Chapter 25
Just when I think I’ve got it together and am totally, absolutely, most definitely equipped to handle whatever the rest of the night has to throw at me, I hop down the last of the stairs and come face to face with Jake and Anissa huddled in the kitchen doorway, arms tangled together, both sipping drinks, heads bent near as they giggle about something.
It’s another gut punch. It’s worse. It’s someone spiking my heart on my favorite stiletto shoe and smiling while it bleeds out slowly.
Not that they’re kissing, or anything close to it, but—what if they did, earlier? What if they do?
It’s not like Anissa owes me anything. Sure, there’s girl code, but it’s not like I ever told her that I liked Jake. It’s not like she knows I only brought her here to distract Max. And as for Jake—
As for Jake…
God, he really doesn’t see me that way, does he? Not if he can ditch me at a party he invited me to, too busy canoodling with Anissa to even know I’ve been hiding in the bathroom crying, to even care.
He’s supposed to be The One.
He’s supposed to be my best friend.
I catch sight of Max coming through the kitchen door, and decide I really cannot deal with any of this. It’s all too much. I just want to call Dad and ask for a lift home, even if it’s too early to leave yet.
But as I whirl away I find myself caught in a sudden tide of movement, bodies pressing out of rooms in all directions and heading to the sunroom—to the back garden.
I just about make out Raf calling, “Come on, gang, time for the fireworks! Ozzy, mate, you all set? Where’s Dez?
Oi, Alfie, give us a hand setting these up, will you? ”
Of course—the fireworks display. The reason we’re here.
I notice Jake and Anissa swept along in the crush, too—I pick out Jake’s sandy hair, slightly disheveled from its usual style, and see the flash of Anissa’s snake-cuff earring.
Part of me wants to do what I thought Max had been doing to me these last few weeks: insert myself between them, be an annoying third wheel who ruins the sweet, flirty moments they’re sharing, destroy any and all hope of taking things further.
And don’t I want to hang out with them anyway?
Would it be so horrible if I pushed through the crowd until I found them, and we all watched the fireworks together? I’m sure Max would find us, too.
But I really, really don’t have the energy right now.
Let them have the fireworks, I think, dragging myself out of the way and latching onto a quiet corner in the sunroom where I can stay put. Let them have a kiss if they want one. It’s too late anyway.
I’m too late.
The last stragglers pour through the sunroom doors, out into the pitch-dark night.
There are phone flashlights swinging around and boys shouting instructions as all the fireworks are set up, ready to be lit.
I stay inside as the frigid air rushes in, leaving me without an alcohol jacket—or a real jacket—for protection.
I draw a breath. Let it back out.
I’m too late, I think again. And maybe I never stood a chance in the first place.
“You’re not going out to see the fireworks?”
“Jesus!” I jump, clutching my chest.
“Nope, just me.”
I cut Max a glare, not impressed by the joke—or by his lurking.
Now that we’re face-to-face, I’m embarrassed by the fact that I had a bit of a meltdown, and by all the things I said to him.
I’m embarrassed that he had to come and check if I was okay, because my so-called bestie was too preoccupied to notice.
And that he’s caught me hiding from the party again—when I should be the one throwing myself into it, when he’s the one whose name people get wrong, when…
When he’s looking at me like that, unflinching, seeing too much, and I bristle, hugging my arms tighter to me.
“Just because Jake—”
“Drop it, Max.”
He doesn’t, though; he steps into the room, closing the distance between us inch by inch. “Just because he’s getting on with Anissa, or because he’s friends with me, doesn’t mean—”
“I don’t want to hear it.” I don’t. It’s bad enough I have to reassure myself that Jake isn’t trying to get rid of me; I don’t need Max’s pity, too. “I told you, my friendships are none of your business. Jake and Anissa can—they can do what they like. And Anissa—”
Anissa isn’t even my friend anyway, except…I’d really like her to be, but I feel like I’ve already screwed that up because of how I’ve approached it, even if she’s none the wiser.
“It is my business, if it’s upsetting you,” Max says. “I thought we were—”
“Just because we called a truce—”
He scowls. “Cerys, I don’t know how many ways I have to explain it for you to understand. I thought we were on the same page here.”
“Oh yeah? And what page is that?” I snap, but it’s a serious question. Just because I understand where he was coming from being all judgmental, and he knows I was jealous of his friendship with Jake, just because we talked…
I’m shivering, teeth gritted and beginning to chatter, and he’s near enough that he angles himself between me and the draft from the open doors, his hand on my arm, rubbing it up and down.
It takes me back to the Worlds Beyond con, how I didn’t bring a jacket because I wanted Jake to offer me his.
“Listen,” he tells me. “Jake is not going to—”
“Why do you care so much, if something upsets me?” I bite out. I want to know, need to know all of a sudden, but I also really need to not hear the end of that sentence. Jake is not going to—what, ditch me, forget about me, ever be interested in dating me?
“Because,” Max says, visibly frustrated, shifting a little closer.
The hand on my arm has stilled, holding me rather than warming me up, although the heat of his palm is searing, sending prickles all through my body.
His jaw is clenched, his breathing heavy and shallow.
Mine is, too. Has been for…I don’t know how long. “Because—”
I never get to hear the end of that sentence either.
I think I realize what’s happening the split second before it actually happens, because my chin ticks upward and I inhale his exhale sharply, lips parting, before his mouth crashes down on to mine.
My mind eddies, void of everything but the sensation of being kissed, of kissing, of the body against mine and the silk-soft hair between my fingers when I drag my hands up to anchor him closer.
My nostrils fill with a sharp, clean scent like pine; the hand on my arm slips to settle between my shoulder blades and the other rests on my hip, the grip tight and trembling, just like my arms around his shoulders are.
I’ve kissed boys before. Three, to be exact.
One at a party when I got a little tipsy—sloppy and only half remembered the day after; one behind the bike sheds at school when I was fourteen and we were supposed to be on litter-picking duty—not worth remembering; and one fleeting peck on the lips on a date when I was thirteen that might as well not really count.
I have never been kissed like this before. I have never kissed like this before.
I always assumed I would have to think so intently about every part of a kiss like this: how our lips fit together, careful not to knock teeth, hyperconscious of where I put my hands and where his are and if our noses are in the way and how to move my lips and to remember to breathe (do I always breathe this loudly and weirdly?)…
And trying to figure out the right pressure, or if it’s appropriate to add tongue and when to add tongue, and a million other things the movies never quite explain.
But this isn’t like that. At all.
It just happens.
Max’s mouth is soft and urgent against mine, and when his teeth catch my lower lip ever so slightly I gasp, and test how he responds when I drag the tip of my tongue just a little over his lip.
I knot my fingers tighter in his hair, vaguely aware of the fact I’ve stumbled—stumbled, like my knees have actually, genuinely gone weak.
The foot-pop moment in The Princess Diaries is suddenly making total sense to me.
The wall is now at my back, and I’m very content to be pressed between it and Max if it means this kiss.
We break apart to catch our breath. His pupils are blown wide, his eyes as dark as his hair. I’ve messed up his bun, he’s all disheveled now, and his lips are full and bright and his cheeks are flushed and I wonder if I look like that, too. I bet I do.
I want to kiss him again.
“Cerys,” he murmurs, “I—”
I drag one of my hands through the silken waves of his hair, bringing it to settle against his shoulder, and that’s when I notice them.
Him.
All thoughts of resuming our kiss (and oh my GOD, that KISS! And also, oh my God, I kissed MAX!) go up in smoke because Jake is standing in the open doorway, face ashen, mouth hanging open as he stares at us.
There are tears in his eyes.
He doesn’t look like he just caught some of his friends kissing at a party; he looks like he’s been stabbed in the back.
No no no, this is not happening.
Max clocks me looking over his shoulder—my expression must shift, but I don’t know what he finds there. Guilt? Horror? Regret? All of the above, probably—and he starts to turn around, too.
Anissa is just behind Jake in the doorway. She stares at me and Max with wide eyes, but there’s only ordinary surprise on her face.
Not like on Jake’s.
And oh, God, Jake.
A firework booms in the sky, a hollow sound I feel inside my chest, and I flinch.
“I—” I start, but have nothing to say for myself.
I kissed Max. Max! One single stupid truce and suddenly—this happens? What was I thinking?
Why did it have to be such a wonderful kiss?
And, also, WHY AM I STILL CLINGING TO HIM?
I snatch my arms from around Max’s neck, as if that’s going to make any difference right now. His hands fall away from holding me, too.
“How could you?” Jake whispers, staring at me.
“Jake—” I don’t know what to say to him, I don’t know how to deal with this. I don’t know why he cares when—
Oh, no.