Page 53 of The Other Side of Together

I tug on his hoodie zipper until he bends toward me, our mouths crashing into each other.

“I knew,” he says between kisses, “if I came here…I’d get all sweaty…” He pauses and gets too involved with my mouth to talk, gripping my hips. “Gotta get sweaty enough my dad’ll believe I went for a run.” He guides me backward and presses me against the wall, our mouths telling everything we can’t put into words until footsteps come up the stairs.

I push him toward the window, and reach around him,yank aside the curtains, shove it open. “You have to go,” I whisper.

He ducks through the window, turning back to me and grinning. “Sufficiently sweaty.”

When someone knocks on my door, I whirl around. “Yeah?”

“I need your help downstairs, please.” Mama’s voice is barely loud enough to make it through the closed door.

“Okay,” I call. “Give me a minute. Finishing some math.” I cringe, then whirl back around to Marcus, leaning out the window, our faces close. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“I’m definitely not,” he whispers back, the lamplight from my window and his smile combining to spotlight him.

“Wait,” I whisper.

“Yeah?” He sticks his head through the window, and I take it between my hands and lean toward him, my lips on his ear, my heart pounding the words out of me.

“I love you,” I say then pull away, but Marcus grabs my wrists.

“Whoa. Wait. What did you say?”

I hold my finger to my lips and glance over my shoulder, then back to him. There’s no way he hasn’t seen it in my eyes. But just in case, I say it again, my throat throbbing. “I love you.”

He stares at me, frozen, then shakes his head. “No…no, no, no.” His palm goes over my ear, his fingers tangling in my hair. “That’s not how this goes.” His forehead meets mine and I close my eyes, breathing in his heat. “It’s supposed to be like, a…moment.” His voice ripples around me. “I’m supposed to say it first and then you say it back and—”

I cup my hand over his mouth. “Shh! You’re going to get me in so much trouble.”

He pulls away. “Then tell me again so I can see what it looks like when you say it.” He runs a finger over my bottom lip, watching it before meeting my eyes again.

I grab his hand. “You should’ve been listening.”

“I was,” he murmurs, searching my face. “But…whoa.” His throat bobs as he swallows, his eyes roaming my face. “I was waiting for the perfect time to say it and—”

“You worry about perfection, and I’ll say what I think when I think it.”

“Is that the first time you’ve thought it?” He arches one brow and grins.

“Not telling.”

“That’s okay. I’ve seen it. You want me.”

Blood surges through my veins and I’m lightheaded. “You’re right.”

“Prove it.”

The adrenaline surge leaves me coiled and ready to spring through my window, but I lock my knees. “Not until you say it back.”

“This isn’t how I wanted to say it. Or where or how or any of it,” he whispers.

“So you’ve thought about it…” I tilt my head, smiling.

He nods slowly. “Yeah, like…every time I look at you or talk to you or text you or read your texts or write you notes or read yours. When we’re video chatting and I’m wishing you were in bed beside me instead of all the way over here.”

My stomach flips and I squeeze the windowsill. He glances to his right, his face smooth in the castoff light before he meets my eyes again, glossy and soft.

“I think about it when I daydream about you in biology and English and math and history and during practice and church and riding the train and walking home. And breathing. So yeah…” He nods slowly. “I’ve thought about it a couple times.” He shrugs. “Seems crazy but doesn’t feel crazy.” His eyes hold mine, and I beam at him.

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