Later, parked in his driveway, I move to grab his hockey bag. His hand touches my knee, stopping me.
“Wait.” His voice is low, almost unsure.
And then he kisses me.
It’s quick but intense: his lips firm and warm, his good hand sliding up my arm with surprising gentleness. The world tilts, the ground goes soft, and for a dizzying second, I kiss him back like I’ve wanted it all along.
But the moment shatters as quickly as it started. Fear, guilt, and confusion all rush in. I pull away, mumbling, “I should get the bag.” I all but dive out of the car. By the time I wrestle it out of the trunk, Matt’s already at the door.
I drop the bag inside without looking at him. “It’s fine, Matt. Don’t worry about it.” My voice comes out sharp, defensive. “I have to run. Talk to you later.”
And then I’m gone, heart hammering, not sure which part of the night has me more rattled: Ben’s words that feel like a dream, or Matt’s kiss that feels terrifyingly real.
Chapter 13
Liz, February 26
At home my constant companion, the guilt, sets in. I feel guilty about running away instead of staying and hearing Matt out. I feel guilty about the way I left the conversation with Ben. I inexplicably feel guilty about kissing Matt. Would Ben have an opinion about that kiss? Underneath it all, I feel guilty for the simplest truth: I was just scared.
The more I sit and think about my guilt, the more it turns into anger. At the risk of sounding like a teen: this is so unfair. Ben could’ve been an engineer here, that would’ve been more fair. Matt could’ve made a hundred moves in the years we’ve known each other. Why had he shown no interest until tonight? I’m sure I’m right, he’s never shown any before. This is a ploy because he’s lonely and that makes me angry. Now I realize I hadn’t shown any interest either, but that is different. That is —
My phone interrupts my rant. A number I don’t recognize flashes across the screen.
“Hello?” My voice is cautious.
“Hello. This is the Walgreens pharmacy. Your prescription is available for pickup.”
I hang up. Must have written my cell number on the slip by mistake. I consider texting Matt, telling him to pick up his meds, but instead I lace up my running shoes. A jog will do more for my anger than another text.
The pounding of my feet finds its own rhythm, carrying me along the familiar route. Without really planning it, I end up on Matt’s street. My eyes flick instinctively to his porch.
Matt is sitting in a white wicker chair. His hockey pants are gone, replaced with jeans and a comfortably worn t-shirt. His ankles are loosely crossed above his bare feet. A small round table sits beside him, two bottles of beer on top — one open, one sealed. The identical chair next to his is empty.
I falter for just a second, then keep approaching. Matt looks up, sees me, and nods almost imperceptibly. He twists the cap off the full bottle, sets it down, and lifts the other for a long pull.
I sink into the empty chair, clanking the prescription down on the table. Grabbing the newly opened beer, I take a swig. Somehow, the idea that Matt sat outside waiting for me is just as uncomfortable as the surprise kiss.
“Liz, I’m sorry if I offended you earlier.”
I look over to find him watching me. I smile, but my eyes slide back to the house across the street.
“Matt, I —”
“Please,” he interrupts. “Let me just say something before I lose my nerve.”
I nod, motioning for him to continue. My pulse quickens. I take another sip, hoping it steadies me. Did I mention feelings make me weird? Well, talking about them makes me really weird — like if Fraggle Rock characters had a baby with Snuffy from Sesame Street. That level of weird.
“I shouldn’t have ambushed you like that earlier,” Matt says. “The feelings, the sentiment — those were right, and I’m not sorry for how I feel. But the timing was terrible.”
He turns the bottle between his hands, a nervous gesture. I sneak a glance; when his eyes meet mine, I quickly look away.
“Growing up, we all think we want the blonde, perky, cheerleader type.”
I roll my eyes before I can stop myself. If Matt’s about to explain why I’m inferior to a cheerleader, I don’t think I can sit here for it.
“It took me years, and a lot of the wrong type of girl, to realize that’s not where happiness is. I want the girl who’s part of the action. The woman who puts on the gear, steps onto the rink, and plays as hard as I do.”
He leans toward me, sets the bottle down, and continues. His voice dips to a whisper, but with only inches between us, I hear every word.
