Page 27 of Such Sharp Teeth

He takes a swig from the bottle. “Damn.”

“To ask me such a question. The audacity.”

“I’ll go back to being the shy one,” he says, smiling.

He’s more confident now than he was when I first knew him. He’s grown into himself. Is that what’s different? Is that what’s causing this shift? Or is it me? For years I’ve been fucking strangers, finding the obscurity exhilarating. There’s something wildly liberating about being so close to someone physically but remaining unknown to them. Keeping myself a secret. I never considered it could feel just as good to be with someone who does know me. Who knows my history like Ian does.

“I totally forgot I was a cheerleader,” I say, sipping the bourbon.

“Cheerleader, student council president, lacrosse . . . what else?”

“Debate.”

“Makes sense.”

“What about you? Band.”

“Yeah, band geek.”

“Not geek,” I say. “Well, yeah. But you were in legit bands outside of school.”

Ian was a touring musician for a while, before moving back here. Now he teaches guitar and works with his dad remodeling houses. Pretty sure he remodeled Ash’s kitchen.

It’s a nice kitchen.

“What was your band called again?” I ask him, picking the cinnamon stick out of my cup.

“If you don’t remember, I’m not going to tell you,” he says, adjusting his glasses.

“I’ll just ask Scarlett.” Scarlett’s first boyfriend, Rich, was in the band, too.

“Is she here?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I should probably go find her.”

“I’ll see you inside.”

“You’re staying out here?”

“I’m gonna smoke.”

“All right,” I say. I swing myself to stand.

“Wait,” he says.

His fingers graze my wrist.

I turn toward him. He’s still taller than me, even with him sitting and me standing. His feet are on the ground, knees slightly apart. I step between them, drifting my free hand over his knee. My other hand holds my drink, and the plastic cup cracks at the tightening of my grip. His hands. One of them finds my face. The other, my hip.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks me.

The yes snags somewhere in my throat. The want of the moment has warped all sensation. I feel everything and nothing. I’m numb and on fire. I manage to nod, but he waits. He looks at me. This is the closest we’ve ever been, I think. So close that my breath fogs up his glasses. He runs his thumb softly along my jaw, and then his lips press to mine.

I don’t think it’s lost on either of us that he’s waited fifteen years for this. Now that it’s happening, now that I’m here inside this kiss with him, it’s no wonder why it took me so long. This is a game-over kiss. It’s an electric, world-stopping, heart-cartwheeling, you’re-totally-fucked kiss.

Maybe deep down I knew all along. That if I allowed myself to feel anything for this person, the feelings would be too much, immense and unwieldy, impossible to contain, to control. I wasn’t ready for this kiss when I was an idiot teenager. I’m not sure I’m ready for it now at twenty-seven.

He pulls back just a little, so we’re still close but no longer in the kiss, which is good, because I forgot to breathe, and now I’m light-headed. I press my forehead into his and inhale.