Page 109 of Don't You Forget About Me

‘Yeah?’ he replies.

‘I feel a bit drunk,’ I say. ‘I should go. But …’

‘What?’

‘I don’t want to.’

He reaches out and brushes a stray hair away from my face because touching each other now seems to be a thing we do, and I think: signs won’t get stronger than this.

Before I’m even fully sure I’m going to do it, I close the distance between us, put my arms around his neck and kiss him.

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It’s still terrifying, but inebriation makes it slightly less terrifying to tough out the seconds of not being sure if he’ll respond. Never mind dancing on your own, kissing on your own’s the truly lonely activity.

The moment I worry it won’t happen, suddenly Lucas is kissing me back, with equal passion, his hand on the back of my head, fingers wound into my hair.

No one kisses as well as this. I’d thought my teenage memories were rose tinted, but if anything they had faded like an old photograph. Everything he used to do to me is still there. It’s like my body remembers him and lights up in response, a ping-ping-ping of recognition and lust travelling the length of my body. I’ve had dozens of kisses-with-grappling in the years in between, and they were all pale shadows of this: the push of him, the pull of him, the whole effect of him.

I’d told myself: well yeah, but you mythologise your first love, don’t you, it’s nostalgia playing tricks. It wasn’t. My God, it wasn’t.

He needs to know how much I want him. Since I’ve not had the courage to tell him, I throw my efforts into this mode of communication instead.

Not only am I making it a deep and quite filthy kiss, I slide my hands under his t-shirt and on to bare flesh underneath, hopefully making it clear this is not a ‘let’s have a quick snog at the end of the night’, this is a full on, ‘take me to bed’ bid.

Lucas slides a hand under my top in response – yes! – and I put my hand over his and move it straight up to my breast, my hand over his. I am certainly not playing hard to get. The euphoria of the moment is carrying me. He squeezes me gently and tugs at the lace of my bra cup and his fingertips brush my left nipple. We’re miraculously back at that same second base (I never understood the bases) we dexterously managed to achieve undetected in the Botanical Gardens. Only this time, we don’t have to go home separately, aching with unfulfillment.

When I fumble around his flies, he grabs my hand and says: ‘Stop.’

I step back an inch, getting my breathing back.

‘What?’

‘We can’t.’

I look at the windows. I suppose he’s right, the blinds won’t be foolproof and there’s still enough light in here we could be seen.

‘OK. Upstairs?’

My clothing is rumpled and my face is hot.

‘No. I mean, best not do this.’

I don’t understand. He steps back a little further and it feels like a million miles.

‘Wh— what? Did I do something wrong?’

He looks at me from under his brow and says in a thick voice:

‘Hardly.’

Nnnggg. I am in a state my mum would deem unladylike. I go to kiss him again and he stops me, hands firm on my upper arms.

‘Seriously, Gina. We’re both being pissed and silly.’

Gina?

‘I know,’ I say. ‘Is that a problem?’

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