See why I like this? I mean, kissing. Ahem.
So here's a scene from a novel I wrote this year. It's called Dying to Live. And see this girl, she can feel death. Usually hers. But this time, she thinks it's her "boyfriend's" (they're really just Servant partners masquerading as a couple) turn to kick it. So she's been bawling. And now she's in the bathroom with her bf's "sister."
A knock at the door has us both jumping. She throws me a glance before opening it.
Blake stands in the hall, a dark storm cloud I want to wrap my arms around. “Hey, Cheryl. When did you get here?” He looks at Nora—right in her eyes.
“Just a few minutes ago. Nora was helping me with my makeup. How do I look?”
Blake hesitates, still watching Nora. She’s stuffing jars of makeup in a black case and won’t meet his eye.
“You look beautiful,” he finally says. He reaches toward me and I gladly slip my fingers between his. He plants a kiss on my temple. “Are you ready?” He studies me closer. “Have you been crying?”
The answer to both questions is yes, but I don’t want to say it.
“Nora, I need to talk to Cheryl for a minute. Tell Mom we’ll be right there, will you?”
“Don’t take too long. She’s freaking that we haven’t left yet.”
“You’re the one camped out in the bathroom doing your makeup.”
Nora flounces down the hall without a reply. Blake pulls me into his bedroom. I’ve been in here a lot, so it’s nothing romantic or anything. His bed is made. His clothes are hung neatly in the closet. The desk practically has chalk outlines for where things belong. Mr. Organized.
“So tell me why you’ve been crying.” He hasn’t let go of my hand yet.
“Just something with my host family,” I say, trying to shrug it off.
He waits for more. He’s not going to get it.
“I can read the report when I file it,” he threatens.
“Okay.” If he knows about the looming appointment with my dad, he doesn’t spill. If he knows how much I want to kiss him, he doesn’t let it show on his face. “Let’s just go, okay? I don’t want your mom mad at me.”
“Can you still feel it?” he asks, his mouth barely moving.
In a bold gesture, I run my finger up his forearm, imagining I can feel the thin scars from his past life. I clasp my hands behind his neck at the same time he puts his hands on my waist. This is how we danced at Homecoming last week. This is how I always want him to hold me.
“Yeah, I can still feel it. It’s stronger here. It’s so loud. I’m…”
“What?”
“Scared.”
He pauses, and we’re breathing the same air again. In and out, in and out.
“I’ll protect you,” he says.
I want to tell him that it’s not me, it’s him, but I don’t have the chance.
Because he’s closing the distance between us and then we’re kissing kissing kissing.
I hope you participate! If you do, leave me a link so I can go read your mistletoe-inspired post on Kissing Day!