Page 13 of She’s a Doll

“Nah. Don’t be sorry. Just answer the question.”

I tried to think.

Was Kyle cute? He looked fine, I guess. He had two eyes, a nose, and a mouth, all in relatively normal positions. There was a bit of muscle on his arms, which was good, at least according to the intel I’d gathered from romance novels. He’d also been nice enough to listen to me ramble on the phone. That should’ve earned him a few points.

For no reason at all, I thought of Ginger and her dimples.

Kyle didn’t have dimples. He just had teeth. A whole lot of them, like a shark.

“Do you think I’m cute?” he asked again, and for some reason, this time, it sounded like a warning.

“Yeah,” I answered quickly. “You’re cute.”

For the first time in my life, it occurred to me that I hated the word “cute.” Little kids were cute. Fainting goats were cute. Kittens in a box, ducks with blue feet, a crab in a plastic hamster ball. Things that were small, weird, and a little pathetic. Things that you might randomly get the impulse to crush if you held them in your hands.

I didn’t want to be cute.

Kyle handed me the bottle. I forgot that I was not drinking and swallowed a mouthful like it was water. Just like in the videos, I coughed, and just like I’d imagined, it was embarrassing and awkward and went on way longer than it should’ve.

Kyle didn’t say anything. He just watched me and waited.

There was something disquieting about that.

Something that pulled the heat out of my cheeks and made my stomach rise even higher in my chest.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have let him in here. Perhaps I shouldn’t have talked to him over the phone. Perhaps this, all of it, was one very big, awkward fuckup. I tried to think of how to say that in a way that wouldn’t hurt his feelings, but it was hard to think, racked with coughs.

The neighbors were still fighting.

Cookie was still barking.

I wanted to shout at everyone to shut up.

I wanted to make excuses and show Kyle to the door.

I wanted to roll back the clock to that morning and wear a dress to Ginger’s party.

I wanted my grandma to come home.

“Are you OK?” he finally asked.

“Yeah,” I said, waving a hand weakly. “Just, um, went down the wrong pipe.” That sounded like something an old person would say. “I mean . . . I breathed it . . . I . . . never mind.”

“That’s OK.” Kyle took the bottle out of my hand but didn’t take another drink. Instead, he set it aside. I didn’t like that. It made everything inside me go still and cold.

“Hey. Kyle. I’m sorry. You’ve been really nice and everything, coming over, and talking to me on the phone. But the thing is, I’m really tired and⁠—”

He kissed me.

There was nothing nice about it. I was sitting cross-legged on my grandma’s threadbare carpet, listening to Cookie bark, and the neighbors yell, still barely swallowing the urge to cough. Kyle tasted like vodka, sweat, and barbecue sauce. His palms, when he gripped my shoulders, were wet. His stubble was like sandpaper.

I pushed him back.

He blinked. “What?”

“I . . . I’m really sorry I⁠—”

“No. Wait. For real. Are you being serious? What the hell?”