The Last Best Kiss (28 page)

I struggle for a response that will let him know how much his praise means to me without making myself look needy. “Thanks. And just so you know, every photo you’ve ever shown me . . . they’ve all inspired me.
You’ve
inspired me.” I quickly add, “Don’t feel weird about that or anything. It’s just that you have good taste in photos. That’s all.”

He laughs a little, and I realize how stupid that sounded, and I laugh too, sheepishly. My embarrassed smile freezes on my lips, because he leans forward and hesitates, his face near mine, his eyes scanning mine uncertainly.

Like he’s thinking about kissing me but isn’t sure I’ll want him to.

And I do. I do want him to. More than anything else in the world. So I tilt my face up toward his. Then panic. What if that wasn’t what he meant at all? I start to pull back, wondering if he noticed how eager I looked, wondering how I can cover this stupid stupid mistake of thinking he wanted to kiss me when he was probably just shifting his feet—

And then his mouth comes down on mine.

So it wasn’t a mistake.

Maybe I’m done making mistakes. Or at least ones that concern Finn Westbrook.

That would be nice.

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twenty-four

O
nce upon a time, Finn Westbrook and I kissed each other a lot. But that was years ago.

Now his lips are on mine again. Again
and
for the very first time.

His mouth touches mine, lightly at first, then, as I lean up into the kiss, more confidently. For a while that’s enough, just that awesome warmth against my mouth and the sense that his body’s close to mine.

I’ve been wanting this so much, missing it so badly.

I grow hungrier, and I guess he does too, because he pulls me firmly against his chest as our mouths linger and explore and remember. He’s a lot taller than he was the last time we held each other this close. I like the way his shoulders feel under my tightening fingers. I like that they’re so much broader than his waist. I like that now I have to arch my neck up to reach him.

But I also like that his hair feels the way it used to—thick and alive under my twining fingers—and that he tastes the same, a heady mixture of peppermint and something warm and earthy and unique. He’s definitely the same Finn, the one I’ve missed so much these last few years. The layer of familiarity under all this discovery—it’s like having a wild, exciting adventure and then finding your childhood blanket waiting for you when you make camp. Everything’s new and wonderful, but there’s comfort and safety here too.

I don’t want to stop kissing him. Not ever. He starts to pull away, and I grab on to his waist, almost panicking, but he just wants to whisper something.

“I’m kind of glad Eve ate that fruit.”

I express my wholehearted agreement with that sentiment by rising up on my toes and seeking out his lips again.

This has to go on forever. I don’t ever want to do anything else. I can’t think of a single thing that’s more important than being held tight against Finn’s chest. I would happily wave away any and all college offers if it meant I could spend the next four years in this room alone with him.

He doesn’t seem to be in any rush to move along either.

I’m planning to stay there with him until the building falls down around our ears sometime during some intergalactic planetary war in the far distant future, but the plan is ruined by the stupid door, which bangs loudly open.

“Well, what have we got here?” says a delighted voice.

We aren’t doing anything wrong—I’d say we’re finally getting something right—but we jump apart guiltily, anyway.

Ginny Clay regards us from the doorway, her arms folded, her narrow face alight with sly amusement. She wags her finger at me and sings out, “Busted!”

Life is funny: one moment I’m in pure bliss, the next I want to commit murder.

I should have locked the door. Oresco told me to lock the door. Why didn’t I lock the door?

Finn touches my arm and, when I look at him, says softly, “I should go. I totally forgot about Oscar. He’s waiting for me.”

“Go?” I repeat forlornly. How can he go? We just found each other again.

He laughs at my expression. “I know where you live,” he says. “Expect to see me soon.”

“How soon?”

He leans his head toward me, his eyes so close, I can see the outline of his contacts around the irises. “I’ll come over tonight. Promise.”

I nod, and he heads toward the door. I feel stunned as I watch him walk away. He’s mine again. He was and then he wasn’t and now he is. Somehow I got back the thing I missed so deeply and wanted so badly. I’m not sure how. But I did.

He slips out the door with a polite nod in Ginny’s direction as he passes her.

“Well, well, well,” Ginny says, once we’re alone, tilting her head to the side with a little wink. “Looks like someone’s made the art room her very own little love nest.”

I’m sure she thinks she’s teasing me the way a big sister would. And she’s not wrong. Lizzie would probably be just as annoying in this situation.

“I was finishing up some work,” I say, and pointedly turn back to my painting. I still have to fill in the sky. I want it to be very sunny right above the tree, with ominous clouds hovering way off in the distance. Streaks of dark purple in the coming storm.

“Don’t worry,” Ginny says, coming closer. “I was joking about busting you. I won’t say a word to your father. Not if you don’t want me to.”

“Do whatever you want.” I move over to the paint cabinet and consider my options.

Ginny leans against the counter, watching me. “Don’t pretend to be working, Anna. You can’t possibly focus after
that
. Let’s talk about it! That was Finn Westbrook, right? The kid who left school and came back? He’s very cute. A lot of the girls on the volleyball team have crushes on him. Well done!”

I try to imagine a universe in which Ginny’s approval of my love life would mean something to me, but I can’t. I bring some tubes of paint, a few brushes, and a palette back to the worktable and sit down on the stool. “I really need to focus,” I say.

She comes closer and looks over my shoulder, studying the picture for a few minutes before saying, “I don’t get it. The landscape is beautiful—but why the weird little creatures?”

“It’s what I do.”

She shakes her head. “But wasn’t the point for you to stretch yourself? Why not just do a pretty landscape for once? Prove that you’ve got the basic skills covered and that you’re not a psychopath. Not that
I’m
saying you’re a psychopath, of course—”

“Nice save.”

“Just that the school might
think
you are with all your creepy hidden little drawings. You don’t want admissions people to worry that they’re letting in a serial killer, Anna. They’ll be looking for reasons to turn kids away, anyway—why hand them one?”

“Mmm.” Noncommittal sounds may be the way to go with Ginny.

She waits for more, but I keep prepping my paints in silence. I really want to be alone to think about what just happened with Finn, but she won’t leave.

“I’m serious about not telling your dad,” she says, after a moment. “About Finn, I mean. You can trust me, Anna.”

“Do you honestly think my dad would care?”

She waves her hands around in the air. “Of course. I mean, he’s not a prude or anything—I mean, I
assume
he’s not, I don’t know—but you’re his little girl, and it can be uncomfortable sometimes for a father—”

“The thing is,” I say, cutting her off, “Dad and I? We leave each other’s personal lives alone. He doesn’t criticize my choices, and I don’t criticize his. And that’s a good thing, don’t you think?” I fix her with a long, innocent stare.

She takes a step back. “I guess,” she says. And tells me she’s late for practice and has to run. Leaving me blissfully alone to paint my sky and think about Finn.

In the middle of everything that’s making me happy is one small thing that’s making me worried, so instead of driving home after I’m done painting, I head to the twins’ house.

Lorena lets me in as usual and tells me she didn’t know I was coming. “Neither did I,” I say. “Are the twins home?”

“Hilary has Krav Maga. But Lily is here. She has a friend over. They’re up in her room.”

“Can I go up?”

“Yes. I think so.” But she seems oddly hesitant. “Just, maybe . . . knock first. If the door’s closed.”

“Of course,” I say, and head up the curved, enormous stairway that rises from the front foyer up to the second story. I prefer the smaller, straight stairway in the back of the house, but this is the fastest way to Lily’s bedroom. At least her parents aren’t around—I really don’t want to have to make small talk with them. I want to see Lily and leave as quickly as possible.

I make my way along the carpeted hallway, which goes on for longer than you’d think an upstairs hallway could go, and find Lily’s room. Her door
is
closed, so I knock.

“Who is it?” Lily’s voice calls out. A little breathlessly.

“It’s Anna,” I tell the door. It’s white, but the panels are outlined in silver paint. Gilding the Lily, I think every time I see it. It’s one of my mother’s favorite phrases and one of the few things about her that’s stuck to me. “I should have texted, but I was already in my car and had a question for you. Can I come in?”

“Yeah—wait—one sec.” There are sounds of shifting and moving, and then she’s standing in the suddenly open doorway. She hugs me. “Hi! I’m glad you came by. You know James, right?”

I look past her. James is sitting on her bed. His shoes are off. He waves at me.

“Hi again,” I say, and I almost burst out laughing, because I realize I already have the answer to my question. But I’m here now. “I need her for one second,” I tell James. “We’ll be right back.” I grab Lily and pull her across the hallway into Hilary’s room and shut the door behind us, then turn to her. “How much do you like James?”

She raises her eyebrows. “
That’s
what you wanted to ask me?”

“Sort of. I mean, I came here to ask you how you were feeling about Finn these days, but I feel like they’re related. Not the guys. The questions. You know what I mean.”

She crosses her arms and studies me. Her hair is slightly rumpled, especially in back. She’s wearing just a tank top and yoga pants. Her mascara is slightly smeared.

I definitely interrupted something.

“Why are you asking?” she says. “Do you like Finn?”

I look down at the carpet. Hilary picked it out, so it’s very practical: dark blue with an abstract gray design that couldn’t show dirt if it tried. The carpet in Lily’s room is white with neon-green polka dots.

“Yeah,” I say. “But I needed to talk to you before anything happened.” Okay, that’s a little dishonest, since it implied nothing has happened yet. “Before anything really serious happened,” I amend it to, which is slightly more truthful.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Lily says. I look up at her. She’s rolling her eyes. “If you like him and he likes you, then to hell with me or anyone else who gets in your way. That’s how it
should
be.”

“You’re not helping,” I say. “I don’t want it to be like that.”

“Did he tell you I already basically broke up with him?”

“Yeah. It’s the ‘basically’ that worries me.”

She breathes out sharply, impatiently. “I couldn’t
really
break up with him because we weren’t really going out.”

“Still—”

“Anna,” Lily says, cutting me off impatiently. “Finn’s a nice guy, but—” She shrugs. “He can’t compare to James. Not for me. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” I say, and I start laughing, mostly because I’m so relieved, but also a little bit because it is funny to me that anyone could like that guy—that slightly ridiculous, mildly pompous elf—more than Finn. But I know that’s how this romantic stuff works: one girl’s perfect guy is another girl’s reject. And right now I’m glad of it. Lily’s welcome to James. Hallelujah for James!

Lily goes back to her elf, and I go home to shower and change and dry my hair and fool around with my makeup. And even though “singing” isn’t on the agenda, I end up doing a lot of that too while I’m doing all that other stuff.

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twenty-five

E
arly that evening I hear a car pull up in front of our house, and I look out the window. It’s Finn’s Volt. I run downstairs and fling open the door. Then I step back, shy suddenly and a little scared that he’s going to say something like,
We both know what happened today was a mistake, right?

He peers at my face. “Everything okay?”

He looks anxious, and I realize that my hesitation is making him wonder if
I
have doubts, and that we could go on passing our anxiety back and forth for a while, each of us wondering if the other regrets what happened until we’re completely dysfunctional . . . and that seems like a waste of a potentially awesome evening.

So I reach out, grab him by the sleeve—he’s put on a light blue hoodie since I last saw him and changed from contacts to glasses—and drag him over the threshold. “Get in here,” I say, and throw my arms around him.

That’s clearly all he was waiting for. He clutches me so hard that we stumble over our own feet and almost fall over but laughingly manage to catch ourselves in time. We wind up safely propped against the door, locked in a kiss that lasts for a good long time. His glasses bump into my temple at some point, and I pull my head back.

“Sorry,” he says. “I should have left my contacts in.”

“No. I like these. They make you look like old Finn.”

“Do you like old Finn better than new Finn?”

“I like seeing that he’s still in there.”

“I haven’t changed all that much,” he says. “I still like the same girl I did in ninth grade.”

“Not still,” I correct him. “Again.”

He shakes his head. “I never stopped. I tried to but couldn’t.” I’m curious about that, but he’s distracted, glancing around the foyer. “I probably should have asked this before, but is anyone else home?”