Page 10 of Kiss Me, Maybe

A plan not unlike the one I described to Krystal is forming in the back of my brain.A scavenger hunt, and the final clue leads directly to me.Five clues and five locations in total. A whole city to work with. But where to start?

I’ve gone twenty-seven long years without a trace of romance in my life. If I’m going to be getting all the firsts out ofthe way, they’re going out with a bang.

“I’m gonna do it.” I jump off the couch. “I’m gonnado it!”

“Wait, what?” I can hear the confusion in Marcela’s voice as I run up the stairs. She reaches my room by the time I’ve opened my laptop. “Angela, what’s going on?”

“One second.” It’s only after I’ve finished typing that I can finally put my idea into words. “Okay, done! I’m not simply going to get my first kiss out of the way. There’s no romance in that. I’m going to make themearnit.”

She looks at me sideways. “Come again?”

“The person I share my first kiss with will first have to prove themself worthy of my hand in a series of trials.”

“I’m sorry, when did we travel back into medieval times?” Marcela teases. “Trials?Worthy of your hand? Who are you, a runaway princess in a fantasy novel?”

“No, not a fantasy novel. They’re all running away from weddings and arranged marriages in favor of independence.” I smile smugly. “I’m a wallflower, but I’m tired of sitting in the corner of every ball year after year. I want to be courted. I wantsuitors. A whole flock of them.”

“Wallflower.” She puts her hands on her hips, a flabbergasted expression firmly in place. “You really think that’s an accurate depiction?”

“You haven’t read a single historical romance I’ve lent you, have you?”

“Excuse me if dukes don’t quite do it for me,” she huffs, sitting at the end of my bed. “But go on. What scheme have you come up with, exactly?”

“Not a scheme. A scavenger hunt.” I turn my computeraround so she can see the screen. “The first clue will be found at the bar in the form of a riddle that leads to a second location, where the next clue can be found. The third location will have another clue, and so on and so forth until the first person to reach the final location—where I’ll be waiting—wins my first kiss.”

I don’t need to tell her which bar. Havana Bar has been our regular haunt for years. And Krystal is the one who helped me come up with the idea in the first place. Maybe she’d be willing to help me pull off the first clue.

“Take a risk at the tallest point in the city,” Marcela reads from the Word doc I’ve been typing my ideas in. “The tallest point being, what? Tower of the Americas?”

“Bingo,” I say. “From there, they’ll spot the next clue in the form of my favorite art piece. Last time I was there, it took my breath away.” I scroll through my phone for the photo and then hand her my phone. “The picture doesn’t do it justice. We have to go back in person.”

The day my parents left, I also needed to leave. Just the house, at least. The walls were too empty, the halls too silent. So I drove downtown to do some sightseeing.

At the highest point of the tower are the city’s most breathtaking views. Some would argue it’s more beautiful at night, when the city is aglow with lights from other buildings downtown. I went during the day, which proved to be almost as monotonous as people say. There was nothing to see but concrete roofs and tall metal buildings, low-hanging gray clouds and no sun in sight whatsoever. Until I spotted a flash of purple graffiti on the side of a concrete building.

The mural was of a woman with a torn chest, holding out herown heart in raised palms. The offering in her hands was a slash of color—purple and black, more bruise than organ. Despite the wound in her chest bleeding white, she was smiling, almost wickedly. There was a knowing gleam in her painted eyes, as if she were all too aware of the power of what she held in her hands. As if she was daring the unknown person before her to take it.

“Wow.” Marcela tilts her head at the image. “That’s… Okay, yeah, I’m not even gonna try to understand what this painting means.”

I let out a laugh, unsurprised. “It’s okay. I’m probably interpreting it in a way that would make the artist cringe anyway.”

I take my phone back from her. I stare down at it again, flooded with a feeling I’m not sure how to name. “This is probably going to sound weird, but I feel like I can see myself in this woman.”

“The woman who tore out her own heart?” Marcela’s face twists with incomprehension.

“That’s not the way I see it. She’s raging into love the way soldiers rage into war. Love is an act of bravery to this woman. It doesn’t make her weak or vulnerable. It makes her powerful. She’s offering up her heart like it’s a challenge to be conquered.”

Marcela nods in understanding, even as her gaze turns wary. “She’s you.”

“She’s me,” I say. “And it’s not something I imagine many people will understand. To the people who do, they’ll dig deeper and discover the artist is local and showcases her work during First Friday. I haven’t figured out what comes next yet.”

“It looks like you’re really set on this wild-goose chase,” Marcela says. “You couldn’t just join dating apps like the restof us?”

“Not a chance.”

“Are you sure this won’t have the opposite effect and put too much pressure on your shoulders instead? First times are awkward. Take it from the girl who accidentally shoved her tongue down her first boyfriend’s throat in an attempt to impress him with her nonexistent kissing skills.”

“You were also a teenager and didn’t know any better.”

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