Last First Kiss (Last First #2)

Prologue

CLARA

Describe a challenge you’ve faced and how it shaped you.

Jesus. I don’t even know how to start this essay.

These college applications have been beating me up emotionally. They want me to crack open my soul and hand over all the most painful “character-defining” moments of my life to prove I belong in a classroom.

My mom died of cancer when I was fourteen.

It still feels strange to write that down. But it happened. She got sick, then she got worse, and then she was gone. Now it’s been almost three years, and the pain hasn’t gotten any easier to deal with.

This isn’t the story I thought I’d be telling in a college application. But it’s the one that made me who I am. I’m someone who knows deep loss and deep love. I’m someone who adapted, who kept showing up—even when it was hard—and who eventually found a safe place again.

I may not have a clear picture of who I’ll be in five or ten years, but I know this: I want to grow into someone my mom would be proud of, and someone I’ll be proud of, too.

“Still working on yours?” Alejandra asks as she walks into the basement, the space her mom turned into a hangout/homework space for us a couple of years ago.

Alejandra and I have been best friends since before we were born. Our moms were childhood best friends and got pregnant within months of each other. Alejandra was born before me, so I don’t know a world without her.

We didn’t get a say in our friendship; it was automatic. Built-in. She wasn’t just part of my life; she was my life. For a long time, it felt like we were one person split into two.

Our moms did everything together, and by default, so did we.

Playdates, family trips, school drop-offs, weekends, we came as a set.

We’d spend days at each other’s houses, sometimes without realizing we hadn’t been home in a while, like one long, never-ending sleepover that stretched across our entire lives.

So when my mom passed, it wasn’t exactly a surprise to find out she’d named Cathia—Alejandra’s mom—as my legal guardian.

Cathia had always been a second mother to me, and there was no one else my mom would’ve trusted more.

It made sense. My biological father had never been in the picture anyway, so there wasn’t anyone else.

Not long after my mom’s funeral, I moved in with Alejandra, her older sister, Diana, and their mom. Their parents had divorced a few years earlier, so it was just the four of us.

“Hello?” Alejandra says.

I turn to her, and she’s standing with her arms crossed, and an eyebrow raised.

“Sorry, yeah. I’m struggling to figure out what to write, and this application is due in a few days. At this rate, we’re never getting into the same school.” I sigh.

Alejandra and I have been applying to all the same colleges, hoping one of them will accept us both—but quietly preparing for the chance we won’t end up in the same place.

We haven’t talked about what happens if we don’t.

We don’t have a backup plan, partly because Alejandra refuses to “put it into the universe,” but mostly because the thought of us not being near each other for the first time in our lives is too scary to entertain.

Alejandra drops onto the beanbag across from me, opening a bag of chips, completely unfazed by what I said, as if we don’t have this maybe-goodbye hanging over us.

Graduation’s still a year away, but most of the colleges we’re applying to have deadlines during junior year, so the clock’s already ticking.

“We’ll figure it out,” she says through a crunch. “We always do.”

Nodding, I stare at my half-finished essay.

I want to believe she’s right. I do. But it’s easier for her to say—Alejandra has always been at the top of our class, breezing through her admission essays as if they were nothing.

The problem isn’t whether she gets in. It’s me.

And the longer I sit here trying to write this essay, the more convinced I become: there’s no way I’m getting into the same schools as Alejandra.

A year later.

Senior year is the best one yet. Valeria, Isabella, Lily, Alejandra, and I have a free period at the end of the day, so we leave school early and drive around town.

Sometimes we go as far as Seattle and hang out around Capitol Hill, dreaming of turning twenty-one and coming back to go clubbing at all the queer bars.

But my favorite days are those like today, when the sun is out and the five of us drive to Camano Island to hang out by the beach and soak up the sun.

Graduation is a few months away, and decision letters from the colleges we applied to are working their way through our mailboxes.

Valeria, Lily, and Isabella already know where they’re going. But Alejandra and I have been waiting until all our letters are here, and when they are, we’ll have an opening party for her and me in her bedroom. We’ve got almost all of them; we’re waiting on one more, which should arrive any day now.

The sun’s starting to dip below the horizon as we sit on the beach, toes buried in the cool sand, the sound of waves crashing over us.

A light breeze rolls in; it’s barely even there, but Lily and Isabella start complaining about being cold and wanting to go home, so we all gather our stuff and pack up.

Alejandra and I split from the group and jump in her car—although it’s more like my car because Alejandra has become a passenger princess since I got my license last year, and refuses to drive anytime I’m with her. I don’t mind, though. I enjoy driving; it gives me a sense of calm.

When we get back to our neighborhood and turn into our driveway, I spot two gold envelopes sticking out of our mailbox, and I completely forget how to breathe.

“Holy crap,” I whisper.

Alejandra must have seen them too, because she flies out of the car.

A few seconds later, she’s running back, waving the envelopes around.

When she reaches my window, she slaps them against the glass, grinning broadly.

The insignia is impossible to miss, printed big right on the front.

Finally, the school we’d been waiting for.

Alejandra turns toward the house, and before I can even step out of the car, she’s halfway up the front steps.

“Wait!” I shout, taking off after her.

She heads into her room, but I veer into mine to grab the box with all our letters.

This was one of my mom’s favorites—she got into woodworking when I was five, and this was the first she’d ever carved by hand.

It’s not perfect, a little uneven around the edges, and the hinges don’t quite line up, so the box doesn’t close completely, but it’s my favorite thing she ever made.

I use it to store items that matter most to me: letters she wrote for every year up to high school graduation, old photos of me, Alejandra, Diana, and our moms, and some notes my best friends and I have passed back and forth over the years.

As soon as the box is in my hands, I run to Alejandra’s room, accidentally slamming the door behind me as I collapse onto her bed, my heart pounding in my chest.

Alejandra sits crisscross in front of me as I lay the letters before us.

“Are you ready?” she asks softly.

I nod, my throat suddenly too dry to speak. I stare at the five envelopes in front of us, my chest rising as I take a deep breath.

“No matter what happens, even if we don’t end up at the same school, it’s you and me forever,” she says, looping her pinky in mine. Her voice is steady, but hides a tremble. She leans in, pressing her forehead gently against mine. “It’ll always be you and me. We’ll figure it out.”

I close my eyes for a second, trying to anchor myself to her words, letting her touch soothe the nerves, the excitement, and the fear the way it always does.

When I open my eyes, she’s still there, steady and sure, the way she’s always been. I give her the tiniest nod.

“Okay,” she whispers. “Let’s do this.”

Together, we reach for the first envelope in our lineup.

We rip the envelopes open, hands shaking as we read silently.

“I didn’t get in,” I say, hope slipping away.

I knew most of the letters would probably be rejections—I barely met the GPA requirements for the majority of the schools Alejandra and I applied to—but even knowing it was coming, seeing it hurts.

“You?” I ask.

“Me neither.” She shrugs, but when she sets her letter down, I glimpse the first line, and my stomach twists.

She got in. For a second, I can’t breathe.

I stare at the page, trying to keep my face still as something inside me crumbles.

We’re not going to get into the same college, and it’s all my fault.

“This one was a backup, anyway. We didn’t really want to go there!” she says with a bright smile, already reaching for the next envelope. “Let’s open another one.”

I nod, forcing a smile as we rip another envelope open.

“Waitlisted,” I say, almost in shock. It’s not an acceptance, but it could be.

“Oh my God, that’s amazing!” Alejandra says, smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“You didn’t get in?” I frown, looking down at her letter. The excitement I felt is fading almost as quickly as it came.

“No, I did,” she says. “But it doesn’t sound like a good option if you’re waitlisted.” She sets the letter aside, and I mentally kick myself for not being a better student.

We open the other two envelopes, and it’s the same deal: I’m waitlisted, she gets in. Then we both get waitlisted, and that pit in my stomach worsens.

Alejandra is now staring hard at our last letter, and I can tell it’s hitting her now. We have one shot left, and the odds aren’t in our favor.

The very last one is our top school. We’ve been dreaming about this school since freshman year. Her mom has bought us so much UW merch, you’d think we were students there already.

“Are you ready?” I ask.

“Yes.” Alejandra shrugs, trying to play it off, but I know her too well and notice the slight tension in her shoulders.