When We Kissed

by Kim Roshell

  I also “remembered” how I “swung by” after she met with her birth mother because I foolishly let it slip that I knew Simone had the meeting on her agenda. I did, however, leave out the more damning details, such as our dinner non-date, watching movies at her house, the driving lessons, us talking on the phone until well past sunrise, and of course, I kept my trap shut concerning a phenomenal make-out session in the backseat of my Jeep.

  Hey, I’m not an idiot.

  “My two favorite people finally getting along is answered prayer.”

  Proof that prayer works? Maybe. Need something more solid? I know for a fact Raina Cuberman saw me slip a note along with a Twix inside Simone’s bag today. I prayed she’d keep her trap shut. She didn’t bust me.

  “Getting along fine. Now,” I add, noticing Ashley’s brows pucker.

  I can’t help noticing a bit more of her thigh gets exposed as she lounges on my bed, crossing her legs. Something Mama’s usually dead set against, Ashley sitting anywhere in this room other than on my desk chair, but appears to promote today. She’s crept past my open bedroom door twice, hasn’t uttered a word.

  “Hmm, okay. Well, I’ve been begging Simone to get over whatever her issues are with you. I mean, after all this time, she should think of you as a friend.”

  “Honestly, I don’t know why I didn’t think of asking you to reach out first. Then again, Simone isn’t the type who gives guys a real chance. Look how quick Shawn got kicked to the curb.”

  Then why’s he taking her to prom?

  “She listens when I talk about you, which is a lot,” Ashley continues with a demure smile I guess she wants me to interpret as flattery. “But she’s always so guarded when we all hang out. Easier to keep you two separate, you know?” Her eyes widen with optimism, “Once we’re back together, I won’t have to do that anymore.”

  “Yeah, about that . . .” My stomach knots in adamant protest at the very idea. In light of recent events, reconciliation for the two of us is pretty much a no-go. “We should talk.”

  “My parents are getting divorced,” she blurts.

  Huh. That was more unexpected than the curveball Oliver pitched my way earlier. Even more surprising is the calmness that came with the delivery. “Since when?”

  Ashley sits up, swings her legs over the side of the bed. Slumps forward, letting her elbows rest on her knees. Her hair cascades prettily over the front of her sun-kissed shoulders.

  “A while. They’ve been doing counseling, at least that’s what they say. If so, it’s not working. Dad says nothing he does makes Mom happy anymore, and he’s done. They fight all the time, sleep in separate bedrooms. I spend most days being a full-time referee. Their crap is why I’ve been so moody the past few months,” she explains, suddenly anxious, her knees bouncing. “The reason I broke up with you, really. Stupid, I know.”

  “Why ain’t you tell me sooner?”

  She shrugs.

  “I haven’t told anyone, not even Simone. Embarrassed, I guess. You’ve heard their story, how they met in high school, fell in love. There I was, hoping we’d follow in their footsteps, go off to Columbia like they did. Get married,” she adds, softly. “They’ve always seemed so happy. I want that for us. When you told me about Yale, all I could think was we’re already heading in the wrong direction.”

  “Their story can’t be ours.”

  Hello, Kettle, thy name is Pot.

  She nods. “I realize that now. These last few weeks, us being apart? The time has been eye-opening, to say the least. Ryan’s Ryan, so I know he told you about that guy in Myrtle, but I swear it was nothing, Whit. We kissed a little bit, that’s all.”

  “You ain’t gotta explain, Ashley. Not like you were cheating on me.”

  The knee bouncing stops. She lifts her head, tucks hair behind both ears. Meets my gaze with what I think is relief, though I can’t be positive. Sleep deprivation is a trip.

  “But it sort of felt like I was. I woke up, really thinking about what I did, ending things with you. I knew made a mistake before I left. Kissing him—”

  “I kissed someone, too.”

  Ashley’s breathing hitches, stealing what little air we’ve cleared. I’ve screwed up a time or two when dealing with a girl, but this? This will go down on my list of colossal fails, for sure.

  When the fuck did verbal diarrhea become contagious?

  My confession squares Ashley’s shoulders, ramrods her back into a perfectly straight line. A heavy woolen silence blankets us, covering my skin like an itchy, ugly Christmas sweater.

  “You’ve kissed other girls?”

  I exercise my right to the Fifth Amendment, remain silent in lieu of offering further testimony against myself.

  Despite the noticeable hurt clouding her eyes, her tone is light. For that, I’m immensely grateful. Waterworks are so first nature for Ashley, Coop calls her an emotional hostage taker. Considering how I just handed her a shiny pair of cuffs, if she floods my room, once again, it’ll be my own damn fault.

  Speaking of, where’s everyone when I need a save? Even Dev will do.

  Wary, I watch as she slides around the edge of my bed, giving me her back. I know what’s coming next. What I’m dreading is the second after my reply. I won’t lie to her.

  “Who?”

  The question explodes in my ears. My palms sweat. First time that’s ever happened with her. Then again, maybe the “answer” has more to do with my reaction.

  Funny thing, Simone warned me during more than one of our marathon conversations that when I least expected, I could find myself at this very crossroad. Apparently, Ashley has hounded her too, wanting details from that night in Ryan’s basement. She feels bad for not telling Ashley from the get-go. Thinks Ashley might’ve blown it off, had she done so. Argued we were headed for a major catastrophe should Ashley ever discover the truth from anyone else. Thing is, I doubt anyone else besides Ryan knows the whole story and he wouldn’t have outed us. Not like I’m on the verge of doing.

  Oh yeah, I was right—Ashley did kiss Nick and Matt.

  FYI—locker room gossip is the worst.

  Regardless, I doubt mentioning that little tidbit will assuage Ashley’s curiosity. I should also correct her. There’s only been one. “Okay, look—”

  “Don’t tell me!”

  Huh? “Ashley—”

  “I mean it, Whit.”

  She spins, faces me again. I can’t miss the pools forming around her sparkling blue eyes. As usual, the tears silence me, long enough for her to get the next word.

  “I don’t wanna know. They don’t matter. No one else does. We weren’t together, so you were free to be with whoever you wanted, just like I was. Let’s change that, okay? I want us again.” she pleads, giving me the hand when I make another attempt to interrupt. Tears stream over her cheeks, but she don’t wipe them away. “Mom and I talked, and she said slowing down may’ve been a good thing, that we’ve needed time to figure out what we ultimately want. But she’s believes we’re good together, believes we can make us work.”

  Amazing how a few short months ago, I was convinced this girl was a shoe-in for my future Mrs. Devereaux.

  Tell her, man. “Don’t it worry you we’re both kissing other people?”

  “We’ve both made some mistakes. I forgive you. The question is, can you forgive me?”

  If she only knew, forgiveness is the easy part. Recommitting to a relationship that may have ended right where it needed to? That’s the conundrum. How do I even begin to consider if what I had with Ashley is powerful enough to overshadow my full-blown attraction to Simone?

  “You really believe we can work after everything that’s gone on?”

  “Yes,” she affirms, offering me a tremulous smile. “I really do. I figure we’ll have the summer. You’ll go to Yale in the fall since it’s the best school for what we want later on. We’ll spend as much time together as we can, maybe figure out a plan for how we’ll see each other, like, at least once a month. We can
do that, right?”

  This is why I’ve avoided our talk. Too many questions, no right answers. I’m more certain which teams will win the next fifty Superbowls than I am about rekindling our relationship. If Ashley knew half the shit I’ve thought or dreamed about over the last few months while sprawled out on that very place she’s sitting, she wouldn’t even ask. Furthermore, she wouldn’t have had to had she agreed to this very same plan when I proposed it from the start.

  Nevertheless, here we are. She’s kissed other guys, I kissed her best friend. Say I were entertaining the possibility of a reconciliation—do those cancel one another, somehow make our two wrongs, right? After all, I can’t deny we’ve been far more good than bad, regardless of the last few months.

  Nana likes to say tell the truth, shame the devil.

  Should I text Simone, fill her in before I say any more?

  I dry my hands on my khakis, then take a seat next to Ashley on the bed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Simone

  Five hundred, twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes . . .

  I needed a Taye Diggs fix when I got home from work. I fell asleep watching Rent last night. In reality, there’s really only about ten minutes, forty-two seconds of this torturous lunch to suffer through—quite possibly the exact equivalent amount of time it’ll take for these butterflies to chew their way through the lining of my stomach.

  Because I’m quite possibly the worst friend in the entire universe, I agreed to eat in the cafeteria today in a show of moral support in the wake of the recent change of Ashley’s relationship status to It’s Complicated on all of her social media accounts. Not that I know what complicated actually translates into since the only response I got when I asked her for clarity was, “We talked.”

  We. Talked.

  Word of It’s Complicated has spread faster than a brush fire over a field of dried tinder. By first bell, everyone was buzzing around the halls, trolling for fresh scoop. Neither Ashley nor Whit have given vibes one way or the other. She’s walked the halls, makeup flawless, dressed like a rock star in a stark white off-the-shoulder bohemian top and a pair of skintight black leather pants—both perfect complements to the edgy new haircut she’s sporting. Ashley has that Jennifer Aniston hair—not everyone should try it, but too many will. That little flick-over-the-shoulder thing she did? That simple move will book her beautician solid for the rest of the year. I fully expect a dozen girls to show up tomorrow looking like cheap imitations.

  Whit? As always, in the words of Ariana Grande, he looks like the “best mistake I ever made.”

  Me? I’m a wreck. That vague summation, we talked did little to assuage the rabid curiosity gnawing my insides. Nothing I’ve heard or seen tells me if the guy I may very well dream about for the next hundred years has decided he definitely prefers blonds after our one-night-only make-out session.

  Anyway, we’re at the half-mark on the day. I’m still clueless on what’s going on, though I will say something about them feels different. Outside of the obvious, of course. Something about the way they’re seated side-by-side, chairs close enough for perhaps the occasional arm brush should either of them lean over.

  But that’s it.

  Ryan and I could manage that, and technically, he’s here with another girl.

  I chance another covert glance in their direction. As if reading my mind, realizing there’s too much space between them, Whit reaches over, gives Ashley’s wrist a light tap.

  Next time he should just stab me in the chest with a rusty butter knife. That would feel better. Considering this burning ache in my chest since the moment I crossed the cafeteria’s threshold—AKA the moment I know he spotted me—I’m not so sure he hasn’t already.

  He certainly hasn’t looked my way since. Hasn’t spoken either, which is good.

  You know, if good is another word for sucks.

  I can’t complain since I’m the one who instated our silence treaty, refusing to acknowledge his presence when he got all up in my space during History. Mrs. Thorne threatened him with detention and an F after she caught him leaning forward to whisper in my ear. During a quiz.

  Ever since, he’s honored my unspoken request.

  “Cute kid.” Ryan comments, looking over my shoulder.

  I refocus on scrolling through the pictures of my newly discovered sister. Focus on what’s important.

  “Mind grabbing me another milk, sweetness?” he asks his newest lust interest, a hopeless junior who believes he digs her more than he likes driving that Maxima her parents bought for her birthday.

  I can’t figure why these girls fall all over Ryan. Cute as the whole Prince Harry thing he has going on may be, they all should’ve figured out they’re nothing more than future wham-bam, buh-byes. Thanking them wouldn’t cross his mind.

  This one will be gone by tomorrow.

  “What am I, your slave?”

  Or, maybe she’s exception? Nah.

  “Maybe I want an excuse to watch you walk,” he suggests, his voice octaves deeper than normal.

  Annnd, off she goes.

  True to his word, Ryan turns in his seat, eyes glued to her backside as she struts off in jeans tight enough to guarantee an infection. “Think I’m gonna miss that a little after I cut her loose.”

  See? “Pig.”

  “Oink.”

  I pop a Flaming Hot chip in my mouth, disappointed in myself for smiling. Lord knows this boy doesn’t need encouragement.

  “Need your keys, Choirboy.”

  “For what?”

  Ryan tips his chin in the direction of Brittany . . . Brandy . . . Whoever. Doesn’t matter. She’s on a timer.

  “Hell no, bro. Find a closet or something.”

  “Garvey overreacts, locks ‘em now. I swear, the guy finds a pair of panties in there one time, turns the whole campus into a prison.”

  “Rather not find a pair in my Jeep.”

  “No worries, she won’t need to lose her clothes for what I have in mind. Too cramped back there for much, anyway, unless I get creative. I’m feeling a little lazy.”

  “Not happening.”

  “C’mon, dude, don’t be selfish. I won’t defile that backseat any more than you two did.”

  Cheetos dust rides down my windpipe on the back of a gasp, sending me into fit of coughs. My tear-filled eyes snap to Whit’s in what I hope reflects scalding disapproval.

  You told Ryan?

  Salvation in a bottle sails toward me, accompanied by a near imperceptible shake of his head. Without thought or hesitation, I bring what’s left of his Gatorade to my lips, guzzle the glorious purple liquid until the flames in my throat slowly die.

  “Wow, I guess you really did bond over break.”

  Wha—

  My hand shakes harder than Shakira’s hips during a concert.

  You told Ashley?!?!?

  No affirmation, no denial. What do I get?

  The mother of all blank stares. One that will serve him well in politics.

  The bottle slips from my fingers.

  The Juicy Couture tote I gifted Ashley for her birthday sits right in the path of the thin, purple stream. Ashley springs into action. Plucks the straps with one hand, rights the bottle with the other. I’m too stunned to help.

  He told her? Without letting me know? How could he just toss me in the fire?

  “Babe, napkins,” Ashley directs at the traitorous boy seated next to her. “Please?”

  Must be the magic word because he moves.

  Oh. My. God. He played me.

  Is that it? He needed something—someone—to do until the girl he really wanted came back around?

  “Hey?”

  I blink, meet Ryan’s questioning stare. Watch as his brows furrow, the cogs in his brain connecting one dot to another. He takes a furtive glance over my shoulder.

  “Shit. Like sands through the hourglass,” he mutters under his breath. Clears his throat. “All right, Bruckner?”

  “I have t
o go.” I nod. Or, at least I mean to. I’m not, though. I may never be all right again.

  “Simone, where are you—?”

  I don’t wait for the rest of Ashley’s inquiry. I practically teleport from the cafeteria, out the doors to the courtyard faster than my brain can process going from A to B. Everything in front of me is a haze of red, I’m so freaking mad. How could he do this?

  “Why are you running? Simone, stop!” The click of heels advancing on the pavement behind, along with the stern command penetrates the rage blaring in my ears. I seriously consider ignoring it, because at this point, any explanation will sound more like a sorry excuse.

  I stop anyway. No matter what, or when, eventually I’ll have to face the music.

  Silence settles around us, despite the twenty or more people within earshot. I look my best friend in the eye, trying to get a read on her mood. Her expression is schooled. Inquisitive.

  Calculating. “What’s your deal? I mean, besides you’ve obviously kept a few secrets?”

  “Ashley—”

  “You know, if anyone should be pissed, it should be me. I’m the one who was left outta the loop.”

  A truth I can’t refute. Ashley and I may not always agree on everything. Like, dumping her boyfriend for being smart or thinking Ariana Grande is better than old Mariah. I’m not a fan of the flowery perfume she loves because of the ridiculous keepsake price tag that’s made of embossed leather, either. But I am wrong for keeping her in the dark about Whit and me.

  Guilt wraps its fingers around my throat, squeezes. “I’m sorry.”

  “You should be. Whit had to tell me everything last night. Why didn’t you?”

  “You’re right, I knew I should’ve told you from the beginning, and I was going to, but then I worried you’d go ballistic. Believe me, what happened with us meant nothing.”