Never Have I Ever
Chapter thirty-three
Hayes Rosewood
It took surprisingly little convincing to get Aurora to let me take her back to campus after dinner at her parents’ house.
Everyone was laughing over slices of yellow cake with chocolate frosting—Aurora’s favorite, I learned—and I just bent down and asked if she wanted to ride back to school with me.
She smiled around a bite of cake and nodded.
Her friends took her presents back to their apartment.
Meanwhile, we sat in the back seat of the SUV while Mac drove.
I was too nervous to say anything, and Aurora seemed content with the silence.
She rested her head on my shoulder. I toyed with a lock of her silky hair.
Even with my nerves bouncing around like Ping-Pong balls beneath my skin, there was something peaceful about the drive.
This little pocket of time where we weren’t on display or trying to fit in whatever roles we’d been assigned in life.
That liminal feeling followed us out of the car and onto campus.
I had Mac drop us off on the opposite side from Aurora’s apartment, and she didn’t protest. If my heart is a solar panel, Aurora is the sun, peeking out from behind cloud cover every now and again, shining rays of hope onto me.
Her demeanor tonight increases my courage, but it’s still difficult to get the words out.
“You’re quieter than usual,” Aurora comments in a teasing tone as we wind the concrete path, shuffling through fallen leaves beneath the yellow light of streetlamps. Her hand is in mine, and I resist the urge to squeeze it when anxiety knots my stomach.
I’ve never felt like this before about a woman.
Not once in my entire life. I flirt, go on dates, maybe share a kiss or two, then repeat the cycle.
I remember taking a psychology class my freshman year and laughing when the professor brought up fear of rejection.
Now I wish I would have paid more attention.
“I figured if I don’t say anything, I can’t ruin tonight,” I reply.
Aurora huffs a little laugh, glancing up at me with curious blue eyes.
“You’re happy,” I murmur as my explanation. “And I’m certain it’s got nothing to do with me, but I’m selfishly enjoying witnessing the phenomenon.”
Her shoulder bumps into mine.
“You make it sound like it’s rare to see me happy. That’s not true, as much as my parents beg to differ.”
I notice the shift in her tone and worry that I did exactly what I said I didn’t want to. But at the same time, I want her to open up to me. I want to be someone she trusts. If that means my confession is put off for a little while … what’s the harm?
“I don’t think you’re unhappy—I didn’t mean it that way. I just meant that I like seeing you so relaxed and open.”
She hums but doesn’t reply. I rake my free hand through my hair.
“I’m sorry for phrasing it that way, I—”
Her hand squeezes mine.
“It’s okay, I know I’m not the most emotional person.” She exhales a laugh, but it sounds hollow. “My parents and even my brother don’t really get that. They’re so loud and bright and expressive. So are my friends, in different ways. I’m not like that, though, and I don’t know how to be.”
“You don’t need to be.”
Aurora lets out a derisive snort.
“I’m serious,” I continue. “You may not talk all the time or smile every second of the day, but I think it makes when you do all the more meaningful. I like that it takes more to earn your laugh.”
“I’m comfortable with the way I am, but I worry that the people I love don't know I love them.” I see her face screw up as we pass under a streetlight. “I don’t know why I’m saying all of this. It sounds ridiculous.”
In the distance, I spot the tunnel of twinkle lights. We’ll be there soon, and then after that it won’t be too much longer before we’re at the door to her building. My time with her is running out. I wish I could find a way to replace the sand in the hourglass.
“It’s not ridiculous, and I think they do,” I reassure her in a quiet voice. “Your friends interrogated me while you went to take down your hair.”
“What?” she asks, disbelief evident.
“Yeah, they asked me questions about my intentions and how I felt about you. They’re all protective over you, especially Marigold.”
Aurora’s brows pull together. I can tell she’s thinking about what that means and how it relates.
“Marigold said you’re always caring for and protecting them, so she was returning the favor,” I add. “That sounds like they know you love them.”
“She really said that?” Aurora looks up at me.
I nod. “I don’t think you need to worry about people seeing that you care.”
She looks at the path ahead of us.
Her voice is barely above a whisper when she says, “That’s good.”
We walk in silence for a little while; the only sound is the rustling and crunching of leaves.
“What did you tell them?” Aurora breaks the silence. “When they asked how you felt about me.”
I swallow, my throat feeling tight. Do people really deal with this feeling all of the time? It’s terrible.
“I mostly told them it was personal. I didn’t want them to know something before you.”
We make it to the twinkle lights, and I count the timing as fate. I stop in the midst of the glowing tunnel of trees, and Aurora stops with me.
“So there’s something to tell me, then?”
“Yeah,” I rasp, and reach for her other hand. “I like you, Aurora. I like being around you. I like studying together and seeing you at my fights and watching you dance.”
She dips her head, hiding her expression from me. I can’t tell if she’s blushing or upset.
The words come out mumbled and shy. “I like you, too.”
My heart soars, but I know there’s still more I have to say.
“I don’t want to fake date anymore,” I blurt out before I lose steam.
Her head pops back up, confusion in her eyes. Panic rattles me whenever I realize how those words sound. I let go of her hands to hold her face instead.
“Because I want this to be real. In the spirit of rule number two, I should confess it’s felt real to me for a while now.”
Surprise flickers over her expression. There’s a slight upturn to her berry-stained lips.
“You don’t have girlfriends. You’ve never gone past a first date,” she says quietly.
Her words make my stomach twist, but I can tell by her tone that they’re not accusatory.
She wants me to be sure. But what she doesn’t know is that I’ve spent the past year unwittingly pining after her, and getting to fake date her only made my feelings grow.
I’m not sure about my future or what to do about my parents’ expectations, but I’m certain about my feelings for Aurora Driscoll.
“You’re right. You’d be the first. Just like when I took you to Haymakers.”
I glimpse a flash of heat in her eyes. My thumbs graze her cheekbones. The desire to press my lips to hers is magnetic. My head tilts forward. I’m almost lost to the pull. But then I recall what I pieced together about Aurora. I can’t take her first kiss without permission.
“I won’t break rule number one,” I whisper, our breaths intermingling.
She places her hands on my forearms over the jacket I’m wearing. Her eyes meet mine, and I watch the wall around her vulnerability crumble.
“Hayes—I’ve never …” She squeezes her eyes shut. “I’ve never kissed anyone before.”
“I won’t say I’m worthy to be your first, but I’m willing. I won’t do anything you don’t want, and if you pull back now, it doesn’t change how I feel. We can take things slow.”
She draws in a shaky breath. Her eyes open again. I try to read the emotion in her gaze, but I can’t. Assuming she’s conflicted, I start to lower my hands and step back. Aurora grips my arms, stopping me.
“Kiss me.”