Page 3 of Kissing is the Easy Part
As I lower myself into a single armchair and cross my legs, I make sure they’re positioned at the ideal angle—forty-five degrees to the right, all stretched out, creating the illusion that they go on forever. Part of me feels invincible, like watching someone else perform, but the other part reminds me I’ve been crushing on him for too long, and this is the pivotal moment when we acknowledge our feelings.
“We’ve known each other for two years. We’ve hung out. Morethan once. And I thought I was being painfully obvious, but . . .you haven’t made a move. I keep waiting for it to justhappen, but since it hasn’t—let me come right out and say it.” I inhale, steadying myself. “Sean, I really like you.Thatkind of like.”
My face burns. Sean holds my gaze for two seconds before he flicks his eyes to the door. Music filters in, a fast song about money and yachts. He clears his throat. “I wasn’t expecting you to say that. You don’t even know me that well.”
“Maybe, but I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“Wow.” He exhales a short laugh and shakes his head. “Thanks?”
Thanks?My scalp prickles as I wait for him to say more. Seconds drag on. “Is that all you’re gonna say?”
“Flora, you’re great. Really,” he says. “But I don’t think we’d work as a couple.”
Everyone knows that everything beforebutis a setup for the hard truth. Before Sean, I was used to getting what I wanted. Attention, special favors, and anything shiny in a Neiman Marcus display window. Once, someone even gave up their parking space for me in downtown Seattle. But he’s the clock striking midnight. He erases all my magic power.
“Can you sit down first?” I ask. “Let’s talk.”
There’s nowhere else to sit in the room, so he chooses the foot of the bed. I get up and claim the space next to him, wanting to close the distance between us. Our eyes lock. His are a misty blend of blue and slate, the color of a winter sky before snowfall. Now he’s mere inches from my manicured fingertips. So near, so handsome, yet I can’t have him.
My supersuccessful parents say to always ask for feedback, especially in the face of failure. It’s the key to improvement. “Is there anything youdon’tlike about me? Help me understand why you don’t think we could work.”
Sean’s eyes widen. Maybe other girls would have run away crying by now, but I’m desperate. He remains silent for a while before he says, “We don’t have anything in common.”
“How do you know? I’m into all sorts of things. No one’s ever complained of not knowing what to talk about with me.”
“I know you’re—”
“Iwantto find out more about you. Maybe behind this mysterious, cool-guy facade, you’reexactlylike me.”
“Mysterious?” Sean chuckles and a cute gleam gets in his eyes. “You’re going to besodisappointed.”
“Really?” I tilt my head, letting my hair slide down one shoulder. “You’re not some broody guy who plays mind games?”
“Sorry to let you down, but once you know me a little better, you’ll see. I’ll bore you.”
“No way.”
“I study all the time. I don’t have a—” My phone buzzes with yet another notification. He stops, taking his time to pick the right words. “—glamorous lifestyle like you do.”
“Are you saying I’m shallow? I might not take eight billion AP classes like you do, but—wait. Is that why you dropped me from tutoring? Because you thought I was stupid?”
“No, I stopped tutoring you because you didn’t need it. You knew all the answers already.” He glances at my legs for the briefest second before he looks away. “Besides, you were distracting me.”
My neck warms. “I thought you didn’t like me because I wasn’t smart enough.”
“That’s not true. Look, I don’t think I’m what you’re looking for.” Sean clasps his hands and places them on his knees. “You’re too popular. I wouldn’t be able to keep up with you.”
Interesting reason to turn someone down. A new wave of dizziness sets in, and I grasp at the unspoken message between his words. Behind him, a dozen European film posters crowd the wall—Godard, Truffaut, Fellini, Buñuel, Bergman—names I’ve absorbed through sheer osmosis. I watched every one of those movies in Ray’s home theater with Raymond himself and all twelve speakers (because he insists on full surround sound for everything), but the one I remember most isBelle de Jour.Catherine Deneuve wears a stiff blond wig and plays a housewife who secretly moonlights as a prostitute. People project whatever they want onto her. “I get it now. What you meant by ‘popular’ is that I’m easy.”
I rub my temple where a headache is manifesting. My phone buzzes again.
“What? No! That’s not what I meant. You have loads of friends and everyone likes you. Honestly, it’s me.”
Usually theit’s not you it’s meexcuse happens at theendof a relationship. I gesture at the air between us. “I don’t usually do this . . . chase after boys. I like you. I’ve liked you since freshman year.”
“Thank you for telling me that.” He holds my gaze and says, “And this isn’t about me thinking you’re shallow, or stupid, or anything like that.”
“But you’re still saying no.”
