Mid-July
To say I float into At Home Movies the day after our kiss is an understatement.
I blow in with the wind, weightless and airy and tangled up in the sunshine that beat across my face as I rode here. A stupid pop song is matted into my wind-battered hair, trickling into my ears and head and throat. I ambuzzing.
I find Zach in the Comedy section, kneeling beside a stack of DVDs on the ground, sorting them.
I wait for him to notice me, my hair particularly thick and wild today and the pair of peach-yogurt-colored short shorts that prompted Caleb to make a face when we collided in the hallway this morning.
On the ride over, there was a tiny bit of fear that last night never happened, or that Zach regrets it and will now try to steer us back into friends territory, but it dissipates almost immediately when I see him.
Zach notices my feet first, and then his eyes travel up the length of me, twinkling by the time they reach mine, a smile already stretched across his face.
“Dad?” he yells across the store. “I’m taking my break now!”
And then he grabs hold of my hand and pulls me to the back of the store, tripping over the DVDs on the ground in the process.
“Walking hazard!” he says as we run out the door, both of us giggling.
“Hi,” he says when we get outside, his grin impossibly wide.
“Hi.” I grin back, feeling the muscles in my face stretch, finding a new normal.
And then we kiss behind his father’s store. It’s almost exactly the same as last night, only against the wall of the building instead of the garage door this time. The air is urgent and humid but perfect. And Zach’s one hand is at the back of my neck, while the other plays with the edge of my shirt. The skin on my stomach burns from his touch.
I don’t ever want to stop kissing him. And happily, he doesn’t seem to want to stop kissing me, either. Kind of the opposite.
“So, listen,” he says, playing with my shirt still, when we come up for air. “If we’re going to keep doing this, I think we should go out on a date.”
“Are you saying you’d like to keep doing this?” I ask, husky-breathed, signaling at the space between us. I can’t believe the words that are coming out of my mouth. Confident words. Flirtatious words.
Zach responds by leaning in to kiss me again, but I retreat a little and ask, “What made you change your mind? About being friends and all that.”
He scratches his head now and grins. “I wastryingto be friends, but last night—last night I kind of realized that I’m not interested in being just friends. I think the first kiss did it.”
“Funny, I feel like they just keep getting better,” I breathe.
“Should we test that theory?”
When we kiss again, I loop both arms around his neck, and Zach’s hand feels like fire on my lower back.
After what seems like mere seconds, the back door flings wide. We jump apart.
“Zach,” Mr. Laird says in an even voice. “I will kick your butt to Timbuktu.”
“I’m not smoking!” a red-faced, red-lipped Zach protests.
“Damn straight you’re not,” his father says. “You are also not taking a twenty-five-minutebreakon my watch.”
Twenty-five?Zach and I look at each other, incredulous.
“Fine,” Zach says, but he’s smiling as his father goes back inside. We follow Mr. Laird, still holding hands, and tingles travel up my arm.
I help Zach finish stocking the DVDs, and then he mans the counter while Mr. Laird has his lunch and watches TV in the breakroom. He keeps the door open, though, presumably to keep an eye on us.
“Can I ask you something?” I’m standing on the other side of the counter, leaning against it as Zach does inventory. When he nods, I ask, “What’s with the smoking?”
He glances up at me, as if he’s surprised that’s what my question is about.
