her seat, “how does their breakup translate into all of this? Ask me, his spending spree says way more than ‘get well soon.’”

  I squirm under her probing stare. Aunt Katie knows me like a book.

  “She wants him back. That’s what we were talking about when you walked in the other night.” I crack open a bottle of Paint Me Pinkie polish, another gift, compliments of a certain cowboy’s late-night shopping spree. Test it on my thumbnail.

  Nice.

  I apply a coat on the others.

  “You don’t sound too happy about it.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be? I’m the one trying to get them back together.”

  “Hmm. Any chance he might not want the same thing?”

  I hesitate, recap the polish. Shift my gaze to the fading sunlight trickling in through a part in the curtains. My eyes drift to the clock in the kitchen. I don’t know why. He’s not late, never promised he’d be here at any particular time. I just thought if and when he did, it would be sooner rather than later. It’s nearly six.

  “Simone?”

  “How should I know?”

  My eye twitches.

  Crap.

  “Spill, Simone.”

  I sigh. Lean forward, set the polish on the table. “We . . . we sort of, um, kissed,” I confess with a sheepish shrug.

  “Simone!”

  “We were playing Seven Minutes in Heaven, Aunt Katie. It wasn’t supposed to happen!”

  She pauses, laughs. Points at the table. “Must’ve been one helluva kiss.”

  They so were.

  “Several,” I admit for the first time. “But only on our last time in there.”

  “The last time? You were in there together more than once?” she asks incredulously.

  I raise three fingers. “It’s like somebody rigged the bottle.”

  “Wow.” She laughs until tears spill from her eyes.

  I roll mine, though I smile a little. “Oh, sure, yuck it up.”

  Somehow, the invitation to laugh at my expense only makes her laugh harder. She wipes tears from her eyes, finally sobering. “Now he likes you?”

  “No. I don’t . . . maybe.” I silently scold myself for glancing at the clock again.

  “Do you like him?”

  Like him? Dislike him? Ambivalent? Is there a word for all of those combined?

  Complicated—that one works.

  But I believe if I had to choose only one based on Aunt Katie’s real implications, “like” hits way closer to home. Another truth I’d rather stay locked down in Pandora’s Box—or closet, as it were. I want to lie. I really do. But, Aunt Katie and I have a pact. Our pact is the reason she trusts me to be responsible while she’s flying across the country.

  No lies.

  Never mind how badly I suck at it, anyway.

  Her cellphone trills, saving me from the guillotine. With a quick glance at the Caller ID, Aunt Katie leaps from her seat, sending me a look of . . . panic? Excitement? Concern? Maybe a little of each?

  “We’ll finish this later.”

  That was close. After nearly spilling my guts—metaphorically this time—I need a minute to catch my breath. I slump back into the cushions as she heads for her office, speaking in a hush with whomever is on the other end of the line, careful of my semi-dried nails.

  Actually, what I need is a plan. Figure out a way to move past these silly emotions—this crush I’ve been harboring for way too long. I’ve been handling this whole Whit thing all wrong. Sure, I talk a good game, say the right things, remind him of the biggest reason why we can’t be involved. Backing those words up? That’s another story.

  The root of the problem is I’ve let our “this” go too far. Accepting rides, texting. In more than two years, I’ve never dialed his number. Not because I didn’t have the digits memorized long before he programmed it under Whit into my phone. Ashley gave it to me forever ago. Had he looked under Cowboy, he’d have seen it.

  Seeing as I can barely stop myself from melting at his feet whether he’s talking to me or not, sheer survival instinct has kept me from dialing. On the other hand, the thought of deleting the contact gives me chest pains. Thankfully, I’m rarely tempted to browse my list. The two people I do call are on speed dial.

  Let’s not forget the kisses, either.

  True, I didn’t initiate the first kiss—kisses—but I also haven’t done a whole lot to prevent the two of us from growing closer, which is essentially Whit’s grand plan.

  Us. Closer.

  Whit and me.

  Closer?

  Hmm.

  When Whit proposed this whole “get to know one another thing,” I blew it off because, I mean, why complicate matters by spending more time together if the objective is to prove our kisses meant nothing? Then there’s my goal—finding a distraction.

  But what if he’s right? What if spending time together is what we need to get us back on course? Ashley harps about this very thing, how much she wishes Whit and I would get along better so she can stop feeling like she has to choose.

  In my defense, watching those two fawn all over each other? Sheer agony.

  Nevertheless, I’ve been so busy telling Whit and myself that nothing can happen between us, I haven’t been willing to consider other possibilities. Like, what if Whit and I go into this with our eyes wide open? Maybe I’ll discover he’s not really all that. Or, you know, he’s not even that cute.

  Okay, yeah, not gonna happen. But, maybe by the end of this, we’ll forge a genuine friendship. Then I can stop comparing other guys to the one guy I stand no real chance with. I’ll move on.

  That would be perfect.

  Whit’s right. We should do this. If he—

  The resonant chime of our doorbell sounds from the foyer, freezing the air in my lungs.

  He came.

  Do I look okay?

  OF COURSE, I don’t. Wasn’t that me who jumped the last time I checked my reflection in the mirror? Sure, these jeans are a vast improvement from the Tweety Bird shorts, but this sweater? This thing is like, two fall collection’s ago.

  Dab on some makeup? Try that freaky palette Ash gave me with the green stuff in it that supposedly hides dark circles? How hard can it be to smear a little on?

  Yeah, no. I’ll mess around and scare the poor boy forever, which still may happen once he sees this unruly bush on top of my head. The least I can do is try taming it into a neater ponytail instead of leaving it in this haphazard rat’s nest, held with this funky, old clip.

  No. No time. I’ll just finger comb a few of the unruly flyaways. Good enough, right?

  Ugh, get a grip, girl!

  Just. Friends.

  How I look doesn’t matter. In fact, this whole rumpled look is better. Lessens the chance of us kissing.

  Didn’t stop him last night, a little voice reminds me.

  Maybe he’ll leave if I don’t answer.

  The bell peals again.

  “Do I need to answer that?” Aunt Katie shouts.

  “Got it!”

  I see his silhouette through the frosted glass. Fear claws my ankles, stuttering my steps the nearer I get to the door.

  Shake it off, Simone. He’s here to be your friend. Nothing more.

  My future friend is gorgeous.

  Has his chest always been that broad? Because a girl could rest nicely against all that, just saying.

  Stop it, Simone.

  I do a quick drool check, trip over my own feet, somehow clear the distance as he reaches for the bell again, then lowers his arm. Did he hear me, or is he having second thoughts?

  Won’t know until I open the door.

  Pasting on a smile, turn the knob. Shiver so hard, my knees darn near gives out.

  God, I hope he didn’t see that.

  The intoxicating scent of his cologne rides the breeze, searc
hing for a home inside my nostrils as my eyes drink in Whit’s freshly cut hair. An un-tucked, emerald green button-down the perfect color to accentuate his already startling eyes, gapes at the neck, exposing more of his tanned skin. I force myself to look elsewhere, shift my focus on the way his low-riding stone washed jeans accentuate his muscular thighs.

  Friend, friend, friend . . .

  “Hey, Buddy!”

  He lifts a brow at my maniacal screech that nears a frequency only dogs can hear. I extend my fist for a pound, nearly punching him in the chest. With an infinitesimal tilt of his head, he narrows his gaze, staring down at me through his lashes. The tip of his tongue darts out, wetting his bottom lip.

  I melt a little just watching him.

  “Thinkin’ I like Cowboy better,” he murmurs.

  Rather than cut and run, he obliges my insanity, lightly tapping his knuckles against mine.

  This time, it’s a shrill, bogus laughter that gurgles from my throat, ending in a raspy cough that makes me sound like a pack-a-day smoker. “Funny.”

  That’s it. I’m certifiable.

  We do this weird, unintentional dance, me stumbling backward, him gliding forward a step, his expression alarmed.

  “Yep. I’m a real hoot,” he agrees, whacking me on the back before I’m finally able to catch my breath because, duh, I’m not already mortified enough, “You okay?”

  No. I nod. “Thanks.”

  He nods.

  “I was scared you weren’t gonna show.”

  I did not say that out loud.

  Apparently, word vomit amuses him. His lips twitch. “That so?”

  I cross my arms over my chest, a hopeless attempt to contain a new rush of tingles surging through my veins. “What I meant is, I’m glad you showed. I thought maybe you’d changed your mind. You know, with me being so sick, you might’ve been afraid to be so close to me again.”

  Why does everything I say to this boy lately come out sounding like a confession? Kissing this boy has me spilling truths I’d rather him not know. Scared last night, scared right now. From that glint in his eye and the sexy little grin tilting one side of his mouth, I’m fairly sure I’m making an impression—the wrong impression. Can this embarrassment get any bigger?

  He leans in until we’re nearly touching. “Not ‘fraid, at all.”

  My senses go haywire. “So, I was thinking about what you said the other night. At Tate’s?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You, um, mentioned us getting to know one another?”

  He nods, confirms, “Believe I did.”

  “Maybe you’re right . . . Maybe if we spend this week together —”

  His left brow shoots up. “The whole week?”

  “No! I mean. . .”

  Not exactly what I had in mind, but it might not be the worst plan in the world. There’s only so many movies to watch, right?

  “Yes,” I say warming to the idea. Aunt Katie’s out of town most of the week. We could hang out when I’m not working. Learn more than each other’s middle names. Unless he has plans. “Or, not every day,” I amend. “I know you’re probably doing family stuff, or whatever.”

  He stares, silent. Probably sees that nervous tic I’ve suddenly developed in my eye.

  Retreat! Take it back! Yell psych!

  Whit clears what sounds like the beginning of a chuckle from his throat. Rubs his chin, the movement drawing my eyes over the sinewy definition of his forearm. I suck my bottom lip between my teeth before he sees it tremble.

  “Few things here’n there. Free after six or seven most evenins’. Few early practices this week. Non-mandatory. Promised I’d play chauffeur for Coop and his new girl on Saturday.”

  “Okay, well it was a bad—”

  “Fantastic idea. I’ll gladly make time for you.”

  “No, you don’t—”

  “I definitely do, ma’am,” he assures me, that irresistible grin making its grand appearance.

  “Oh.” I bite my lip.

  “What ‘bout you? What’s the rest of your week lookin’ like? Workin’?”

  “My week? I’m pretty available. I mean, Mr. Tate already wiped me from the schedule ‘til Tuesday morning. On call for the lunch shift Thursday, closing Friday. Nights are free for us to hookup.” Gah! “I mean . . . you know what I mean.”

  His sexy grin spreads into a huge smile. “Uh, huh. You wanna make time for me, too,” he murmurs, and I swear I feel goose bumps on my goose bumps. “Lookin’ forward to the pleasure of your company, ma’am.”

  Questlove is using my heart for drum practice. That’s the only logical explanation for the way it’s hammering inside my chest. The chaotic thumps send my feet into action. I bounce from one to the other, then back again. All morning long, I’ve practically had to drag myself ten lousy steps to the bathroom, now I have enough energy to run ten miles.

  “In response to your first statement,” Huh? “No reason to be scared. I’d’ve camped out on the floor right next to you if I thought your auntie would’ve let me.”

  “Oh.”

  Wow.

  “Anyway, told you I’d be here. Woulda’ been sooner, but I promised my baby sister a trip to the zoo. Hope I’m not too late, buddy.”

  “Huh? Oh, no. Nope. Not too late. Zoo, eh? Never been. Out sick the day of our class field trip, can you believe that? That I haven’t been? I don’t get sick a lot, though, just sometimes.”

  Am I rambling?

  He shakes his head, the tiniest of smirks playing with his mouth.

  “You should go. Rainforest is awesome.

  “Yeah, I should. I keep meaning to, actually—Hey, I shared something about me you didn’t know!”

  “Noted.” Whit rubs his jaw. His eyes crinkle with amusement. “Uh, Simone?”

  “Mm, hmm?”

  “Ever gonna invite me in?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  You don’t want everything in life to be easy, boy. Where’s the fun in that?

  —Granddaddy

  Whit

  “Oh! Yeah! Friends do that!”

  Friends. Right.

  Simone hops backward, waves me inside. Reminds me of Winnie the Pooh’s sidekick, Tigger. She’s way cuter when she does it, though.

  How do I keep my friend this way? Nearly three years, I’ve never—ever, ever, ever seen Simone lose her cool. Today, she’s a hot mess, and I’m totally feeling the whole shy, nervous, chatty, sexy thing she has going on. If this is a side effect from some medicine I bought, I want to know which. Future stock options, and all that.

  Her mini-convulsions shake loose a thick portion of her hair that was bundled on top of her head. Proof the ugly ass claw holding it in place is doing a piss-poor job. Not that I mind. After seeing those riotous coils unbounded, free to do whatever the hell they want, I think Simone ought to chuck every hair restraint she owns in the trash.

  Can’t say I mind how that sweater’s lost its grip on her shoulder, either. Draped over her frame, the overstretched neckline has slipped another glorious millimeter, exposing more of her honey-hued skin and these tiny red lips dotting her bra strap on full display.

  On second thought, I’m minding a whole lot.

  Which isn’t good.

  Why?

  Three reasons:

  1) Simone and I kissed.

  2) That shit rocked.

  3) We both want a repeat.

  How do I know? She stares at my mouth and bites her lip while I’m talking, though I don’t think she realizes.

  I step inside. “Thank you.”

  “Uh, huh.”

  Once again I’m awestruck by her home. Understated brown brickwork exterior gives the shape of the house a boxy impression. Not the cookie-cutter blueprint of the other houses on this street, but definitely less showy.

  Inside? Different story. This foyer is beautiful. Incredible high ceiling, beige walls painted to look like leather. Custom-made thick, white curtains, embroidered with lilies filter the light coming in
from three dormers on the second level, dressing the length of the two walls. Another wall behind the staircase with a stenciled white outline of a single lily in homage of the drapery, adds a hint of femininity. Chicory stained hardwoods anchor the overall aesthetic of the room. The culmination of elements make the area feel warm and inviting, despite the lack of flowerpots, vases, and all that other crap Mama displays in ours.

  There is one distinct personal touch in the space. Somehow, in my single-minded intent on seeing her in the flesh last night, I missed the massive black and white framed photo of who has to be her adoptive parents along with a combination of the two—a boy. His arms are locked around the waist of a younger Simone, who stands front and center.

  Even back then, she was adorable.

  The older version peeks through wispy, dark lashes at me now. I contemplate stating the obvious, acknowledge the presence of ghosts, but I can tell she’s fretting over the possibility of me doing so.

  I incline my ear toward the sound of dishes being stacked, decide to give her an out. “Should’ve called first.”

  “No, you’re fine. Perfect.” She pauses, apologizes. “I think I’m still a little loopy from the meds. Thanks for everything you brought over, by the way.”

  “My pleasure. Feeling better?”

  Her head bobs, shaking free a few more strands.

  “So, the beautiful Miss Bruckner wants to make nice with me now, eh? What changed your mind?”

  “You.”

  An instant blush invades her cheeks. Can’t tell which of us is more surprised by her answer, but for me, this day is getting better and better.

  “In that case, let me know if there’s anything else I can persuade you to do.”

  She ducks her head, nibbling her bottom lip. She gives the hem of her top a nervous tug. That neckline takes another tiny dip.

  “Right. Um, we were about to watch another movie. Four Brothers. Seen it?”

  “I have. Good flick.” No Mr. He-Makes-Me-Feel-Better, if I remember correctly.

  “Aunt Katie . . . my aunt, not yours . . . that’s stupid. I mean, of course, she’s mine. She’s on the phone, you know, talking to someone because that’s what you do on a phone, right? Anyway, I doubt she’ll mind if we start without her,” she rambles and I think that blush is nearing purple. “I mean, you can join us, if you want,” she offers more to the floor than me.