Page 107 of Kissing is the Easy Part
I lie to my parents, telling them a bunch of us are going on a trip together. They buy it, for some reason, but Lindsey catches on immediately. She even offers to lend me the prize money she won in an essay contest. I take her up on it—every bit of help counts.
Our vacation is the wealthy version of New York City, and even though Flora’s been here eight billion times like she claims, she’s still enchanted—by the city itself, the holiday decorations, the high-end department stores and their elaborate window displays, the aroma of roasted chestnuts from street vendors, the constant hum of the streets,the fineries in life. She’shappy, and I remind myself to gasp in amazement every now and then, even if she’s just trying on shoes.
But to be fair, it’s not all about money. We go to MoMA and make out on the deserted stairs. We take a walk in Central Park, breathing in the crisp winter air, and end up in a small-scale snow fight. We have incredible coffee in Williamsburg. At night we sit by the window, watching the city unfold below us, and she looks at me with such quiet love, saying we should do this every year. We take a bath together, the steam clouding the windows as she kisses me everywhere.
How can this end? I wonder in a daze as Flora leans in to wipe cream from the corner of my mouth. We’re having cupcakes in a park, and she’s sweeter than the red velvet cake. How can something I treasure so much slip through my fingers like this?
Flora and me, we’re so good together on vacation. It’s easy when we’re planning parties, flying paper airplanes, on that overnight date at her lake house, when the world feels like it’s all ours. It’s easy when we’re spending Christmas in this fabulous city. But then reality plods in, and our love loses its invincibility in the harsh light of mundaneness.
We’ll go back home eventually. And that’s when we’ll be torn apart.
She brought her camera with her, and I take pictures without thinking—clouds, piles of snow on the curb, the cracked bricks of a nearby building, the reflections in windows, fire escapes casting shadows on the streets. Each minute is carved into my memory. But mostly, I take pictures of her laughing.
It’s the best view in the city.
When our vacation ends and we part ways—Flora to St. Barts, me to Tampa, Florida—to catch the next segment of our vacation, I kiss her like it’s the last time.
“Why do you look like you’re about to cry?” Her eyes twinkle as she tugs her luggage behind her, her coat unbuttoned and flapping. “The Four Seasons issensational, right? You’ll never be able to enjoy anything else again.”
“Yes, I’ll never be able to enjoy anything else again,” I repeat, looking at her. This is my perfect ending with her in New York.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Flora
It’s logical to assume I, Flora Morgan, wouldnotfare well in a long-distance relationship.
Every minute in NYC was sugarcoated with Sean beside me. Whenever I glanced sideways, he was there, tall, handsome, and very much mine.
It turned sour the second our plane landed in St. Bart’s. Over the next few days, while my family unwinds at our luxury resort, I sit by the pool all day, missing Sean too much to allow space for anything else.
My parents are usually off somewhere, chatting and coaching each other on work stuff (it’s both adorable and unsettling how much they love it), while Jeremy finds a new girl to hang out with every eight seconds. At breakfast, he’ll launch into some “customer experience improvement” discussion, tossing around phrases like “from a consumer’s standpoint,” and my parents will laugh until their coffee goes cold.
Funny how much I used to crave their presence, but now that they’re here, I don’t feel any more involved. So I channel my energy into accusing Sean of not texting me enough. I’m fully aware of how unreasonable I am, but I can’t stop; it’s like when a character walks into a dark garage in a slasher movie.
“You can’t even squeeze out twenty seconds to hit Send?” I ask after breakfast.
“Didn’t I send you one right after I got up?” Sean sounds less patient every time this comes up. “I don’t want texting to turn into an assignment.”
Actually, if ithadbeen an assignment, Sean would’ve aced it. Probably added citations too. After a few more rounds of back-and-forth, I slump at the edge of the pool. The call ends with me telling him I love him. It’s genuine, but it serves more as a peace offering. He echoes it right back.
“You look bored.” A deep voice interrupts my anxious, circular thinking.
I tear my gaze away from Sean’s last message and my self-pity. A guy with an olive complexion and green eyes tilts his head. “Wanna go find the best tiramisu in town?”
I wrap my towel tighter around myself. “I have a wonderful boyfriend.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
He’s wearing a midnight-blue polo shirt with a fox head stitched in one corner, leather penny loafers, and a Patek Philippe watch around his wrist. I wonder where he does his shopping. A familiar, dimly remembered sense of excitement bubbles up in my chest, like Aladdin’s genie from the bottle. The blue genie nudges me with his elbow and wiggles his eyebrows, saying,Look, this could be fun.
Not to mention I love good Italian dessert.
But that was before Sean.
“I don’t want to go, okay? Leave me alone.”
As the guy walks off in a huff, I unlock my phone.My dear darling boyfriend, I type,I miss you. I need you so much.
