Page 99 of Kissing is the Easy Part
Why am I the only one adapting?
As usual, I don’t say it out loud, because I love Sean more than chai lattes, Hermès, and Aman Resorts combined. He’s already perfect, and if anyone has to change, it’s me.Duh.
Sean makes me better.
So after the short argument on the side of the road, he gets behind the wheel, pleased to get his hands on my car. I let him drive us back to his place, where we have leftover mac and cheese his mom made (shhh—it doesn’t have any flavor).
He’s a wonderful guy and we love each other. How can that not be enough?
* * *
When I leave that night, everything is good again. I say good night to Sean with affection.
He’s a simple guy who loves comfort food, playing basketball with his buddies, studying for his dream school, and me. I’m the luckiest girl on the continent.
“Text me when you get home?” He plants a kiss on my lips.
“Sure.”
Striding into the night, I fight the urge to slam my foot on the gas. My phone lights up with a dozen texts and party invites. The breeze is welcoming, charged with possibility. It whispers of bizarre adventures, unfathomable wonders, and fascinating strangers, which I’ll now steer away from. I’ll drive straight home, otherwise Sean will worry.
And yet, as I cruise through the dark, I feel lost.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Sean
My life with Flora continues, each day marked by her presence. Small moments take on greater significance, but despite our increasing proximity, our trajectories remain misaligned. From college decisions to trivial matters like where to eat or how often to text, everything is a negotiation.
One weekend, I agree to try molecular gastronomy at an upscale restaurant. I did my due diligence—checked the menu, planned for the cheapest entrée, and counted on tap water. I no longer tutor for free. Now every one of my sessions is for cold, hard cash. Even college admissions should recognize that I can’t survive on altruism alone.
The server informs us there’s no à la carte tonight, only “the experience,” a multicourse set meal with dessert. Tap water is also off-limits as it “disrupts the culinary concept.” The alternative is imported Italian mineral water.
The numbers are impossible to ignore. We could get a basket of fried chicken for a tenth of the price.
“You know I got this, right?” Flora says. “Think of it as tutoring payment.”
“I can pay for my own food.”Can I, though?I pick at my cuticles as I do another calculation, factoring in tips and the water surcharge.
“Sean, can you not stress me out?” She sighs as if she’s the one facing financial ruin.
I relent, even though my stomach twists. The food arrives, each dish more unrecognizable than the last. Crab is restructured into neon turmeric custard, chicken is minced and molded into a marshmallow, and green basil foam lingers suspiciously at the edge of the plate.
This is certainly . . . an experience.
Flora catches my expression. “You never seem open to anything different.”
“I’m willing to try, but that doesn’t mean I have to love everything.”
Her grip tightens on her fork as she pushes at a piece of saffron jelly. “It’s safer to keep ordering the same thing, of course. No risk, no disappointment.”
That’s not true. The same thing is exactly what disappoints her.
“Why can’t you go along with me foronceand enjoy?” she asks.
I take a sip of my overpriced water, washing down the last of the chickmellow. “I can’t even make a comment?”
“When do you ever gasp in amazement when I introduce you to something new? This is what Ilove, but you’ll never see the magic in it the way I do.”
