Evie
IT FINALLY HAPPENED. Lace up your boots, ladies and gentlemen. We’re headed to snog town. brANDON AND I KISSED. After five long months of relentless flirting—and, let’s be honest, whatever else has been going on between us since my would-be wedding day—he kissed me.
I stopped by to see him after work this afternoon.
I could sense right away that he was exhausted, so I offered to do Teddy’s bedtime routine for him.
He didn’t want to miss out on that time with Teddy, so we bathed him, gave him a nice relaxing baby massage (any excuse to appreciate those scrumptious fat rolls), and, finally, read him a bedtime story before wrapping him up in his sleep sack covered in stars.
Brandon kept stealing glances at me the entire time, thinking I didn’t notice the way he was looking at me.
But I saw. His smiles were so soft and genuine and full of appreciation.
When it came time to rock Teddy to sleep, I insisted he go eat something and relax. I took over from there.
After getting Teddy down (no easy feat without a boob full of milk), I found Brandon waiting at the kitchen island with two plates of lasagna.
He looked up, smiled, and invited me to eat dinner with him.
Grateful, I joined him. He said a quick prayer before we gorged ourselves, which, if I’m being honest, surprised me a little.
I’ve never known Brandon to pray before a meal.
When we were done, we cleaned up the kitchen together, and then he held up a bag of popcorn questioningly.
I nodded, and he sent me to the living room to pick out a movie.
I was sweating like a pig by the time he joined me.
We’d never watched a movie together before.
It seemed significant—like something you might do on a first date.
Brandon, ever observant, noticed how nervous I seemed and asked if I was okay.
Wiping away a bead of sweat from my temple, I mentally cursed my overactive sweat glands. I insisted that I was okay, then asked him what made him ask.
“Because you’re sweating,” he noted, staring at my hairline. He glanced over at the thermostat and offered to turn the heat down.
I think I squeaked something akin to a yes. Smirking, he obliged before rejoining me on the couch.
We were both quiet for a minute. Me, unsure what to say. Him, munching on popcorn. With his arm draped casually over the back of the sofa, it seemed like he hadn’t a care in the world that he was only a cushion away from me in a dark room on a cold October night.
He groaned when the opening credits came on, seeming perturbed by my choice of movie. A horror film. Not because I like scary movies, but because everyone knows they’re the absolute best for cuddling . . .
But when I defended my selection, he said he wasn’t sure if he should be watching “things like this” anymore. Something about the Bible saying to focus on what’s pure and good and lovely. And a slasher film didn’t seem all that good and lovely and wholesome.
I rolled my eyes and accused him of being a scaredy-cat.
Crossing his arms, he denied it, which only convinced me more. “You’re scared,” I accused again, laughing. “Admit it.”
“I am not scared,” he drawled impatiently, giving me a reproachful look. Then his eyes gleamed with sudden mischief. “Maybe I just need you to come closer and promise to keep me safe.”
I was so amused that my anxiety evaporated. Discarding my popcorn bowl on the coffee table, I crept across the couch on all fours like a cat, my confidence restored. “You really think I could keep you safe?” I asked as he opened his arms to me, grinning like he’d gotten exactly what he wanted.
From monsters and serial killers? He had no doubt, noting I’m feral when I want to be.
I squealed when he grabbed me by the waist and flung me around like I weighed nothing more than a rag doll.
He faced me forward and tucked me neatly into his side so we were cuddled up like we should have been from the very beginning.
“But there’s one monster you’ll never be able to protect me from,” he added.
I was genuinely confused, but then he booped me on the nose and said, “You.”
Someone in the movie screamed, and we both jumped, then laughed. When our eyes locked again, he swallowed like he was nervous—and then his eyes dropped to my lips. And that, friends, was the moment I knew.
He wanted to kiss me, too.
I may or may not have demanded he kiss me, right then and there. His eyes widened, and I fluttered my lashes as I tacked on a polite-sounding please for good measure. When he didn’t respond, I goaded him by saying, “You know you want to.”
He leaned away from me with wide eyes, looking at me as if I’d grown another eyeball in the center of my forehead.
It was mortifying, but I couldn’t backtrack.
So I pulled on my big girl britches, girded my loins, and told him to drop the act.
He groaned and looked up, like he knew the jig was up and was calling on a higher power for help.
“We can’t,” he sighed, taking me gently by the arms and pushing me back. “I’m sorry.”
“Why?” It came out like a plea.
“Because,” he whispered, stroking my arms as he held me at bay, cringing like he was in pain.
Hurt by his rejection, I kept demanding to know why.
He shook his head infinitesimally, arguing with himself about something. “Don’t. Don’t ruin this.”
“Don’t ruin what?” I felt so desperate that I was close to tears.
“What we have. It’s . . . perfect.”
I argued with him, obviously. Told him he knows it’s not.
He didn’t argue back, nor did he try to stop me from shaking off his resistance, or from winding my arms around his shoulders.
That was all the proof I needed that he wanted me, too, but then he let me swing my leg over his lap and straddle him. “Kiss me,” I demanded again. “Please.”
His hands found my waist. He squeezed my sides like he was fighting the urge to pull me closer, even as he insisted he didn’t want to “complicate things.” When I asked what “things” he was referring to, he sighed.
“Our friendship,” he said, emphasizing the word.
His hands dropped to my hips, but he was still resisting me, leaning as far away from me as the couch would allow.
Then he said he “cared about me.” That he “wanted to give me what I wanted, but—”
“What we both want,” I corrected impetuously.
A lifeless smirk transformed his face. “What we both want. But—”
“Please,” I whispered, then cupped his face in my hands, savoring the gritty feeling of his stubble against my palms. “You’re all I want.”
Apparently, I had said the magic words—because the next thing I knew, his hands were tunneling deep into my hair, and his mouth was attached to mine.
Time seemed to crawl to a standstill as I adjusted to the sensation of his warm, firm lips moving gently with mine.
I swear, if there were lightbulbs inside my brain, they were exploding one by one—like lights flickering out on a sinking ship.
I was going down.
He paused abruptly and pulled back, pleading with me to tell him to stop. But his eyes were dark and hooded and obviously hungry for more. He didn’t want to stop, and I didn’t want him to, either.
“Never,” I told him.
The next several minutes sped by like we’d pressed fast forward on a VCR.
One second, his lips were safely in their lane, and the next, they were crashing through the centerline into mine, our mouths rolling together as effortlessly as if we’d kissed a million times before.
And one second, he was cradling my face like I was the most delicate thing he’d ever held, and the next, he was tugging me closer, his hands exploring and pulling at my clothes . . .
There was no build up to the sudden intensity of the moment—no shyness, no uncertainty, no hesitation. Just pure, unadulterated passion. Almost like he’d been waiting to kiss me for a very, very long time.
He kept pleading with me to tell him to stop, even as his lips explored my jaw, my ear, my neck. He shifted forward on the couch, pushing me down onto the cushions. Suddenly, I was pinned beneath him while he kissed me in a way that felt completely out of my depth.
I don’t know why, but I just . . . clammed up. Big time. I think it was because I was kissing brANDON of all people. He’d always seemed so far out of reach, an impossibility—a daydream, really. But there we were, making out like it was the most normal thing in the world when it absolutely was not.
I could have said stop at any moment, like he’d insisted, but no. Instead, my lips just stopped working. And my brain. Honestly, I think I went into shock.
So embarrassing.
Brandon sensed my discomfort almost right away and moved back to give me some space.
He apologized, roughing his hands through his hair as he sat up, then pulled me up with him.
I didn’t mean to, but I shifted away from him, avoiding eye contact like he was a total stranger.
Honestly, he felt like a stranger. The whole situation didn’t feel real.
He kept apologizing in frantic whispers, looking at me like he thought I might be upset.
He wasn’t sure what to say, and that made two of us.
Hopping up, I used that same lame excuse he came up with about how Grandma might be waiting up for me.
Nodding, he stood, too, shooing my hands away as I reached for the popcorn bowls. Robotically, he grabbed the bowls, and I followed him to the kitchen, both of us as silent as if we were part of a funeral procession.
It was the strangest moment of my life. But I was also on cloud nine, plotting our next movie night rendezvous in the back of my mind. Next time, I won’t be so taken off guard, and I won’t act so . . . stupid. And awkward. Ugh! I ruined what could have been the best night of my life.
Figures.
Still avoiding eye contact, I grabbed my coat from the hook by the side door and shrugged it on.
When I looked up to force out a stilted goodbye, Brandon was bent over the counter, his knuckles as white as the porcelain sink clutched firmly in his grip.
His head was bowed like he was distressed about the situation.
I still don’t get why kissing me made him react like that—or why he even felt the need to deny wanting to kiss me in the first place.
All I knew was that I couldn’t leave him like that.
I also knew that if I didn’t offer him some semblance of reassurance, that kiss might have had the potential to ruin what was forming between us.
So I ran toward him and wrapped him in a tight hug.
He hesitated at first, but then his arms wound around me, pulling my ear flush against the wild beating of his heart.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed into my hair. “I got carried away. Are you upset?”
I rolled my eyes and said I’m the one who asked him to kiss me. It’s not like he forced himself on me.
“I know,” he sighed, holding me tighter. “But . . .”
“Shh,” I soothed. “It’s fine.”
He only shook his head, unconvinced.
“Brandon.” I tilted my head up and rested my chin against his sternum. “Best kiss I’ve ever had. Promise.”
He laughed once, then groaned, and I laughed, too.
And that was that.
That was our first kiss.
And I pray to God it won’t be our last.