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My stomach flutters. I nod. Tomorrow feels too far away. “Goodnight,” I say.
And then his lips are on mine. Lightly at first, his kiss is more of a question, his fingers sliding down my arm in a way that asks if he should continue. I breathe in the citrus smell of his cologne, taste the sourness of the punch on his lips. My hand closes around his tie, and I lean forward and pull him closer all at once, needing to feel his body next to mine again, needing to know what a real kiss from Emory feels like.
I’m light-headed and heavy all at the same time. Emory’s fingers are fire as they graze across my skin, leaving a trail of bittersweet longing wherever he touches. I slide my hand up his neck and around his shoulder, tugging him closer. He turns, pressing my back against the front door, his hands holding himself over me while his tongue grazes across my bottom lip.
I am completely lost in Emory Underwood. And then he pulls away, so slowly it’s agonizing. His hair falls in his eyes, and I want to brush it away, but I’m stuck frozen against my own front door. My breath is shallow, panting in time with my rapid heartbeat.
Emory smiles, and I think I smile back.
“Goodnight, Isla.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Mom beams at me with glassy eyes. She’s all set up in the recliner in the living room, blankets piled on top of her and two plush pillows behind her head. “My baby,” she says with slurred words, reaching a hand out to me.
I let her take my hand, and I sit on the armrest. “Hey, Mom. You okay?”
Her injured hand is wrapped in a ton
of gauze and foam, her index and middle finger are held out straight, but are so covered in bandages that I can’t see anything. She nods eagerly and then her eyes drift to where my dad stands in front of us, arms crossed over his chest. She makes an overly dramatic frown and scrunches her face at him. “Your father,” she says, stumbling over her words in a way that reminds me of a two-year-old, “It’s being a … a …”
“Buttface?” I supply for her, going along with this childish dreamlike trance she’s in.
She shakes her head. “Dick.”
Dad and I laugh, and he kneels down, putting a hand on her knee. “Honey, I’m just trying to take care of you. The drugs are making you loopy.”
She shakes her head. “He wouldn’t let me see my baby,” she says, grabbing my arm with her good hand. “I just wanted to see you.” She pouts. “I could have died.”
“You weren’t going to die,” Dad says. “And I told Jane that our daughter was having fun at a school dance and needed to be left alone.”
“See?” Mom says, looking at me with a sudden sobriety in her eyes. “He’s being a dick.”
“I’m here now, Mom. Do you need anything?”
She shakes her head. “Just you.”
“Okay then,” I say, glancing at the clock on the wall. It’s fifteen minutes until midnight. “Want to watch Netflix for a while?”
“Yes,” she says, handing me the remote control.
“I’m going to get to bed,” Dad says, bending to give Mom a kiss, which she returns in between grimacing at him. “Isla, make sure you remember everything she says so we can make fun of her for it when the drugs have worn off.” He winks at me.
“Will do,” I say, grabbing one of Mom’s blankets and moving to the chair next to her.
“By the way,” Dad says, slipping back into the living room. “How was your night?”
The entire night steamrolls into the forefront of my mind, and I can’t believe I found a way to forget about Emory for these last few minutes. Heat rushes into my cheeks, and my lips tingle with the memory of Emory’s lips on mine. I glance at Mom, pretending to care about the fluffiness of her pillows. “It was fine. I had fun.”
“Great,” Dad says, tapping the wall twice before he disappears behind it. “Love ya’ll,” he calls out as he walks away.
I lean back into my chair, hoping a few hours of Downton Abbey will pull me out of this Emory high. In a way, I’m as loopy as my mom right now. Boys are just as powerful of a drug as anesthesia. Fortunately for her, Mom’s high will wear off by morning.
I don’t think I’ll be so lucky.
Emory and I have never been texting friends, at least not in any way that comforts me over the weekend. If we had been the kind of friends who texted frequently throughout the day, then I’d know for sure that he’s avoiding me. As it is, I’m lying in bed staring at the ceiling late Sunday night, and I don’t know if not hearing from him is normal or what.
I’d at least expected some kind of text telling me I did a great job during our fake date. Maybe some encouragement to get myself back out there, or a group text to the support group bragging about how well I pulled off going to the homecoming dance. But all I’ve got is crickets.
