Page 119 of Last First Kiss

Outside, they’re notdrunkdrunk. Only a teeny bit tipsy. That space between unexplainably happy and weirdly confused.

That last round might’ve done them in.

Jordan’s functional enough to order them both rideshares. They wait a few feet from the doors. Midtown is sparkling like a fistful of jewels held to the light.

Strictly speaking, Jordan could walk home. His apartment’s a mile or so away. But that’s a mile too far in his current condition. Plus, he’s enjoying Javi’s company. That mightalsobe the alcohol talking.

Jordan leans back against the bar’s white brick exterior. Warmth spills through him. The burn of vodka and sour of lime and fizz of club soda. He likes it. Likes the way it makes him all smiley and numb.

Javi looks the same way.

He’s facing Jordan, arms crossed. Shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. Tattoo on display. Four drinks later, he still has that stupid, villainous mustache and chin-strap beard, but it draws attention to his lips. Pink, fluffy lips.

Not bad to look at.

Fuck, Jordan should’ve stopped after two drinks.

Their cars are seven minutes away. Two of those minutes, they just stand and stare at each other. One minute is dedicated to watching a coterie of drag queens pile into the bar. Another is Jordan laughing and Javi’s mouth upturned in an easy smirk. The next is Jordan arching an eyebrow and Javi closing the gap between them, hands planted on either side of Jordan’s head.

Everything’s too fuzzy for Jordan to think.

Javi angles his head.

For a long beat, Jordan doesn’t move. He lets Javi kiss him, fastand eager. His brain slips in and out of the haze, cycling through how he got here. From wanting to punch Javi’s face to their mouths smashed together.

Then, he trips over this:

You’re still figuring yourself out and I—I don’t think I’m the right person for that.

Jordan stumbles on:

Grindr messages. Blind dates. Javi saying how kissing one boy gave him the pieces, but he had to kiss another and another and more until he got the full picture.

Finally, Jordan lands on this:

He experiments with pushing into the kiss. Sliding a hand across the nape of Javi’s neck. He tries changing his approach. Javi palms his waist and drags him closer, and Jordan goes. He settles into it.

When he comes up for air, Jordan feels…

Nothing.

It’s not like the nervous, feverish rush of a first kiss in a dark basement bedroom.

It’s not like the slow, comforting kiss with a girl who makes you feel normal.

It’s not a sweaty, aching kiss that tastes like raspberry lime popsicles and summer heat andfinally.

This is just two mouths pressed together. A thing Jordan’s done before. But it’s not what he hoped for.

He eases back. “Sorry, um. That was—”

Javi’s eyes widen with embarrassment. He staggers away, wiping a hand down his face, swearing lowly. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

“No, no,” Jordan tries. “I shouldn’t have. We’re tipsy and… shit, we’re cool.”

“Fuck,” Javi repeats, face in his hands. “I really didn’t mean to—I mean, Idid. But, like.” His arms fall slack against his side. “That was clearly over the line.”

“Javi, it’s fine. I’m just not—”