Then there’s Zack.
Folding his big flannel-covered arms around my shoulders and neck, my dad pulls me close and kisses the top of my head.
“Good night, angel,” he says.
“Good night, Daddy.”
With the lights out in the house, I wait in the darkness downstairs while he climbs up and shuts his bedroom door, probably to spill the beans about everything he thinks he knows to my mom.
My pocket buzzes before I hit the stairs. I hook my bag on the finial at the end of the staircase and pull my phone out to read the text message I expect to be some razzing tease from my nosy little brother, or maybe June checking in on me after our girl-chat lunch today. Deep down, I hope it’s from Cannon, but hope is a lot different than expectation.
How do you feel about one block away? Surely your dad’s window seat doesn’t look out that far.
My lips tug up at his text. I’m out the door in three seconds, feet pounding pavement in a near sprint toward the glowing tail lights just beyond the stop sign. I climb into the passenger seat I vacated only a minute or two before, yanking the door closed behind me. Before I breathe another word, Cannon’s hands are on my cheeks, fingers sliding into my hair as his mouth meets mine in a hungry kiss that we’ve both been holding back for far too long.
I crawl toward him on my knees, and his hands slide down my arms then over my ribs and around my waist, guiding me over the center console until I sit sideways in his lap with my head resting on his driver’s side window.
“Goddamn, have I been dying to kiss you like that since our missed opportunity in study hall,” he says, pulling back for air while holding my forehead against his. Our noses touch, and it makes me giggle like a girl with a crush when he playfully wiggles his against mine.
“Imagine if our New Year’s kiss was like that,” I say.
“What, this?” He again tickles his nose against mine and I laugh harder, chastising him with a flat palm against his chest. I leave it there, feeling the heat pour from his body, the hard beat underneath his shirt.
“No, silly. I meant like this,” I say, sitting back enough to focus on his eyes. They’re blue like the sea, like dusk back home. I reach to my side and turn the music up a little to fill the nervous gaps in the air, the song some alt-pop tune by one of those new female artists who sings as though she’s broken. These songs are my favorites.
Propping myself up to face him, I push the button that slides his seat back enough to make room for the two of us. When his hands slip to my hips then down to my thighs, fire burns in my belly. And lower. I’m swallowed up in layers of clothes, and more than anything, all I want to do is feel him. I want to see if that beat in his chest matches up with mine. I want them to be close, to beat together or echo on constant repeat.
Straddling his lap as he lays back in his seat, my hands tremble as I reach down for the bottom of my sweatshirt, my tummy tightening with a rush of nerves as I peel the tattered cotton up and over my head. My hands reach behind my neck to find the thick band holding my hair together in a twisted knot. I tug it loose, but pause to laugh at myself when it gets tangled in my hair.
“You and this goddamn hair,” Cannon teases, swatting my hand out of the way to help get the band out of my wild mane.
“I should just cut it.” I sigh.
The band finally free from my hair, he rolls it onto his wrist, then holds my chin with his thumb, forcing our eyes to meet again.
“Don’t you dare. I love your knotty-ass blonde tangles.” He makes a serious face that doesn’t break for almost a full five seconds, but when I see the curl tempt his lips, I squeeze his shoulders and press my forehead into his.
“You liar!” I laugh out.
His hands press into my sides, tickling me, and I squeeze my thighs around him while we wrestle in this tiny space, taunting each other like grade schoolers who haven’t quite discovered puberty. Only, we aren’t kids at all. We’re both seventeen, almost eighteen. Our birthdays are two weeks apart in February—I checked.
Cannon’s birthday is on Valentine’s Day. Perhaps St. Valentine or Cupid or whatever gifted him with arrows because of it. Whatever the case, I’ve been shot with something, and the drug quickly fills my veins. As I rock my body forward to feel Cannon rock-hard beneath me, I can tell that he is drunk on our physical chemistry as well.
“May I?” His eyes scan down the length of my neck and chest to the bottom of the blue jersey I wore to practice today. His fingers flirt with the hem.
I love that he asked.
“You may,” I say, cheeks heated and voice quiet. I’m bashful.
Cannon gathers the bottom of my jersey into his hands, lifting with his thumbs while I slowly raise my arms above my head, helping him to remove my shirt completely. I’m still scuffed with dirt on my elbows and legs from our practice, and though I haven’t told him, he’s worn a smudge of dirt on his right cheek the entire night. I trace it now with my thumb, wishing it were permanent because I love the tough appearance it gives him.
Dipping down, my hands weave into his hair, grabbing hold of thick waves. I wonder what his hair feels like when it’s wet, like in the shower. The tension hugging my chest loosens suddenly and I tuck my chin to confirm that his thumb and index finger have tugged the
