Page 95 of Kissing is the Easy Part
My parents are nowhere as glamorous as Flora’s. They don’t work in sleek high-rise offices or stay in perfect shape. They probably don’t know how to pronounceGruyèreorChâteauneuf-du-Papeeither. But they know which classes I’m taking each semester, and they notice if Lindsey isn’t home when she’s supposed to be.
I tell them about dinner, how much I enjoyed everything, and how Flora’s family is genuinely interesting. “But I like you guys better,” I add on an impulse.
Three pairs of eyes turn to me like I have food poisoning.
“I can’t afford to get you a new car,” Dad says, “if that’s what you’re getting at.”
I laugh. “Thanks, Dad. I already have everything I need.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Flora
Ever since that family dinner, Sean’s been determined to pull me out of the abyss of self-deprecation. Lately he’s more tutor than boyfriend, andSAThas replacedsexas the three-letter word dominating our dating agenda.
“This is how you do it.” He picks up a pen, going over the mock test I did earlier. The few questions I got right are drowning in a crimson sea of wrong answers. He scrawls on a piece of paper, demonstrating how to solve the problems.
I never noticed before how he bites his lower lip when he calculates, and I don’t understand how I could’ve missed it. It’s so distractingly provocative.
He puts down his pen. “You’re not listening.”
“Sorry. It’s not entirely my fault. Tutors aren’t supposed to be this hot.”
I thought he’d have the decency to smile, but no, he scowls. “This is important. You won’t have time to retake the test. College application deadlines are around the corner.”
Everything he says is true, but he could say it in a nicer way. Nowadays he’s all about responsibilities and priorities, and I can’t even recall the last time he touched me properly. He used to be a mechanic who checked every part of the plane, but now he’s a pilot who jumps in the seat, sticks the key in, and takes off.
Obviously, if I was to contemplate this rationally, he’s doing it all formysake. He takes time out of his hectic schedule to helpmeprepare. But sometimes it feels like I’m not his girlfriend anymore but another project for him to fix. In the heat of the moment, when frustration over homework collides with the pressure of college applications, the gnawing fear that his infatuation is wearing off, and my parents’ not-so-subtle pride over Jeremy, it all boils over. And another fight spins from there.
“I don’t need to go to college.” At this point, I’ll grasp at anything. “Plenty of people do fine without it. The idea that you need a diploma to succeed is a myth.”
“You don’t have to go, I agree, but I’m not spending thirty minutes debating it. Don’t try to convinceme. Convince yourself. Are you sure you don’t want to go, or are you just afraid to try?”
Is the brutal honesty necessary? Sometimes I only want to vent for a minute before getting back to work, but he makes it so easy to get mad at him.
“SAT scores aren’t the only thing colleges look at.” I put my hands on my hips, almost as if I’m accusing him. “Getting a perfect score doesn’t guarantee anything.”
“True, but that’s not a reason to deliberately tank it.” My argument is so flimsy he can dismantle it from any angle. “Besides, you still have time to improve.”
The unspoken truth is he can’t fix my GPA, and it’s too late to sign up for volunteer work now. I always get defensive, and he turns sarcastic. The fights creep into our lives like the ugly mold on the classroom walls, but eventually Sean’s softer side kicks in. It’s amazing how I can clearly sense that moment. He understands I’m frustrated and upset, and his whole demeanor shifts, and he leans in to kiss my hair.
“Let’s not fight, baby. You know we want the same thing.”
I sigh. “Yeah. We want sex.”
He laughs. “Sure, but that comes later.” Pulling the test in front of me, he taps the paper with the confidence of someone who aced the math section. (He got a perfect score.Shocker.) “Come on, this is one of the few things in life that I know a little better than you do. Please let me help you.” His face is all earnest, like he’s asking for a favor.
I force a smile and nod.
“Are you serious about becoming a fashion editor?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know how?”
“Have amazing fashion sense?”
“Besides that. I did some research.” The image of Sean googling fashion makes me swoon. He continues to explain everything I already know. “Intern at a magazine during college, or for a brand. Connections matter as much as talent. A journalism or a communications degree could help, but experience counts more. Your blog and Instagram already give you a head start, but you should pitch articles to fashion sites and build a portfolio. You might want to apply to one of the schools in New York—NYU, Pratt, Parsons, FIT, or Columbia.”
