Chapter Thirteen September 8 #2
“Not all of them. Just English and a couple of others. Definitely not Math. Anyway,” I say, “we could probably hammer this out in an hour. We can even do it right here if you’ll drive me to Andie’s after.”
“Why Andie’s?”
“Because that’s where I’m going to tell my parents I am,” I say, smiling as I text my mom.
Mom: Okay. I’ll have daddy come get you at six.
Me: It’s Friday night!
Mom: Six!
Me: Fine!!!
I shove my phone into his cup holder before sucking in a breath, hoping it will tame my thumping pulse as I search for the nerve to ask what I’ve been wanting to ask John since we kissed. “Do you ever think about that night? Theo’s party.” After a beat of silence, I press on. “The kiss?”
I pick at my sleeves, waiting for his response, knowing that his words will set the foundation for what I say next.
“We were supposed to pretend that didn’t happen, right?” His voice softens as the lines of his face deepen.
“I don’t remember agreeing to that.”
It’s quiet again until John clears his throat. His eyes land on the copy of Hamlet resting on my lap. “Did your mom agree to pick you up from Andie’s?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, remembering the offer I made. I toss him Hamlet before taking out my laptop and cracking it open. “I’ll type, but you have to tell me what to say.”
“But I didn’t read it,” he reminds me.
“What about Mr. Pine’s lessons or discussions in class?”
“I didn’t pay much attention.”
“Well,” I say, turning my face to his. “Pay attention now.”
He runs a nervous hand through his hair and nods. “Alright. I’m listening.”
It takes just over an hour, but by quarter after five we have a pretty good essay for John to turn in.
It took asking him a few leading questions to get John in the right headspace, but once he was warmed up, he came up with some thoughts and perspectives that I’d never thought of before.
It’s interesting how people’s lived experiences can shape how they take in literature. Or anything, for that matter.
“I’ll email this to you when I get home. Don’t send it to Mr. Pine until at least nine. He might get suspicious if you turn it in too soon.”
“Smart,” John says as he sends me a text with his email address.
I put my laptop away and shift in the seat so my back is against the passenger-side window. “You never answered my last question.”
John tilts his head. “What do you mean? The essay is done, isn’t it?”
“Not about Hamlet. The one about our kiss,” I manage, my heart in my throat. “Actually,” I cut in before he can answer, “can you turn around?”
“What?” The question buries his laugh.
“Just humor me.”
“Okay,” he says, following my instructions. “I’m facing the window. Do you want to tell me why?”
“Putting aside what we said about forgetting we kissed, you liked it, right?”
He turns to look at me and I bring my hand to his face, forcing it back toward the driver’s-side window. “Yeah. I liked it. But—”
“I liked it, too,” I say, cutting him off again. “The way I see it, we have a couple of options here. One, we go back to being just friends. But to be honest, we were never really good at that.”
John’s shoulders rise in a laugh.
“Option two, we hang out and see what happens.”
In the not so far-off distance, the custodian throws trash bag after trash bag into the rusty brown bin. I try not to take this as a sign.
“I’m not looking for a relationship,” I say. “Just casual.” I need him to know this isn’t a ploy to get him to be my boyfriend. I also needed to say the words out loud to remind myself of that. “You can turn around now.”
When John turns in his seat to face me again, his cheeks are blazing red.
“I’m down.” He says it so simply, and yet his two-word response is more powerful than my own long-winded, over-practiced pitch.
“Cool.” My shoulders fall as I try to copy his approach. John’s arm brushes against mine on the center console and suddenly the temperature in this car is hotter than Mercury next to the sun.
“Just kissing, for now,” I stammer out before my nerves take complete hold of me.
“That’s fine with me.” He leans in, but I bring my hand up to his chest to stop him.
“One more thing. If you meet someone—or I meet someone—the deal is off.”
“Lennon,” he says, intensity and longing in his blue eyes, “I don’t see anyone else here I want to kiss.”
“Okay. You can kiss me now. If you want to.”
“Okay, because I have been wanting to,” he says, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear.
My body melts at his touch, his scent, and then his mouth. I pull away, ever so slightly. “Me too,” I say, my breathing already intensifying. “Obviously.”
The back of his hand skims across my cheek. His mouth is a whisper away from mine. “I’ll be whatever you need me to be.”
Our lips meet again and it’s all I can do not to climb over the console.
I can’t think straight. I’ve thought about kissing him again constantly since the moment our first kiss ended, and being here now, doing it so freely, I’m a complete goner.
Useless to the world. As he wraps one arm around my waist, thrusting me closer to him, I feel like a matchstick that’s just been lit.
This is dangerous. This could get messy.
But it’s also exactly where I want to be.
“You’re so good at this,” he says, his lips touching mine as he speaks.
He kisses me again, and I can’t believe this is happening. Me and John. John and me. I wouldn’t trade this feeling for anything.
Theo and Andie have no idea what they’re talking about. Everything about me and John makes complete sense.
I press my lips into his and John pulls me in even closer—the matchstick completely ablaze now.