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He leans in closer. “Want to touch it? Tell me how it feels, but be nice.”
He’s grounding me, I realize, and even though it feels strange, I let him. I curl my fingers into his hair and sigh. “Soft. Shiny.”
“Two more things.”
I let my fingers run down his face, against the stubble. “Rough.”
“One more,” he breathes.
My fingers weave into his sweater. “Soft.”
“You already said soft—”
I pull him in, and he lets me. My lips find his. But it’s me. All me.
With the magic of the release ceremony wrapping around us, I let go of everything. I kiss him. His stubble grounds me, and his scent blankets me until only he exists.
No more loss. No more failure. Just him.
He pulls away.
The sky crashes onto my head, stars splintering into my hair as the moment shatters. He holds my face, keeping me at arm’s length and peering with something I can only describe as pity.
I’m so stupid.
He didn’t kiss me back. What was I thinking?
“We can’t,” he says. “You’re having a panic attack, and I know this is going to make you panic more, but that’s the only reason I’m stopping you. You’re panicking. Do you understand?”
No. God, he’s talking a mile a minute. Flustered, but it’s suddenly not as adorable as it has been every other time.
“I know.” I nod again and again. “I should go. My mom will bring me home—”
“No. Come on.” He takes my hand and leads me through the clearing to the picnic, farther and farther from the crowd.
“Are you going to kill me?” I ask, a halfhearted joke.
“No.”
We spent so long setting out these blankets, putting up the magical lights, and filling the baskets with food and drink.
He guides me over to a blanket and sits down, pulling me with him. The candles on the picnic blanket, lit by magic, shine golden light onto his face. Neither of us reaches for the picnic basket.
This isn’t where I want to be. I want to bury myself in a hole of embarrassment and stay there until my mom decides we can go somewhere else. Anywhere else, really.
“I really want to go home,” I whisper.
But our names are placed on a little notecard in the picnic area. He set it up for me. For us?
“You think I’d let you leave before you get to enjoy the fruits of your labor?” He scoffs. “Come on. You probably don’t feel like eating, but… water.” He pulls a bottle from the basket and opens it. “Have you been drinking?”
“A little.” I sniffle. “But not water.”
“Alcohol?”
I nod.
“That’s okay. Drink this now.”
