Page 111 of Find My Way Down to You

A smirk pushes at my cheeks. “Where’d you steal that from? Jane Austen? Another one of your boo—”

He quiets me with a deep, hungry kiss.

“I need to go soon,” he whispers.

“When can I see you again?”

His face stills, then relaxes. He closes the gap between us to kiss me again. “Too many questions,” he says against my grinning mouth.

The Before

“You did it!”

London throws his arms around my neck. His damp hair brushes my cheek. I breathe him in. He smells of chocolate and sea spray. The way he always does after going to Hendry’s Beach.

He squeezes me tighter. Like it’s been more than hours since we last saw each other. We’re standing in his driveway. It’s night and his neighborhood is gradually slipping into that drowsy stillness. Lukewarm early October air slides over my shoulders as London finally releases me.

“You got your license! Can you believe it?”

I smile goofily. “No.” I haven’t been able to shake the surprise since the instructor told me.

He huffs a breath. “I knew you would. You worked too hard for this.”

My lips curl higher. It’s because of him I even decided to try. He made me study. And practice. Recite every step of each skill to him over late-night video calls.

I would’ve done it, eventually. When I felt like it. But London’s extra push made this happen.

Leaning forward, I kiss him, quick and fleeting. No one can see us. His parents are inside. Dim lamplight glows fill the windows of neighbors’ houses. Yet, a curl of nervousness still grips me.

“What was that for?”

“Because,” I say.

He chuckles. “That’s not a real answer.”

But it’s mine. For now. London doesn’t fight me on it. Instead, his fingers tiptoe over my white T-shirt. “You know what this means? You can drive us to school now. And to the beach. Prom next year—”

“Prom?” I say with a laugh that echoes. “Let me guess. You already planned out what we’re gonna wear.”

His face lights up. The sun bursting through storm clouds. “Well, now that you mention it…”

Naturally, he’s already created a list on his phone. He scrolls through it. Everything from tux styles down to the boutonnieres. Marigold for himself. Orchid for me.

I arch an eyebrow, confused.

“You look amazing in purple,” he explains. I wouldn’t know. I don’t wear it often. Also, orchids aren’t one of my favorite flowers. But I trust him.

Excitement illuminates his eyes. “What do you think?”

His energy is contagious. A feeling that burns you from the inside out. It’s like the day he gave me the UCSB sweatshirt. Or that night a few weeks ago, in his bedroom. After we had sex.

I want nothing more than his happiness. Nothing more than him.

“It’s great,” I tell him.

A light breeze rustles through his hair. The house’s floodlights cast his face in cool ivory. He’s quiet. Studying me. As if my answer wasn’t what he expected.

What he wanted.