Bright Before Sunrise (31 page)

He laughs against my collarbone, and I forget what cold even feels like. Can’t imagine ever being cold again. “I’m getting you a thesaurus.”

I open my mouth to add another adjective to the list, but he cuts off my teasing with his lips and the only word that lingers in my head is “more.”

“There it is: parking space F23. All mine.”

I’m not sure which I recognize first, the guy’s voice or the girlish giggle he gets in response. But the words slide over us an instant before headlights do, illuminating the moment when Jonah stiffens and I pull back in surprise.

“Brighton?
Brighton
! What are you doing here? Oh my God! Who are you
kissing
?”

Somewhere amid Silvia’s questions and exclamation points, Jonah’s fingers drop from mine. I miss them immediately and don’t understand why he’s putting so much space between us. Or why he’s turning away from me. I ignore Silvia and Adrian for a moment and look where Jonah’s looking: back up the hill.

The grass on the field is bled of its color in the dim light. The boundary between the concrete and slope distinguishable by a sense of lushness, not a difference in color—both look drab gray.

Jonah takes another step back and pulls his keys out of his pocket.

I feel deflated.

I want to grab his hand and run. Or yell at them to leave.

“Brighton? Adrian, that
is
Brighton, right? Maybe it’s her sister? Evy?” They’ve parked in Adrian’s space and she’s leaning over the side of his convertible and peering into the darkness. “Can you see who she’s with?”

“It’s me, Silvia,” I answer. “Hi.”

“Hey! I’m here with
Adrian
.” She manages to keep
some
of the excitement out of that statement, but enough leaks through to make me glad I stopped him in the hallway and sent him to find her.

“Hi, Adrian.”

“Hey, Brighton … and hey.” He gives a wave, which Jonah returns with a short jerk of two fingers.

“Brighton, is this some secret rendezvous? Scandalous! I want to know everything!”

I want to tell her to back off. To take her excitement level down from an eleven to a six and her nosiness to a three. These might be questions she wants
me
to ask
her
about how she and Adrian ended up here together, but I haven’t even managed introductions yet and Jonah’s posture is already coiled and defensive.

I don’t want a rehashing of the computer lab scene though—where one sharp word meant a million apologies.

She leans even farther over the side of the car, to the point where Adrian’s grabbing the belt loop on her jean skirt. “I thought you were single?”

“I …” I don’t have an answer to that. It’s not something
I can ask Jonah in front of an audience. It’s not something I’m ready to ask him. Or think about. And he’s tossing his keys impatiently between his hands. Looking everywhere but at me.

Which is probably a good thing, because I’m sure my expression is raw hope and desperate longing.

“Is that … the new kid?” Adrian asks. I’m not sure if it’s a question for Silvia or me, but it makes me cringe.
The new kid?
They should know his name—or ask. All my earlier arguments about the merits of the town crowd back up my throat and choke me.

He tacks on a “with
her
?” in a voice that’s neither quiet nor polite. The screen of a cell phone glows brightly in his fingers, illuminating his skeptical expression. He’s turning this moment into a text, a status update, or a tweet.

“Jonah,” I correct in a voice like flint, and I feel his eyes on me. “His name is Jonah.”

“We should go,” he says quietly. He gazes coolly at Adrian as he reaches around me to open the passenger door.

“Oh, you don’t have to! Sorry. We didn’t mean to
interrupt
! Adrian was just …” Silvia’s apologies dissolve into giggles.

“Showing her my parking space,” he finishes. “But
we
can go. You guys stay.”

“No, it’s fine.” But my voice is hollow, and if they weren’t so busy with each other, they’d hear I don’t mean it. Jonah has already shut his door and is shoving his key in the ignition. “
Jonah
and I will see you guys Sunday.”

I shut the door on good-byes and giggles, and he puts the car in drive.

Neither of us says a word, and this silence is thick and
ominous, like whatever is said next will have permanent consequences.

As I’m fastening my seat belt, I get it—what Amelia wants from Peter and what he gives her. I finally,
really
understand a moment from earlier in the day in this parking lot at dismissal.

Amelia with her head on Peter’s shoulder.

His hand on her hair.

Peter’s other hand on the key to her car.

Her car.

The car Amelia has never let me drive. The car her parents started planning a year before her sixteenth birthday so she’d have time to change her mind about make, model, and color.

And the way she’d said, “I’m tired, baby. Take me home, please.” It was completely comfortable, completely confident.

And Peter’s response: tracing the line of her forehead. “If you didn’t keep such rock star hours, Lia …” And he’d smiled as she pulled his hand to her lips and murmured
shhhh
.

Eleven hours ago I’d dismissed it as cute. Now it means more. Peter isn’t one of Amelia’s fads or phases. They’re all in. And that’s what I want. That moment. That relationship. That trust. That.

The longing feels like someone has grabbed my insides and twisted. I want what Amelia and Peter have, but does Jonah fit in that picture? Do I want it with
him?

I think the answer is
yes
and that terrifies me.

Based on how he reacted back there, his answer is
no
. His feelings were passion, not permanent. He’s probably
thinking I was a silly mistake, a stupid footnote on his bad night.

“Home?” There is nothing of the hoarse desire in his voice anymore; it’s straight exhaustion with a sigh for punctuation.

“Yes, please.”

39
 
 
Jonah
 
 
2:46 A.M.

I hate that kid in his shiny new Mustang. I’m less sure about the girl in the sequin tank top he had riding shotgun, but I’m willing to hate her too. I’m prepared to hate everyone at CPHS for the deer-in-headlights look on Brighton’s face when she was caught kissing me.

I bet she’ll micromanage the whole episode into a joke or a misunderstanding.
You thought we were
kissing?
Oh, no. Not at all. I was: insert-suitable-activity-for-an-empty-parking-lot-at-three-a.m
.

I can’t think of anything that fits that category, but I’m sure she’ll come up with a way to spin it. This night has been a holiday from reality, and we’ve reached the part where vacation ends and real life floods in.

After a drive that’s too long, too short, and way too silent, we’re in her driveway. The digits glowing on my dashboard are only a few hours before I usually wake up for school. She twists her hair into a knot and then lets it all drop around her shoulders, looking up and meeting my eyes for a millisecond.

I refuse to be the one who says good-bye first. I won’t make this easy on her by acting like I’m okay with what just went down and offering her an awkward hug. What is she thinking, head lowered, fidgeting with the hem of her dress? That she needs to let me down gently, that I’ll be heartbroken? She doesn’t seem to be in any big hurry to leave the car.

I hate that I don’t want her to.

“You can call me Bright,” she whispers. “If you’d like.”

“What?” I touch her shoulder to get her attention. The offer was spoken to her knees, and I want to see her face. Or maybe I just want an excuse to touch her.

“It sounds … natural coming from you. I don’t mind. And we should probably exchange numbers. I can’t believe I don’t even have your phone number.”

Her words are uncertain. It’s the tone you use for a question, or when you’re questioning why you’re saying what you’re saying.

“Brighton …”

“My cell’s off. Here, give me yours and I’ll add my number.”

I dig it out of my pocket and hand it to her.

“Now you text me and I’ll have your number. That’s how this should work.” Her voice falters and she droops. “Right?”

“There isn’t any ‘should.’ What do you want, Brighton?” She won’t look at me, and suddenly I’m angry. If she doesn’t want this—me—then that’s fine. I’m fine. “I’m not going to be your stray dog—you feel good because you took me in and made a project of me.”

“What?”

“You didn’t care if people in Hamilton saw us together, but I saw your face in the school parking lot—you didn’t want people
here
to see you with me.”

“That’s completely ridiculous.” She wears her frustration like a tight necklace. It makes her voice tense and her words clipped. “What did you want from me, Jonah? I was embarrassed.”

“So, I’m an embarrassment. Just what every guy wants a beautiful girl to say about him.” I reach across her to open the door. “Thank you and good night.”

“Wait! Not embarrassed by
you
, by the situation. I’m not really a PDA person—and I didn’t know what to say. I panicked.” I catch a flicker of anger in her gray eyes before she sits up straight and asks, “What was I supposed to say to all her questions? Is there a
we
? Am I single? You really want to have this conversation now? Fine, my turn. Answer this, what am I to you: rebound or revenge?” She covers her open mouth, like she can stop the words she’s already spoken.

“Neither. You’re more than that. I don’t know what yet … but it’s more than that.” I press my fingers to my forehead, hoping to push back the doubts and questions.

“Me either. So I froze. I’m sorry if that hurt your feelings.” Small fingers pry my hands from my head and entwine them. “And just so you know,
you
were the one who stepped away from me. I may not make out for an audience, but I never would’ve let go of your hand.”

I squeeze her fingers, back in mine. I’m not letting go first this time.

She rewards me with a smile, looks up at me through her eyelashes and asks, “We’re good right now, right?”

It’s the hope in her voice that almost breaks mine when I reply.

“Yes.”

“That’s a start. We’ll get some sleep and then tomorrow—”

I stall her answer with a kiss. I’m not ready to think about tomorrow. And in case tomorrow isn’t like this, I don’t want to ruin right now.

The ferocity with which I want her scares the hell out of me. I want to know her favorite candies. And colors. If she’s a good driver, a reality TV watcher, and as horrible with sports equipment as she says. I want to know more stories about her dad. And her favorite cereal, how she
really
likes her pizza, and the type of music she can’t help but sing along with. I want to watch a scary movie with her and see proof that she’s not afraid. I want to find out what she
is
scared of. If she doesn’t know the answers to these questions, then I want to be there when she figures it all out.

I want.

Her.

Everything about her. I open my eyes and study Brighton, try to figure out how she’s managed to get so far under my skin. And
her skin
—I want to uncover every inch of it, bury myself in it, fuse myself to her.

I jerk my mouth from hers, watching her breath slow and her eyes blink open.

“What?” she asks, a laugh teasing her lips into a smile. I suppress the urge to kiss her again and taste her laughter. “Jonah? Why are you staring at me like that? You’re making me nervous.”

I imagine telling her the truth:
I want you more than is
socially acceptable, and I don’t want to want you at all. I also don’t want the night to end, because tomorrow we’ll be back to normal
.

No, not normal because Carly will still be gone and I’ll still have this impulse to touch Brighton embedded permanently somewhere near my rib cage.

“Tomorrow?” I say.

She sighs and I remember.

“Your dad’s memorial. I forgot.”

“Me too, for a minute. And it’s
today
. I don’t want to go inside and go to bed. I need to before Mom or Evy wakes up—but I don’t want to. I’m scared when I wake up, this will all be …” She touches my arm to finish her statement, and my hand is covering hers before I recognize the desire to touch her back.