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CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Sinclair
Irritation nips at me. It shouldn’t bother me that Jameson brought up my first kiss, but it does. He’s been an integral part of almost every first I’ve ever had.
He was right next to me on my first day of preschool. When it came to high school, I briefly panicked when I realized that Jameson would likely follow in Holden’s footsteps. His brother went to a prestigious boarding school upstate. I thought Jameson would attend The Buchanan School too, but he surprised me when he announced on the last day of eighth grade that he was sticking with the New York City public school system.
He was there when I drove my dad’s car for the first time. Jameson was in the backseat giving me all the pointers that Holden had given him.
I knew he was watching the first time I kissed a boy. I wished with all my might that the soda bottle I spun during a game of spin the bottle would end up pointing at Jameson, but it flew right past him and landed on Andy.
“We were friends,” he says with a chuckle. “Lyver was my friend, Sinclair.”
For a minute or two, that was true. I don’t recall Jameson wanting anything to do with Andy after I kissed him. To be fair, I avoided Andy, too, since he thought the kiss was the beginning of a life-long love affair.
Instead of gently letting him down, I took the silent treatment route. I ducked around corners, and walked home from school instead of taking the bus so I wouldn’t have to face Andy.
Suddenly, feeling a twinge of guilt for how poorly I treated him, I sigh. “I should look him up.”
Jameson’s gaze widens. “You should look who up? Lyver?”
Nodding, I scratch my forehead. “Yes.”
“Why?” He lets out a low chuckle. “The kiss was that good?”
It may be my imagination, but I sense jealousy woven into the question. I tilt my head. “It was good.”
“It was sloppy,” he counters. “Andy didn’t know what the fuck he was doing. If you think that kiss was good, you’ve never been kissed the right way.”
“The right way?” My hands drop to my hips. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You know what it means.”
Shaking my head, I let out a heavy exhale. “I’ve kissed a lot of men, Jameson. I think I can judge what a good kiss is, and Andy’s was good.”
It’s such a bold lie that I have to wonder if my nose is growing. I refuse to give Jameson the satisfaction of being right about this, though.
I may have forgotten Andy’s name, but I remember the kiss. It was horrible and left me wondering why everyone thought kissing was such a great thing.
I left Kalon’s that night and went home to brush my teeth and my tongue since Andy had jammed his against mine over and over again during our kiss.
“We both know that kiss was a one out of ten at best.” Jameson skims his palm over his chest and stomach.
I glance at the black T-shirt under his gray suit jacket. He’s paired that with jeans. His hair is messier than usual, and it’s obvious that he hasn’t shaved since he left Manhattan.
Why does he always have to look so hot?
I cast my gaze to the floor. “Unless you kissed Andy, you can’t rate it.”
He lets out a laugh that’s so loud that my eyes pop up to meet his.
“Jameson,” I scold him. “This isn’t funny. You don’t know what it felt like when Andy kissed me.”
“It felt wet and messy.” He smirks. “You don’t think I noticed how you wiped the back of your hand over your mouth after it was over?”
“You noticed that?” There’s no hiding the surprise in my tone.
After the kiss broke, I excused myself to use the washroom. I didn’t make it ten steps from our group before my hand was at my lips, chasing away the remnants of Andy’s saliva.
“I notice everything about you.” He steps closer to me. “I noticed your shoulders fell when the soda bottle skated right on by me and landed on Lyver.”
What? How?
“You’re delusional,” I accuse, even though he hit the nail on the head. “I didn’t want to kiss you.”
“Really?” His gaze falls to my lips. “If that bottle had landed on me that night, you would have kissed me, Sinclair.”
“Says who?”
His eyes find mine. “You’ve always followed the rules. You would have given me your first kiss if it landed on me.”
“I wouldn’t have,” I say defiantly. “I would have asked for a do-over.”
“There are no do-overs in spin the bottle.”
My lips curve. “You don’t make the rules, Jameson.”
“I don’t have to.” He points at the wine bottle on the table. “You know the rules. If you want a do-over that badly, take it now. If that bottle lands on me, break the goddamn rule and walk away like you claim you would have done twelve years ago. I dare you.”
