Page 70 of Grown-Up Second Chance

Apparently, it still did because Joe’s eyes looked directly into mine for a few seconds before giving me what I wanted.

I eagerly accepted his mouth on mine, leaning in as the kiss quickly became deeper than any we’d had before. Slowly, that hand finally drifted down and held my butt. Ever so slightly, I leaned forward, craving … well … something.

Was I replaying unrealistic sex scenes from novels? I don’t know. But being close to Joe, kissing him, feeling his arms around me was nothing like they described.

It was better.

It was real.

Chapter Twenty-One

We’d managed to untangle before things went too far. It was probably just as well. If the park frowned on people walking on the crust of the hot springs, what would they think of two old people having sex at its edges?

“We have things to talk about before … well … before we go any further,” Joe said, his gaze averted.

It was the same damn argument we’d had in high school. This time I wasn’t going to walk away without a fight.

“I was thinking more a hot and heavy short-term affair,” I said, moving closer.

“You know I don’t roll that way, Di.”

Hadn’t marriage changed him even a little bit? It wasn’t like either of us had taken vows of chastity in the intervening years. It wasn’t fair I had to have a do-over of prom night almost fifty years later!

He’d waited to ask me to prom, figuring I’d have lots of other—better—options.

Ha. The O’Sullivan sister everyone wanted was Liz, who looked more like an Irish fairie queen than her two older sisters. Kathleen and Michael were already an item, and everyone figured Joe and I were as well.

But we weren’t. We were that worst of all teenage couplings: just friends.

An older or more cynical teen might have wondered if my friend was gay, but I was quite sure of Joe’s sexual orientation, even if I never thought about it.

Finally, he asked. One of his sisters had pushed him into it, telling him he owed me for monopolizing all my time. The pictures my father took are still in a box somewhere: Joe looking stiff in an unfamiliar tux, and me beaming in a dress my mother had made for me. She was a skilled seamstress, so it was as good as anything the wealthier girls bought from one of the fancy stores in Butte.

We’d had a good time. Joe’s sisters had taught him the basic rudiments of dance, so my toes stayed safe. It was only when he brought me home that trouble started.

I so wanted him to kiss me.

He’d finally made his move.

I eagerly accepted, years of pent-up desire driving me to behavior that wasn’t at all ladylike. Teenage passion drove us beyond the kiss to hands fumbling over body parts before he held up his hands.

“Whoa,” he said. “We’re not ready for this. Well, I’m not ready.”

I sat there and caught my breath while I tried not to cry from frustration and rejection.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s not you.” He caressed my cheek. “You’re wonderful. But I want to wait. Let’s see what happens. It’s too soon. We’re only eighteen. There’s college. You might not feel the same later. If it’s meant to be, we’ll get there. But not now. You understand, Di.”

But I didn’t. No matter what he’d said, I felt unworthy.

I wouldn’t talk to him for the rest of senior year. I hung out with other friends, or stayed home.

It was stupid. But I was a teenager. And teenagers do stupid really, really well.

He tried to get me to talk, but I was having none of it. Instead, I hugged my misery tight to my chest.

Exactly like I was doing now.

And it felt like the exact same damn choice.

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