I Kissed Shara Wheeler(74)

An obvious maneuver.

“Count Jaroslav Bo?ita of Martinice, Count Vilem Slavata of Chlum, Adam II von Sternberg, and Matthew Leopold Popel Lobkowitz,” Chloe rattles off.

Shara, looking deeply put out, moves on to the next one. “Regicide.”

“The killing of a king,” Chloe says. “Or queen.”

“Lucrezia Borgia.”

“1480 to 1519. One of the most famous women of the Renaissance. Super hot. Blonde. Amazing hair. Smart, educated, accomplished, lots of politically strategic marriages, rumored to enjoy poisoning people. Often used in power plays by her father, Pope Alexander VI.”

Over the top of the card, Shara searches Chloe’s face for something. Chloe offers her another innocent smile.

“Keep going,” she says. “You’re doing great.”

Shara clenches her jaw and flips to the next card.

“Botticelli.”

“1444 to 1510. Leading painter of the Florentine Renaissance, sponsored by the Medici family, best known for Primavera, 1482, and The Birth of Venus, mid-1480s. Very distinctive style.”

“In what way?”

The trapdoor. Shara just stepped right on top of it. Chloe pulls the lever.

“Well,” Chloe says, “it was kind of about what his idea of beauty was. Especially women—he always painted women sort of flowing through space. Girls with an effortless sort of elegance, like they’re weightless and solid at the same time. Do you know what I mean?”

Shara swallows and nods.

“And then like, this line.” And here is where she does it: she reaches over and almost touches the hinge of Shara’s jaw with her fingertip, skimming the length of her jawline to her chin. Shara holds absolutely still. “He would have painted it with a strong edge, because he liked really dramatic, defined contours.”

She sits back and, before Shara has a chance to recover, tips her head to the side and casually pushes her collar aside, as if it were an accident.

It’s kind of funny, she has to admit. She’s a waif flouncing around Dracula’s candlelit manor with her neck out, sighing, “Ohhhh noooo, look at my poor exposed and vulnerable arteries, wouldn’t it be absolutely tragic if someone were to come along and slurp them?”

It works. Shara’s gaze goes directly where she wants it to, right to the opening of Chloe’s oxford, where the secret weapon is resting below the dip between her collarbones. Shara’s silver crucifix necklace.

“Is that—” Shara whispers. “Where did you get that?”

“What, this?” Chloe glances down, raising her eyebrows. “I found it in the trash, actually. Crazy, right? Why, does it mean something to you?”

It’s yours, Shara. Tell me it’s yours. Own up to something for once in your life.

“I have no idea how to answer that question,” Shara says quietly, as if she’s not sure whether to direct it at Chloe or herself or God.

“Are you sure?” Chloe asks.

Something warm ghosts over Chloe’s skin.

On the table, on top of Chloe’s piles of notes, Shara carefully, slowly, gently slips the smallest finger of her left hand into the space between the first two of Chloe’s right.

This is it. Shara’s going to look at her and say, “Oh, that’s my necklace, you were right all along, you know me better than I know myself, all I did was lie until you,” and then Chloe will say, “duh,” and Shara will continue, “put your arms around me, you hot genius,” and Chloe will let Shara kiss her, and together they’ll dip into a quiet corner of the stacks so Shara can kiss her in the fiction section, M through R, and she’ll touch the side of Shara’s neck under her hair—

No. Wait. Not the plan.

She’s going to let Shara lean in to kiss her, and then, when Shara’s hanging there in that breath before their lips touch, she’ll wince and say, “Oh, this is awkward, but I’m not really into you like that.”

She drags her eyes from their hands to Shara’s beautiful, anxious face, which is closer than it was seconds ago. She’s looking at Chloe’s throat, at Chloe’s mouth when she angles it to mirror Shara’s.

Come on, Chloe thinks. Just say it’s yours. Do something.

Shara’s lips part.

“I—”

She drops Chloe’s notecards and pushes her chair out, sweeping her binder and bag into her arms.

“I have to go,” she says. “Rory’s giving me a ride home, and he— I’m supposed to meet him—”

Without another word, she whirls around and leaves the library as fast as she did that afternoon with Midsummer.



* * *



At home that night, her mom asks, “Where did you get that?”

She follows her mom’s eyes to the opening of her shirt. Crap. She forgot to take Shara’s crucifix off.

“Oh, um. I found it?”

Her mom looks skeptical. “That looks like it cost a couple grand, Chloe. Why are you wearing it?”

“I—okay, well, it’s—” No way around this one, really. “It’s … about a girl. It’s her necklace, and I was trying to mess with her, so I kind of, uh. Wore it in front of her.”

Her mama coos from the kitchen table, “Sounds like how I used to wear your mom’s welding apron around the house when I was in the mood.”