Page 87 of How to Be Remy Cameron

“Strange and weird?” I repeat nervously.

Nose scrunched, he says, “My dad’s not really a touchy guy. I think that influenced how my mom was about affection.”

“How?”

“Whenever I was in the room with them, my mom only kissed the top of his head or rubbed his hand, gave him a quick hug.”

“That’s not strange or weird.”

“It is,” insists Ian. “It is when you have someone like my halmeoni in your life. When she knows you, she hugs you like you belong in her arms. Sweet kisses to your forehead. She’d lay her head on my shoulder after a long day and tell me all her stories.”

“Is everyone in your family like that?” I ask “Aunt Jilynn?”

The corners of his mouth twitch. I think he likes that I remember.

“Yes.” His finger steadies on. “Whenever I Skype with mom’s family back in California or the ones that live in Daejeon, they’re always piled on top of each other, cheek-to-cheek, trying to talk to me. But my parents were never like that, in and out of public. So I’m not…”

When Ian goes quiet, I press my thumb behind his ear and wait until his heartrate slows. I let him squeeze onto those memories like a midnight that’ll never end.

“This is new,” he says. “You’re new.”

“New is good,” I tell him.

“I should know what to do. Right?”

“Nope. We’re strange and weird. No instruction manual needed.”

He laughs; I do too. Because this is new, which is scary and exciting and unexpected. And I think we both like that.

Ian tells me more about his halmeoni and about his infatuation withThe Pirates of the Caribbeangrowing up—the reason behind the hoop earring. I talk about Willow and about my obsession with Charlie Brown holiday specials. I almost tell him about Free. But I can’t, not before Rio and Lucy, not before my parents.

“What’re you writing?” I ask.

His finger pauses on my wrist. An outbreak of crimson tints his fawn skin. He clears his throat; his shy eyes roam my face. “Na neo joahae.”

“What?”

“I like you.” Then his finger traces a heart into my palm.

I can’t stop myself. I whisper, “Can I kiss you?” and when he nods, I lean forward. I kiss him. Every soft, insistent feeling for him is in this kiss. Every “no, you can’t” is erased by a loud, vibrant “yes, you will.” My thumb finds his dimple and his leg wiggles between mine.

He touches my hips. I move into his grip. A small tug of war follows as limbs and hands and lips navigate unknown waters. I let him win, because I’m more experienced, because he needs to learn what he likes, what he’s comfortable with. But we’re both hard and needy.

We’re both shaky and clumsy. I almost knee him in the groin. He almost rolls me off the bed. The pillows fall, as do our sweaters. He’s breathless on his back under me. His eyes blink. I kiss a mole on his neck to settle him.

“Remy.” His voice is tight, but happy. “Can we—”

“Can wewhat?” I interrupt.

He groans impatiently. It’s the most exciting thing I’ve ever heard. But I get the message. I ask him if he’s sure? If he has protection? If he wants his first time to be with me? Because that’s huge. I wasn’t Dimi’s first. I’ve never been anyone’s first.

But every answer is, “Yes, yes, hell yes.”

And every answer comes with a kiss like a promise. What we’re about to give each other, we deserve.

22

Novembers in Georgia are bizarre.The weather is like a five-year-old in a candy aisle—perpetually undecided. Some days, it’s a seven-layers-of-clothing deal. Other days, it’s a light hoodie and shorts kind of thing.

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