15. Kiss Me Again
15
KISS ME AGAIN
FELIX
There’s No Way By Lauv, Julia Michaels
M y feet are already hurting when Maggie grabs onto the sleeve of my shirt, halting my progress. I glance up to see the inviting sign of the distillery, a rustic wooden structure with golden lettering shining in the daylight.
“I have an idea.” Before I can fully process her words, she pulls me inside.
“Should I be worried?” I ask teasingly, raising an eyebrow. She shoots me a cute yet effective glare.
“Okay, so I’ll just wait over here,” she says, gesturing dramatically toward the door, “while you grab a bottle of Tennessee Whiskey.” She makes a scoot motion with her hand, her lips curling in that adorable way that always manages to charm me.
I cross my arms over my chest, leaning back slightly as I furrow my brow at her. “What’s with the cloak-and-dagger?”
“I’m not twenty-one yet,” she admits.
I bark out a laugh, the sound echoing off the wooden walls. “So let me get this straight: you want me to buy liquor for you because you’re underage?” The absurdity of it all makes my stomach tighten with laughter.
Maggie tugs me into the corner, pressing a dramatic finger to my lips. “Don’t be so loud,” she whisper-shouts, letting go of me.
“Why do I get the feeling this isn’t the first time you’ve done this?” I arch an eyebrow.
“Maybe once or twice,” she shrugs nonchalantly.
I narrow my eyes at her, my expression a mix of playful suspicion and growing intrigue. “You’re something else, aren’t you?”
“I’ll make it worth your while.” Under the weight of her gaze, my resolve begins to crumble. Maggie has a way of drawing me in, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world.
“I’m gonna hold you to that, Sass,” I say in a low voice as she blinks up at me.
* * *
“A picnic was not my idea of making it worth my while,” I grumble good-naturedly as Maggie unpacks the contents of the bag.
“What were you expecting, pervert?” she laughs.
“When it comes to you, I never know.” I unwrap my sandwich as we settle onto the sun-warmed steps of the Parthenon.
As we pass the bottle of whiskey between us, I can’t help but steal glances at her. Maggie’s bare leg brushes against mine, that single sliver of skin igniting a spark that sends warmth spiraling through me. She takes a sip of the whiskey, the liquid clinging to her pink lips like a precious secret. Her gaze drifts over the expansive lawn, as if she’s content to sit here all night and I don’t blame her. Even after exploring the rich history of Music Row and the Country Music Hall of Fame, the Parthenon by far makes me glad I came today.
The breeze blows pieces of her blonde hair around her face. What would it take to tell her how beautiful she looks? To confess that her laughter makes my heart constrict with joy? I want to lean in close, letting my lips linger just long enough to instill doubt about whether she’s ever wanted anyone as desperately as I want her right now.
A slight furrow creases her brow as if she can sense the weight of my unspoken thoughts.
“Today was a really good day,” I manage to voice.
Hours would have slipped by in my trailer, yielding only a handful of lines. Yet the rich tapestry of history I’ve encountered today sparks a song within me.
I sigh, crumpling my sandwich wrapper and tossing it into the bag. I accept the whiskey bottle from her, taking a pull before passing it back. I lean against the stone steps.
“Why doesn’t it look that way?” she questions and there’s something about her voice, or maybe the day, that urges me to bare my vulnerability.
“I don’t know…” The words escape me like air deflating from a balloon, a sigh of resignation. “Part of it is this whole fake-it-till-you-make-it concept…”
Her contemplative look challenges me. “I don’t think you give yourself enough credit,” she counters thoughtfully. “You have confidence and talent—that’s undeniably real.”
A faint smile tugs at my lips, the rarity of her compliments filling me with a warmth that spreads through my chest.
“My belief is that the best musicians are the ones who had to fight to get there,” I tell her. “Me? I was born into this industry. I could waltz into ECHO Records, drop my name, and be welcomed with open arms. Because of my father, I could record music without a second thought, but where’s the pride in that? My songs feel shallow.”
Maggie’s expression shifts, disbelief dancing across her features as she passes the whiskey bottle between her hands. “You really are an idiot, Felix,” she declares.
“Gee, thanks,” I retort, half-amused, half-challenged.
“Did you not see how the crowd responds to you? Your songs are energizing and original. You created them completely from scratch. There’s nothing shallow about that.”
“Thanks… that’s actually kind of nice when you put it that way.” She hands the bottle back to me, and I take another pull, the burn igniting my senses. “It’s more the lyrics I struggle with. I feel like if I’d ever faced real challenges, they would carry more weight.”
“I could make you fall madly in love with me, break your heart, and then you’d become an alcoholic, spiraling into the depths of despair, living out of a shopping cart.” She smiles wickedly. You’d be able to write some truly meaningful songs then.”
I almost spit out the whiskey. “Ah, there she is,” I acknowledge with a reluctant grin as she drops her head back, laughter spilling from her lips like music that echoes in the fresh early evening air.
“My point is,” she continues, setting a serious tone, “you don’t have to crawl through shit for something to be meaningful. Just because you have a certain amount of privilege doesn’t negate your voice.
“I mean look at The Strokes,” she says, surprising me. “Most of the members come from wealthy families. You can’t discount their contribution to music history just because they didn’t struggle in life.”
“You schooling me now, Sass?”
Her mouth widens into a huge grin that reaches all the way into her eyes.
“So who are your favorites? Besides pop,” I tease.
“I only like pop music to dance to.” She gives me a shove and I smile wide. “I guess there’s too many to mention. I like early 2000s when there was this explosion of new bands on the scene. Lots to choose from and so many different vibes.”
“I get compared to that era a lot,” I reply.
“Well, if anyone compares you to Fable, they have no clue about music. They’re all shine and no substance. That’s not you, Felix,” she says, shaking her head.
I laugh. “Well, I’ll remember that then.”
This girl has a way of stirring a tempest of emotions in me; one moment I want to bend her over my knee, and the next, I yearn to kiss her until our lips are bruised.
A stray strand of her golden hair dances across the hollow of her neck, and I’m captivated.
“What made you want to be a filmmaker then?” I ask, desperately trying to quell the longing rising inside me.
“My mother,” she says. “She used to take these beautiful photos.”
“She doesn’t do it anymore?” I ask, interested in any information she’s willing to share with me.
“She still does, but it’s more freelance work,” she smiles. “Look, I’m no stranger to growing up with privilege. I live on a horse farm in Pacific Palisades for Christ’s sake,” she chuckles, her laughter filling the space between us. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t have something to say either. I just express it through the lens of my camera.”
A connection swells between us, deeper than I’ve ever known. “I think you’re really talented, Maggie,” I tell her earnestly.
“Well, the induction board didn’t think so,” she replies, a cloud of sadness shadowing her features.
“Sometimes the things we don’t get are blessings in disguise,” I respond. The universe conspired for us to meet, not once but twice, and I can’t help but feel that’s important somehow.
“Maybe,” she shrugs, setting the whiskey bottle between us, her cheeks taking on a soft rosy hue.
“So, you grew up riding horses?” I ask.
“I’m a champion barrel racer.” She surprises me with a quick smirk.
“Really?” I ask, struggling to visualize it.
“Fuck no, I hate horses,” she laughs, a sound that sends reverberations of joy echoing in the air.
I bark out a laugh. “You don’t really hate horses, do you?”
“Do you have any idea how much horses shit? And the smell—it’s worse than Pepe!” she jokes, laughter spilling out like a bubbling brook, and I can’t help but wipe my chin with the back of my hand, the whiskey nearly escaping me.
“Sometimes I struggle to know whether you’re telling the truth or not,” I admit.
Her expression opens like the clouds parting to reveal her true self. This is all I’ve ever wanted from her. Honesty.
“I’m not a champion barrel racer but I can hold my own on a horse.” She leans back, her hair fluttering around her shoulders. “We did have this one horse when I was little. His name was Ivan. He was temperamental, but boy, did he love peppermints,” she says, her expression transforming into pure joy.
“You really miss your family, don’t you?”
“I’ve never been away from my family for this long, especially Joey.”
“So…” I guess cautiously, testing the waters. “Not getting to do your dad’s induction video was like losing your chance to do what you love close to home?”
A soft sigh escapes her lips, and at that moment, I feel I’ve unearthed something significant.
“Does that make me a total loser?” she asks, vulnerability lacing her words.
I chuckle softly. “Not at all.” The sentiment resonates within me, considering my own family and the homesickness creeping in over these past few weeks, but the drive to make it in this industry overshadows that loneliness. “Family means everything to me too.”
“If this works out,” she says, gesturing to her camera, “I’d be spending a whole lot of time away from home.” Her arms hug her knees tightly, reflecting an ache I can’t ignore.
It’s striking, both of us held captive by our respective fears—me, terrified of my own inadequacy, and her, anxious she might transcend her roots. The whiskey has slowly made its way through my veins. Truths were going to come to the surface, whether I like it or not. “So here I am, afraid I won’t be good enough, and you’re afraid of being too good and losing touch with who you are and where you came from?”
She nods, her voice distant, lost in thought. “Something like that, yeah,” she sighs. Something has shifted in our friendship and I can feel it as sure as the scent of Tennessee Whiskey on Maggie’s breath.
Leaning back against the steps, I cradle the moment, my heart racing under the weight of my unfulfilled desires. Turning my head, I catch her staring down at me, tendrils of her hair cascading forward as if reaching for me. I reach out, my fingers brushing against that lucky golden strand, drifting it away from her sun-kissed cheek.
“Maggie,” I rasp, my voice heavy with the unsaid. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Why?” Her blue eyes shimmer under the fading twilight, drawing me in with an allure I can’t resist. This is it. My heart pounds beneath my ribs as I gently bring my palm to her cheek. She leans into my touch, her eyes fluttering closed as I brush my lips against hers. The thrill sparks through me, igniting an uncontrollable fire. She doesn’t pull away, and so I dive deeper, feeling every breathtaking moment unfold.
Her floral and coconut scent swirls around us, intoxicating and sweet, as our lips intertwine in a dance that belongs only to us. She literally takes my breath away and we gently pull apart, reality crashing in like an unwanted guest.
“Felix,” she breathes, my name a soft whisper that sends chills down my spine. “What was that?” The slight tremor in her voice suggests both surprise and exhilaration, and her smile ignites a glimmer of hope within me.
“Do I need to explain to you what a kiss is?” I rumble, raising an eyebrow, the levity returning in an eager rush.
“Very funny, rockstar,” she quips, tugging at the fabric of my shirt, a playful challenge in her eyes. “I meant was that you or the whiskey kissing me?”
A soft chuckle escapes my lips as I brush off her teasing. “No one tells me what to do, Sass… not even whiskey. I’ve wanted to kiss you since the day I met you.”
“I’m disappointed,” she replies.
“Ouch,” I whisper exaggeratedly, closing my eyes in mock agony. But just as I prepare to open them, she surprises me entirely by straddling my lap. I sit up, my hands cradling her hips, though a part of me wants to grasp her tighter, holding her there as if she might evaporate.
“I’m disappointed that’s all you’ve got in you. Kiss me again, Felix.”
“So maybe there’s one person who can tell me what to do.” I whisper.
* * *
On the way back to the car, I can’t shake the goofy grin plastered across my face. If it weren’t for the cautious glances from families passing by, I would have happily lingered on the steps of the Parthenon kissing Maggie all night. But the feel of her hand in mine? That’s my second favorite moment of the day.
“My feet hurt.”
I halt in the middle of the sidewalk, letting go of her hand as I crouch.
“If this is some weird sexual thing, at least wait until we get home,” she jokes, laughter bubbling up like a melody, and I can’t help but shake with amusement. Her casual mention of “home” sends a flood of warmth through me however she meant it.
“Hop on, Sass,” I encourage, motioning for her to climb onto my back while I take the camera from her and put the strap over my head.
“This is so undignified, and people will stare,” she gasps in mock seriousness. “But if you insist.” With a gleeful leap, she jumps onto my back, her laughter echoing like soft music in the air as I clasp her bare legs, feeling the warmth of her skin against me.
I take off running down the street, jostling her just enough to elicit more sweet squeals. Laughter spills between us, joyous and unrestrained, filling the evening air like the last notes of a cherished song. My stomach aches from the laughter as I suddenly recognize the neighborhood where we parked the SUV. At first, my feet complained about the distance from the main street, but now I dread the reality of how quickly we made it back.
“Stop, stop!” Maggie exclaims, hopping down from my back as she points at an old phone booth that we must’ve bypassed on our way in.
“Holy shit, these things still exist?” I exclaim, the nostalgic thrill racing through me as I approach it. I reach for the glass door and after some gentle coaxing, it finally yields to my tug as I step inside. Maggie opts to stay outside, her camera poised and ready.
I lift the black handle, smirking at the silence that greets me. “Who are you calling?” Maggie snarks, not looking up from her camera.
“Dylan, to tell him you made me carry you on my back,” I tease, and she flips me off, still absorbed in her work. I can almost see her thoughts spinning as she studies her camera’s viewfinder.
She glances up briefly, her brow furrowing in determination, and I can feel the energy shift. I attempt to slip out of the booth when her hand suddenly presses against my chest, nudging me back.
“No, get back in there,” she orders, a fiery spark in her eyes.
“What are you up to?”
“I’ve got an idea,” she declares. I catch a glimpse of something deeper, an artist lost in their craft.
“You’re sexy when you get ideas,” I comment, putting a hand on the glass and leaning my forehead against it to give her a flirty look. My tone is light, but the truth is, every time I see that creative spark in her, I’m drawn in like a moth to a flame.
“Sing ‘Out of Reach,’” she instructs, her voice taking on that no-nonsense tone I’ve come to recognize as her business mode.
“What? I’ve got no music.”
“Use your imagination and don’t worry about it. That’s what edits are for.”
With a resigned sigh, I zero in on her as I start singing the bridge of the song, albeit a bit awkwardly at first.
“Look out through the glass,” she instructs.
The chorus flows through me, and with each note, I feel myself surrendering to the experience. I lean against the glass, lost in the performance, staring intently at her.
She nods in rhythm with my melody, capturing every moment, and as I throw myself into the lyrics—about yearning and longing—I realize I’m not just singing; the words penetrate me. Each note resonates, and they take on a life of their own as I express what it’s like to miss someone profoundly. I’m no longer aware that I’m singing acapella in a broken-down old phone booth with shitty acoustics.
With a fist pound against the glass for emphasis during the climactic bridge, I catch a glimmer of reverence in Maggie’s eyes. She mirrors my motion, her own fist lifting, encouraging me to continue.
I helplessly orbit you
Your breath the life I breathe
You shouldn’t be so
Out of reach
In my bed but I can’t touch
Locked together but I can’t feel
Like my favorite dream
That I can’t live for real
I’m struck by how I’m no longer detached from my own words. For the first time, they’re more than just ink on a page; they become a surge of emotions bottled up within me, spilling out into the air.
As the last chorus bursts forth, I lose myself completely, disregarding how it might sound or appear to any random onlooker—though, thankfully, there aren’t any. I catch sight of Maggie’s glowing cheeks, her wide-eyed wonder sending a rush of exhilaration through me.
We have a shared connection, our creativity and vulnerability intertwining our paths, and it’s something unspoken between us. As the final note lingers in the air, I can see that we’ve both stepped outside of our usual selves, at least for this fleeting moment. The booth suddenly feels suffocating, and I step out, my heart racing, still wrapped in the remnants of the song.
“That… that was beautiful,” she breathes.
“Thanks,” I reply, cheeks flushing, half-expecting her to roll her eyes or tease me, but this moment is different; it carries the weight of sincerity.
“I can splice this with some of the other footage I’ve taken and make a music video,” she declares with excitement in her eyes.
“Yeah?” I ask, taking her hand in mine. “That would be pretty cool.”
She stops me in the middle of the deserted street. “Don’t worry, I made sure to get your good side,” she laughs as she takes my cheeks in her hand, squeezing my lips together.
“Smartass.” I press forward, feeling her soft lips yield to me. She releases her hold and I feel her body soften against mine as she kisses me back. How many times since I’d met her had I wanted to take these liberties? Too many to count. I deepen the kiss, and our surroundings and the fact that we’re standing in the middle of the street fades away. Her hand slides into my hair, giving a gentle tug.
The sound of an approaching car causes me to pull away. She smiles against my lips, a small laugh escaping, and then I take her hand again as I wave a sorry to the car that drives past us honking its horn.