chapter 11
He tasted like peppermints. I opened my mouth wider, and his tongue moved faster, an excited dart of flesh pushing against my gums, the clash of teeth brief, then he pulled back a little.
We were on the side of his house, a palm tree beside us, my back against the brick.
In the dark, only the moon lit his face, pale highlights on his lashes, the tip of his nose, and bruised lines of his lips.
“I’ve got to go back,” I said, breaking away, Tobey’s hands sluggish in their drop from my waist. “My dad—he’ll be looking for me.”
“Okay.” He smiled shyly, and it was Tampa all over again.
The meek boy with the pushy tongue. The one who slipped notes under my hotel room door and then dirty-danced with girls down by the pool.
I didn’t know why I’d followed him over here.
I’d seen him standing in the shadows, his phone out, a beer hidden down by his leg, and had veered off course.
And then … somehow … my hello had turned into this.
There was a shout from the house, one picked up and carried by the wind, almost lost. But a few people heard it and turned.
I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear and took a step away from Tobey, to the edge of the deck, where I could hear better.
And there, in the float of conversation carried, I heard his name.
I didn’t glance back at Tobey, my feet launched me down the steps and toward the house. I ran, the wind whipping my hair, and couldn’t help but smile.
I knew it would happen. He was born to wear our pinstripes.