Page 69 of The Summers of Us

My heart ran a marathon in my chest. Couldn’t stop spinning. My head, my heart—spinning. This random guy. What was I doing? He was hot. He didn’t matter. He wasreallyhot. It was just fun.

I put my palm on his cheek, around his neck, down his back.

Something shifted in his eyes. He kissed my neck, mapping out its pale skin. It felt like fizzy soda popping from a fresh pour. Kissing wasn’t something I did—I’deverdone—but here I was, turning his face to mine.

Everett’s forehead kissed against mine. He started to say something. I cut him off with my lips. Kissed Everett Bishop. Eyes closed. Mouth gaped. I couldn’t believe it. We’d found our way to each other, the steel fence I built around my heart be damned. Kelsie be damned.

I grabbed his shoulders. Pulled him closer. My fingers explored the skin under his shirt. Our lips were wet and soft and warm. Red. Fiery. We drowned in each other. I didn’t know fire could drown you, but I couldn’t breathe.

“Everett,” I exhaled, gasping up for air.

“What?”

I opened my eyes. Some guy whose name I didn’t remember. He looked like a movie star. I was reeling from a trance. Spinning on the grass. AbsolutelynotKelsie.

“You good?”

I brushed my hair out of my face. “Yeah.”

“You okay with this?”

“Yeah, you?” I said, breath mixing with his.

“Yeah,” he whispered.

Then his lips were on mine again. ThankGod. The kisses were quick. Breathless. Frantic. We were drowning. Had to save each other. I couldn’t follow our hands before they were somewhere else. Waist. Back. Shoulder blades. Neck. Face.

Tongues, arguing for control.

We made out under all the confused constellations. Shooting stars be damned.

Age 16, June 17

Sleep spat me out into morning.

I was in my bedroom but I didn’t know how I’d gotten here. My alarm clock read 11:40am.Oh, God. I shielded the taunting midmorning sun from my eyes. My head thrummed, pinball clinks inside my skull.

Slices of last night flashed in my mind: beer, burnt orange dancing, Mason. Fire. Everett. Kelsie. The sound. Haven. Chance. A different kind of fire. Tequila. Charlie. A third kind of fire.

What the hell had happened?

A fourth fire showed itself when it dawned on me. Charlie was my first kiss and I didn’t even remember the taste. I groaned and covered my hands with my face as embarrassment slithered up my neck. No wonder sleep threw me out of its clutches; I was a mar on the very foundation of humankind, unworthy of dreamlands.

I didn’t need Blair; this shame was punishment enough, the splitting pain in my head a final reminder to never touch alcohol again.

I peeled myself from the blanket. It was time to enter today and face the music. My necklace successfully made it off my neck last night, so I put it back on and headed to the bathroom.

In the bathroom mirror, a hungover, heartbroken, and hideous shell of me stared back. The result of a failed effort to remove my makeup last night, mascara still clumped my eyelashes together. Foundation splotched across my cheeks. My eyebrows were vacationing in two different continents. I wiped everything away until the real me returned.

I ignored the sweaty, wind-spun knots in my hair and bunched it into a ponytail. It made my tornado of blonde hair a sunny day instead.

I stumbled to the living room and found lost puzzle pieces there.

Haven flipped pancakes on a steamy griddle. The kitchen island was partially set for breakfast: orange juice, buttered toast, ketchup for some reason.

Holden snored on the couch, using three throw pillows as a blanket, a plastic popcorn bowl on the floor by his face.

If Blair and Hadley weren’t out of town this weekend, it would have been my ass frying on that griddle. At least one thing favored me today.

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