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Another sting of warmth spread across my face, and he gave me a cocky twist of a smile.

“I’m sure.” He leaned down and pressed his lips to my cheek, lingering a heartbeat longer than was polite. “Good evening, Honeycutt.”

After he left, Maribel was still staring, open-mouthed.

“Could you be any more awkward?” I stomped past her into the living room.

“I—” She shut the door. “Was he going to kiss you?”

I fell on the couch. “Of course not! Don’t be silly.”

But the question dallied. Was he going to kiss me? And would I have let him? Well, of course I would have, but that wasn’t the pertinent question.

Should I have let him?

No.

No, no, no.

“He was,” Maribel said with utter certainty, curling up on the opposite sofa.

I groaned. “If he kisses me again, I don’t know if I’ll survive it.”

She stiffened. “What do you mean, again?”

It took me only half a second to realize my mistake, and I turned my face deep into the couch cushion, growling my frustration.

“Shay Lynne Honeycutt, you spill right this instant or I will lose my mind.”

With a put-upon sigh, I sat up and detailed everything that happened the night Cam kissed me nearly a decade ago, watching her face go redder with each word. Afterward, the girl with zero chill managed to keep her cool by staring at the ceiling for a long moment, her hands clasped tightly.

“Your need to keep all the best parts of your life private will never stop confusing me,” she said at last.

“He kissed me, then called me trailer trash.” I slunk back into my seat. “I was embarrassed.”

“He was obviously trying to keep those other boys away from you, Shay.”

“It’s obvious now. It wasn’t obvious then. It never made sense for him to like me.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Did it make sense for you to like him?”

“Well… Yeah. He was smart and pretty and rich. Who wouldn’t like that?”

“He was also always awkwardly staring at you, and he argued with you all the time, and he clearly hated that you beat him at everything.”

I considered that, trying to see it from her eyes, but it was impossible.

The staring wasn’t awkward. It was hot. His arguments never bothered me. They electrified me. And his hatred of coming in second was often paired with smirks and warm gazes and whispers of “Congrats, Honeycutt.”

So where was the truth? Was it Mari’s version, mine, or somewhere in the middle?

And did it matter?

No, it didn’t.

“Whatever,” I said. “Now you know everything. I liked him. We kissed. We’re friendly now and should not be kissing ever again.”

She snorted. “Does he know that? Because⁠—”