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We chat aimlessly while we finish our tea, and then Alice checks the time and says she should head home. Inside, I’m screaming at myself to do something, to make a move, to just tell her how I feel, but then she’s standing up, stretching, yawning, telling me how tired she is and that she isn’t sure she’s going to be able to stay awake at the wheel.

I want to tell her not to drive home, to just stay here with me, but it sounds so cheesy and lame in my head that the words don’t come out. And what if she misinterprets them as I want her to sleep in the guest room? That’s the last place I want her.

And just as my stomach sinks and I think she’s going to leave as just my friend, she turns and says, “So, do you think we’re all set for the wedding on Saturday?”

“Sure. I mean, do you think we’re ready?” I stumble, knowing I’m losing the moment. She’s going to walk out this door, and we’re going to be friends, remain friends—maybe just as it should be.

“Yeah, there’s just one thing.” Her head drops slightly, and I want to place my thumb on her chin and tip it back up so I can gaze into her eyes and tell her exactly how I feel.

“What thing?” I ask.

“Well, this is going to sound a bit crazy, but we haven’t held hands or hugged or been close in any way, and I’m just worried that people will notice if we’re standing apart from each other or if we don’t hold hands at some point.”

She isn’t looking at me, which I like but also hate.

“I know couples don’t walk around with their arms slung around each other, but when I saw Drew and Sydney together, he put his hand on the small of her back when they said goodbye, and then he touched her shoulder slightly and brushed her hair from her face. It was those little things that showed the world how much he loves her.”

She looks up and must interpret the look on my face as sheer horror, as she quickly adds, “I’m not asking you to do any of those things. I was just wondering if you’d be okay with me holding your hand at some point or putting my hand on your leg. I thought I’d better ask rather than do it at the wedding and freak you out. But it’s okay if it’s a no. I totally understand. Or if you have another idea of something we could do to show we’re a couple, then I’m happy to go with whatever you’re okay with.”

She takes a step back, a hurt look on her face that makes me want to grab her and hug her. I falter, though only slightly, before I step forwards and place my thumb under her chin, tipping her head towards me and saying, “Something like this?”

Her eyes widen, and I’ve no idea if I’ve read this wrong, but I have the perfect excuse if she backs away, so I don’t think—I just kiss her. It’s so light, so soft that our lips barely touch, but it’s enough for me to know that I want my lips to be on hers all the time.

When I pull away, her skin is flushed, her eyes like pools, and her lips are slightly parted. I’ve said before that I’m not great at reading people, but I know what I feel, and I know what I see.

She wants more. She wants this just as much as I do.

“Well, that ought to do it,” she says, slightly breathless, and I see my chance. It’s now or never.

“I can’t do this, Alice,” I begin, scratching my chin. “I don’t want to go as your fake boyfriend.”

Her expression drops, and I can’t stand it, can’t stand to see the look in her eyes.

“It’s fine. You don’t have to. I⁠—”

I don’t let her finish as I press my finger against her lips and edge closer.

“I want to go as your real boyfriend. The one who gets to hold your hand, gets to kiss you, gets to put his hand on your leg under the table, and gets to look at you whenever he wants because you’re mine and it’s real, all of it.”

She gulps, and there’s a split second where I think I’ve done the wrong thing, spoiled everything, because she’s about to tell me that’s lovely, but she doesn’t want it, not like I do. But then I move my finger, and she blinks with those beautiful doe eyes.

“What?” she says, her voice slight and almost whispering.

Disbelief and uncertainty cloud her beautiful face, and I don’t hesitate, just thrust my hands into her hair and kiss her.

This time for real.

55

Alice

You don’t get to my age without racking up a few kisses.

When I was younger, I used to grade them like assignments, assessing areas such as softness of lips, pressure, too much tongue, too little tongue, or no tongue at all.

And most importantly: How did the kiss make me feel?

Was I left panting for more or hunting for mouthwash?