And first on the agenda? The man my mother was dating.
14
IN WHICH AIDEN BECOMES ACQUAINTED WITH JUNIPER’S WANDERING TONGUE
When I come home from school the next day, I’m covered in ketchup, mustard, and mayonnaise. There’s chocolate milk in my hair, and I don’t think I’ve managed to scrape all the mashed potatoes out of my ear.
I am fuming.
“Whoa,” Juniper says when I storm into the kitchen. Her blue eyes go wide as they trail over me. She wanders toward me as I glare, her socked feet shuffling silently on the floor. It’s something I’ve noticed about her—when she’s in author mode, she dresses for comfort. And though she does most of her writing in her loft bedroom, I’ve seen enough over the last week or two to know the signs: Fuzzy socks. Leggings. Oversized sweater. That’s her writing uniform, and it’s what she’s donning now.
Can’t help but notice that none ofherclothes have condiment stains. Don’t see any mashed potatoes inherear. Yeah, I’m feeling salty.
Literally.
Juniper’s jaw is hanging open by the time she reaches me. Her gaze ping-pongs all over the place, from my face to my crusty hair to the splotch of red on my shirt.
“There was a food fight in the cafeteria,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Whoa,” she says again, and at this point I really just don’t think her eyes can get any wider. There is an entire ring of white around those cornflower blues—
But my brain shudders to a halt, all thought of color comparisons for Juniper’s eyes disappearing, when she reaches out to touch my cheek. One finger extends slowly, brushing ever so gently against the corner of my mouth, right above my jaw. When she holds that finger up, I’m surprised to see that it has food on it—mayo, I think. I must have missed a spot.
“Hmm,” Juniper says, her gaze alight with something that makes my stomach flip nervously. Those eyes sparkle up at me, bluer than anything I’ve ever seen, as her lips pull into a mischievous smile. “Pudding, maybe?”
And without another word, she steps into me, her body pressing gently against mine—no more than the touch of a butterfly landing on a flower. Then she tilts her head up, looks at me with her laughing gaze, and licks the pudding right off my cheek.
Shelicks me.The flick of her tongue, hooking under my jaw, trailing up until she reaches the corner of my lips. And I knew, Iknew,that Juniper’s respect for personal space was more loose than most, but this—this is—
“Mayonnaise,” she says softly, her nose wrinkling. “Gross. And…” She tilts her head. Another flick of her tongue, this time just below my ear, and my hands clench desperately into fists at my sides. “Chocolate of some kind,” she says, nodding. “Definitely chocolate.”
My nostrils flare as I drag in breath after breath after breath, trying to get oxygen—but it’s not enough, because my head is still spinning, and Juniper’s body is still pressed against mine, and I can still feel her breath against my skin.
“Do you recall,” I say shakily, “telling me that you wouldn’t flirt with me?” I don’t move. I am a statue, too afraid to move—a sculpture, not of stone but of ice. And if I stand here too long, pressed up against this woman and her wandering tongue, I will melt.
Juniper sighs. “I do remember that, yes.”
I nod, no more than a spasm of my neck muscles. “And do you recall rule number one? That we won’t become romantically involved with each other?”
Another sigh—another gusting breath against my neck. “Yes,” she says, finally stepping away, leaving me chilled with the sudden absence of her warmth. “I remember that too.”
“I let the other evening slide—”
“Hey,” she says, her eyes narrowing up at me. “I told you that wasn’t just me.”
I swallow; she’s right. It wasn’t just her. It was a weird spell she wove without meaning to, yes, but I was pulled in with embarrassing ease.
“But this time—”
“This time was me,” she admits, nodding. Then she smiles. “And you don’t even like me. Isn’t that what you said the other day?”
I swallow again. I did say that. It sounds a little harsh now, though, that she’s repeating it back to me.
“All right,” she says with a melodramatic sigh. “I will keep my body parts to myself from now on. Tell me, though”—she gestures to me—“how did you end up in the crossfire?”
I’m still frozen, my hands in fists at my sides, my body tense. “When you do stuff like that,” I say instead of answering, “what exactly is going through your mind?”
And I regret asking immediately, because the change that comes over her is unmistakable. She recoils as though she’s been slapped, her body curling in on itself. The smile she gives me is forced, and even her pink hair seems to wilt like a flower without water.