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They part open of their own accord and Cole takes control of my lips. He kisses me slowly at first, tasting me and making my entire body shiver. I don’t know what to do, so I remain still.
I’ve thought about kissing before — more specifically since that day he tricked me into kissing his cheek but turned his head at the last second.
His lips are firmer than back then, and when he slips his tongue against mine, he tastes of his favourite lime gum. My toes curl and my limbs shake with whatever force he’s injecting into me.
Why does kissing him feel so good?
It’s not supposed to, right? I hate him.
And yet, the more he glides his tongue against mine, the more I want it to last, the harder I need it to.
When he pulls away, I briefly close my eyes to steady my breathing. Wow. Is it supposed to feel as if I’m floating out of my body right now?
“You’re not bad compared to the others,” he says.
The others.
Plural?
My eyes snap open and I shove him away with a force I didn’t know I possessed. “Don’t you ever touch me again.”
I storm out of the room with tears in my eyes.
I hate Cole Nash.
I despise him.
Cole
Age fifteen
Existence, or the lack thereof, is intriguing.
I remember the first time I picked up Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre from one of Mum’s shelves. It was covered with dust, not having been touched in years.
I remember reading it in one day. I was twelve. I didn’t understand much of it back then, but every time I reread it, I get these bursts of nothingness.
Other people would steer clear from that, but I keep coming back for more. I read about the existentialism theory and followed all of Sartre’s counterparts, and while I’m not a believer in the theory — or in anything in general — I still find myself engrossed in Sartre’s main character in Nausea, Antoine Roquentin.
A lonely man suffering to come to terms with his existence while being horrified by it.
When Mum saw me reading the book, she said she pitied him because he didn’t have anyone to understand him. Antoine is, in her mind, the worst-case scenario for writers who delve too deep.
Mum might be a novelist herself, but she’s into what I call thought-provoking fiction. She writes books about the darkest parts of human nature, psychopaths, serial killers and cults. She writes books where villains are the main characters and she doesn’t try to romanticise them. That’s what makes her plots heart-pounding.
No matter how much I love Mum’s talent and her literary genius, I think she missed the point in Nausea. It’s not that Antoine didn’t understand himself; it’s that maybe he understood too much, which became a burden.
I didn’t tell her that, or she would’ve given me that look. The one where her brow creases and she watches me closely as if looking for signs from her serial killers’ articles cheat sheet.
Then she would’ve booked me an appointment with the therapist so I could talk it out.
It’s been the same endless cycle since my father died. Over the years, I’ve learnt to keep my most unconventional opinions to myself. Whenever Mum says I sound a lot older than I am, it’s usually my prompt to cut back and mimic those surrounding me.
Especially Xander and Ronan; they’re the most normal amongst the four of us — or as normal as they can get.
I’ve been having my suspicions about Ronan. His overall joyful personality sometimes seems to be the camouflage of something.
He’s now grinning like an idiot as we gather in the Meet Up — the cottage Aiden’s late mother left him. We usually come here after games with other team members. Today, however, it’s only the four of us because Ronan said it’s a special occasion.
