Page 94 of Kissing is the Easy Part
Jeremy nudges her elbow and grins. “So, more excuses to shop?”
“That sounds fun,” Alice says, cracking open the dessert menu. “Whatever you choose, we’ll support you. You have great taste, I’m sure it’ll serve you well.”
“Cool.” Flora nods, folding the corner of her napkin between her fingers. By the time desserts are served, the conversation has shifted seamlessly to how delicious the blood-orange sorbet is.
* * *
Dinner winds down on a pleasant note. As we get up to leave, I thank Flora’s parents for having me, while she and Jeremy exchange a long hug. I’m adjusting the cuff of my sleeve when his voice, although low, carries over. “Hey, Morganite. I give you a lot of crap, but you know I’d step in if I had to, right? He’s treating you right?”
“Don’t worry, Jemstone. He’s not going anywhere,” Flora says easily.
Jeremy comes over to shake my hand. “Fair warning, bro. If you break her heart, you’ll have to deal with my dad. If you don’t, you’re stuck with her. So, either way, you’re screwed.”
“Good to know I have options.”
He pats me on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit.”
With a final round of goodbyes, we step outside. The air carries a chill, and the pavement glistens with leftover rain. Flora tucks her hand into my coat pocket, catching hold of mine.
“So, that went well, right?” She beams up at me. “I knew you’d hit it off with my family.”
“Yeah, I had a great time. Your family is impressive. So knowledgeable and truly charismatic.” I mean it, but some of the conversations from tonight haunt me. “Do they always tease you about, you know, being pretty?”
She shrugs. “That’s just how they talk. Everyone in my family goes to the Ivies, and my talent is, as you know, being beautiful all my life.”
I stop in my tracks. “You don’t mean that.”
“Sean, it’s no big deal.”
“Itisa big deal. You’re more than just beautiful. How can you let yourself believe that?” So many things make sense now—why studying has always led to arguments, why she gets defensive whenever school comes up. She’s been dealing with this at home. Her family barely asked about where she wants to go to college, yet they had endless curiosity about the basic app I built. No wonder she’s upset.
Her smile falters. She looks away, then exhales softly. “Let’s sit down.”
We settle on the steps of a random building. Flora lets me hold her hand, and after a lot of coaxing, she finally starts to talk. “When I was little, Jeremy could sit in front of a black-and-white puzzle for hours, completely focused. I wanted to help, but he didn’t want me getting in his way. I had a short attention span, and my parents decided early on that we were different. He did Kumon for fun, went to private schools, and had tutors, but they let me stay at Lakeridge High. Saved a great deal on tuition.” She flashes her usual toothpaste-commercial smile, so bright it’s sad to watch. “My parents are the best. They let me buy whatever I want, and they never pressure me to get into a top-notch college. They just want me to be happy. They have given me so much, and I can’t be ungrateful.”
You can appreciate your parents and still acknowledge that they’ve substituted material things for their attention. But I don’t say it. Who am I to judge them and the way they express love? She’s as delightful and magnetic as can be. They must know what they’re doing.
“Do youwantto go to college?” I settle on saying.
“Yeah, but I guess it doesn’t matter where I go. They won’t let me starve.”
We lapse into silence. This conversation is bleak on so many levels. She’s a sharp, capable person who could do so much more, but she plays it off like she’s too cool to care. Happiness is having choices, the freedom to chase what excites you, yet she defines it in the shallowest way possible: my parents let me buy whatever I want.
“But becoming a fashion editor, that’s your dream.”
“That’s what dreams are. Dreams are . . . dreams.”
There’s a reason why I never bring up her college choices. It’s a sore topic, and she might make passive-aggressive remarks about being a brainless cheerleader, or that she can’t score eight billion points on the SAT like I did. She could hire a tutor if she wanted, and it’d be so much easier if I stayed in my lane—her boyfriend, the guy she has fun with.
I can’t even guarantee we’ll still be together after graduation. Statistically, it’s unlikely. I know this. I could shut up, kiss her, and let the moment pass. But I just can’t stop myself from asking, “Can I help you study for the SAT?”
* * *
When I get home, my family is sprawled in front of the TV. Dad has two cans of beer balanced on his stomach, Mom’s face is painted green with a thick facial mask, and Lindsey is absorbed in a graphic novel.
“Was it fun?” Mom has trouble speaking because she doesn’t want to wrinkle her mask.
“You lucked out,” Dad says. “Your mom’s lasagna was awful. I took one for the team and ate it all, so you won’t have to suffer through leftovers tomorrow.”
