Page 89 of Kissing is the Easy Part
Sean isn’t being unreasonable with this airtight monologue. He’s not making demands or issuing ultimatums. He’s just laying out his feelings in the calm, levelheaded way he always does. Honestly, he’s not asking for much.
“We can talk about this more if you want,” he adds, even though it’s clear he’d rather deep dive into why Goyard bags are coveted.
I don’t want to push it, especially not after waiting for him the whole night. I already know I’ll cave; it’s just a matter of whether I let him convince me now or later. His love matters more than my entire collection of guy friends. If he decides we aren’t compatible, it’d be worse than being forced to wear secondhand clothes for the rest of my life.
It’s simple. I’ll do anything to please him, even if it means changing into someone easier to love.
I wrap my arms around his waist, savoring the warmth of his body beneath my fingertips. Moments later, all thoughts of Raymond are out the window. In the summer, Sean’s skin is tanned like roasted almonds, but now it’s winter-fair and smooth, flushed against my lips. He doesn’t roll away when we’re done. Instead, he pulls me closer to press a kiss to my bare shoulder.
I love the way the mattress dips when he shifts beside me, the subtle scent of his deodorant, the way he strokes my hair while I ramble, and how comfortable he is around me. There’s an endearing, casual side to him, with an added dash of innocence. It reminds me of a lion cub yawning and chasing after a ball.
Later, as Sean absentmindedly folds the clothes on my bed, I bring over a bottle of burgundy nail polish from my desk.
“Want to help me paint my toes?” I’m half joking, certain he’ll refuse, but he takes the bottle from my hand and unscrews the cap.
“Sure you want to trust me with this?”
“You can try.”
He bends over, and the cute concentration on his face is overkill. He squints as if he’s designing a space shuttle. “Uh-oh.”
“You built a crime scene.” My toes belong on a horror movie poster. But the effort deserves to be immortalized, so I frame the shot to catch a sliver of Sean’s very concerned expression, with my tragic toes blurry in the background.
Caption:Nailed it (not really)
#truelove #hetried #michelangelocouldnever #youareluckyyouarehot
By the time he leaves, I’ve racked up 412 likes and 59 comments.
I usually don’t do this, but I check. Raymond isn’t one of them.
Chapter Thirty
Sean
As my Flora-themed life unfolds, she remains at the center, and I fit everything else around her. I understand her better now than I did in junior year. After we got back together, her parents were gone for aweek. I’ve taken my dad’s home-cooked meals, my mom’s warm encouragement, and Lindsey’s whining for granted. Flora’s life, in contrast, is one black hole after school and cheerleading practice. She needs an exit for her excessive energy.
It’s my responsibility to become that outlet. I start taking her home, and she brings us wine from her parents’ collection. Sometimes she gives my mom flowers. After dinner, she offers to clean up, though all she really does is sit on the counter, dangle her toned legs, and flirt with me.
Some nights, we retreat to my room and try to stay quiet. Other times, I drive her back to her place, where we can really “blow off steam.” The routine is all I could ask for. I nurture the dark circles under my eyes, which Flora finds sexy. She says they make my eyes bluer. Homework begins only after she sleeps, while espresso becomes my life-support system. We wear each other down like a meteor tearing through the atmosphere.
The real wake-up call comes one night when I accompany Flora to a Lanvin runway show. Her mom is one of the VIP invitees, and Flora gladly takes her place. The show runs longer than expected, and by the time we get back to her house, it’s late. We make out for a while—no matter how exhausted I am, the adrenaline rush keeps me going—then she curls up under the covers, barefaced, and I sit at the edge of her bed, holding her hand. My brain is running on fumes, grasping at some vague thought in the back of my mind. Something I was supposed to do.
“You’re so wonderful to me.”
The way she says it, soft and unguarded, is enough to override every rational instinct. The feeling of being needed is overpowering.
“Good night, button.”
The next thing I know, I’m jolted awake by the cold. It’s 3 a.m., my phone is dead, and every muscle in my body aches. The next morning, I oversleep and barely have time to shower, let alone eat breakfast. When I sit down in AP Chemistry, it hits me.
The thing I forgot to do.
Mr. Miles asks us to hand in our assignment after class. My answer sheet is blank. This can’t happen to me. I don’t forget my homework. I always check it three times.
Am I going to get detention? Detention is as foreign a concept to me as Lanvin once was.
When Mr. Miles turns to scrawl formulas across the blackboard, I force myself to focus. Chemistry is one of my stronger subjects, but today, the words dissolve before my eyes like salt in an undersaturated solution. Too tired to think, I curse under my breath.
