4. Sophomore Year #3
With our foreheads pressed together, his eyes slowly search for an objection.
They wait. They're patient, taking their time to allow for second thoughts, but with our lips mere inches apart, he finally makes a move, obliterating the madness that separates us and crushing his mouth to mine.
The move is fast, like he made it before he could talk himself out of it, but the kiss is anything but.
His lips take their time parting mine as his hand delicately slides down my jaw to my neck, sending a trail of goosebumps down my spine.
My head swims, but it is the muffled groan that escapes his throat the second his tongue dips into my mouth that has me drowning.
I don't care what kind of storm London Hale is; I could dance in his rain or cry its downpour.
The second he walked into my life, he struck like lightning, fast without warning, scorching the earth and leaving its mark.
This might be our first kiss, and you never know which one will be your last, but I know this one will forever be burned on my heart.
I never want it to end. I could be happy just like this for the rest of my days.
Maybe it's all just a crush, one that would eventually fizzle out if I let it, but he's not just my favorite daydream.
He's someone I can't stop thinking about.
No matter how hard I've tried, I always come back to him.
My hand reaches for his chest, and the second it does, I wish I hadn't because he pulls away. "I have to go." He gets to his feet.
I reach for my swollen lips, and my cheeks tinge. "You didn't like it?"
He runs his hands through his wild hair. "What? No. Laney, you have no idea how long I've wanted to kiss you like that, but I can't stay."
His words from earlier seep back in. "Because I almost died."
"Yeah." His hands fall to his hips.
"Isn't that more reason to stay? Life is too short. You never know when your chance might be taken from you."
"That's one way of looking at it; the other is I don't want to fuck this up.
You're too important to me, and I'm a mess right now.
You deserve the world and everything you want, and if any part of that is still me, I want it to be real.
Not because I saved you, not because we were strung out on the adrenaline from everything that happened tonight. "
"So, tomorrow, when I want to kiss you again…" I pull on the strings of his hoodie. "You'll let me?"
Tongue in cheek, he drops his head. "You're making my choice to walk out of this room feel like punishment, heartbreaker.
" I want to say good , but I don't. He kissed me.
We kissed, and he liked it. For tonight, that memory will be enough.
"Come on." He nods toward my pillows. "Lie down.
I don't want you walking around on this knee tonight.
It's late. Get some rest." He pulls back my covers, and I lift a few inches to get on the other side and crawl beneath.
Once I'm settled, he pulls my hand to his soft lips and kisses the back of my hand.
"For the record, when I ask for a kiss tomorrow, that's not where I want it."
He pinches his lips together to stifle the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, but he can't hide the slow smolder in his eyes. "Tomorrow, then," he says before releasing my hand and shutting off the light.
I don't bother mentioning it's already tomorrow, but the few short hours that stretch between now and dawn will most certainly be a small eternity, because there will be no sleeping tonight. All there will be is counting down the minutes and seconds before I get to be his again.
Why hasn't he texted me back? I ask myself as I flip my phone over in my lap for the hundredth time this morning.
I texted London hours ago, letting him know I went to the ER.
Of course, the second my nurse mother saw my knee, she was unwrapping it for herself, and the second she found out a nail was involved, we were en route to the hospital.
Apparently, I needed a tetanus shot and an x-ray to ensure no small pieces were embedded in my knee.
I knew there were no fragments in my knee, and I think she did too, but my mother has always been over the top when it comes to my health.
I've always thought it was because of her career.
Being a nurse, she sees a lot of worst-case scenarios, but the older I get, I see it differently.
Now I know it's because I'm all she has. We're all each other has.
"What has gotten into you today? You've been on edge all morning," my mother asks as we drive down Main Street, finally on our way home after spending hours at the hospital.
"I'm not on edge. I just don't like hospitals the way you do," I say as I watch Mrs. Donovan place a bouquet of flowers in the front window of her shop as we pass by.
"I wouldn't say I like hospitals. It's just where I work. I do, however, enjoy helping people. I think you can at least relate to that, given you're considering going into counseling."
I roll my eyes and lay my head against the window.
It's not that I don't want to talk to my mom.
My mother and I get along just fine, but right now, all I really want is to get home, and that desire is so strong it leaves no space for anything else.
I suppose that has left me a little edgy, but it can't be helped.
I want to know how, last night, London Hale treated me like I was something special—something he couldn't live without—and now I'm being left on read.
No text asking if everything is okay, no worry or concern, not even a when will you be home? Nothing.
"For someone not on edge, you're about to bounce that good knee through my floorboard."
It's on the tip of my tongue to tell her I want to see London, but I don't, and that's not easy because I'm used to telling her everything—well, almost everything.
Over the past year, I haven't brought up a few things—one being the job search I found on her computer.
However, not telling her about London is different.
I don't want to lie any more than I already have about last night, and telling any bit of what happened leaves a lot to be questioned.
Plus, her knowing I have a crush on the boy next door and that boy turning into my boyfriend will most definitely raise flags.
I don't want her to see him as anything more than he ever was until it's a certainty, and maybe not even then, because I'm sure he'd be banned from entering my room the second he went from friend to boyfriend.
"It's Sunday. I feel like I just wasted half my weekend, is all."
"Did you forget you're on summer break?"
Because the Mustangs went to state, their season ran until the end of school.
The party last night almost felt like another day of walking down the hallways with familiar faces and social anxiety, which for me was only piled on by Riley's confrontation and my epic fall.
The slightest bit of tension releases as the knowledge of having twelve weeks before I have to face anyone from school settles in.
"Yeah, I guess I did," I mumble, my thoughts scattered as she turns down our street. My heart quickens, a sudden tension I wasn't prepared for.
"Does pizza sound good for dinner? I don't feel like cooking tonight."
When my mother pulls into the driveway, I see London in his backyard, shirtless, splitting wood.
My annoyance instantly kicks into overdrive.
For starters, it's summer. Who splits wood in the summer?
There's no way he couldn't spare a minute to text back?
It's not like there's a cold front on the horizon.
And secondly, I know he heard my mother's car pull into the driveway, and he hasn't even spared me a glance.
"Sure, pizza sounds great, Mom," I say. My hand grips the door handle, and I strengthen my backbone, reminding myself of all the words I promised to give London when I saw him, no matter the consequence. No regrets.
My mom starts toward the house and then pauses, remembering my leg. "Laney, do you need help?"
I wave her off. "I'm fine, Mom. I'll be in shortly," I say, my eyes laser-focused on London as I stomp my way across the yard as best I can with a bum knee.
The second I'm a foot away from him, and the axe he's been swinging is on the ground as he gathers the split wood, I push my finger into his shoulder. "Why are you ignoring me?"
"I'm not," he says, not even bothering to look at me as he puts the wood on the rack.
"I texted you," I say, crossing my arms.
"I don't have my phone." He swipes a bead of sweat off his eyebrow and finally spares me a glance.
It's a sideways glance, but it's a look all the same, one that melts me even though I'm so mad I could spit.
I hate boys. It's unfair how much they can affect us and how hard it is to let them go when they're not good for us.
"It's right there." I arch a brow and point to it laying on his discarded shirt.
"I've been busy," he blows out exasperatedly.
"You expect me to believe you've been chopping wood all morning?" I put my hands on my hips as he puts another log on the chopping block.
"No, I mowed the grass and vacuumed the pool first. Now I'm doing this."
He refuses to meet my eyes, so I force him to by stepping in front of the chopping block. "You left me on read."
His eyes slowly come off the ground and find mine, but his expression is unreadable when they do.
He's not seeing me. He's looking through me.
He doesn't want to look at me, let alone talk.
I swallow down the hurt. When I went through all the scenarios that might play out the second I got home, this was one of them, and it sucked then as much as it does now, but if this is it, I'm not walking away with things unsaid. He's going to own his part.
"That's it, then? You slept on it, and the way you see it, last night didn't happen?
Nothing has changed?" I state firmly, and he stands, unmoving.
I clench my fists so I don't punch him instead.
Rejection sucks. Last night, he seemed concerned about our friendship, but right now, it feels like the end of the road.
" Whatever, I'll get your hoodie back to you," I add as I step around him. "I won't be?—"
His arm wraps around my waist. "I don't want my hoodie back. I like it when you wear my things."
"And I don't believe you. You're only trying to placate me because you think you'll hurt my feelings. You not making up your mind isn't killing me; it's just wasting my time. And I deserve better than that," I grind out as I push his arm away.
Both arms wrap around my middle, and he spins me toward my house and directs my gaze to my windowsill, where the shirt I wore to the party last night sits neatly folded. His lips brush my ear, his voice low and deliberate, “You were saying?"
"Why give me your shirt and not respond to my text?" His arms loosen, and I turn around. Ghosts of annoyance still mar his stupidly handsome face, but the shirt and the fact that he didn't let me walk away mad tell me there is something else. "I still want you to kiss me."
He inhales deeply and closes his eyes. "I can't."
"Why not?" I ask, and he subtly shakes his head. "Will you stop avoiding me and just tell me? I'm a big girl, London. If you changed your mind and are having regrets, just say that."
His eyes flash open. "My dad wants to take your mom to dinner."
"Okay…" I draw out, not understanding how that affects us.
"My dad hasn't gone on a date since my mother walked out and never looked back. He deserves a shot at happiness. There can't be a you and me if there's a them."
"That sounds like a cop-out if I ever did hear one. I saw you first. I want you, and I think you want me to."
He swallows hard, and the way his coal-dark eyes lock on mine, I know I'm right. "It's not that simple."
I step into him. "Yes, it is. You were mine first," I say as though that settles it.
"Is that so?" A soft smile tugs at the lips I've dreamed of kissing again since the moment they left mine .
"It is," I state without waver.
His eyes search my face as he battles with what he wants for his dad and what he wants for himself.
"You win." My mind barely has time to process the words before his perfect mouth collides with mine.
Strong arms envelop me, and my body hums as the hard lines of his body meld against mine, and he holds me the way I've always dreamed he would.
His hands ball in my shirt as his tongue seeks entrance that I eagerly grant, desperate to get closer. "You'll always win, heartbreaker."
Seconds dissolve into minutes as we kiss deeply on the cool grass behind the shed for hours.
When our lips part for air, our bodies stay tangled, neither wanting to let go of what we've found.
We fit together perfectly, heartbeats synchronized as my fingertips trace the outline of his jaw while his arms keep me tightly pressed against his front.
It's the best night of my life—then he is gone.