Send Me a Sign(23)

“Sure.”

Lauren always had a handful of these in her purse. “Kissing mints,” she called them.

Kissing was exactly what I needed right now. Kissing Ryan—whose fingers were warm and strong around mine when he passed me the green-and-brown mint. Whose smile was an invitation.

I smiled back.



Ryan led me directly to his bedroom door.

“Am I allowed in here?” I asked.

“My mom’s not home.” He stepped into the room. I’d avoided situations like this before—limiting Ryan to party and parking-lot kisses—but it seemed too late to turn back, so I followed.

It was a shrine to sports: a collection of his trophies on shelves beside his bed, newspaper clippings tacked above his desk, his soccer jersey draped on a chair.

I stumbled over a duffel bag. Ryan caught me and kicked it to the side. “Dirty laundry. Mom offered to do it before I head back.”

I nodded and examined the photographs on his dresser. Some of the soccer team, more of the basketball team, and a couple of the two of us from prom and parties last spring. Comparing my face in the photos to the gaunt, pale one in his mirror was painful. I put them down—facedown.

Ryan stepped behind me, kissed the back of my neck. I felt the afternoon’s tension melt, along with my resolve. “When are you coming home from the shore for good?”

“Not until right before school.” Ryan resumed his kisses. My hair had never been this short, so he’d never had access to so much of my neck before. The feel of his lips almost convinced me to leave it bobbed.

“Really? Not sooner?” My words were breathier than I expected.

“I make extra pay if I work after the college kids go back. And double for working Labor Day weekend. I need the money—I’ve saved enough for my car, but there’s insurance and stuff. Wait till you see it. It’s worth it.”

“Hmm.” I managed an almost word.

“You’ll come visit, won’t you? I don’t want to wait another month to do this again.” Ryan tipped my face back toward him, leaned over my shoulder, and covered my lips with his. I relaxed into the kiss, luxuriated in it.

I stopped relaxing when his hand began to drift down inside the collar of my shirt. Too close to my port, which hadn’t been there the last time his hand had.

“Stop.” I pulled away.

“What? Come on! We haven’t seen each other in a month. Haven’t you missed me?”

“Of course.” I was tired and a little queasy. The greasy food wasn’t settling well.

“Really?” He sat on the end of his bed.

“Ryan, you’re the one with the commitment phobia. As for this”—I pointed to my shirt—“I’ve spent the past month living with old people. Give me a little while to catch up.”

Ryan laughed. “You are a lesson in patience, Mia. I hope you know that.”

I lay down next to him on the bed. “Just slow down a little. Tell me about your summer.”

Ryan draped a hand across my stomach and started talking.

We’d never had a conversation like this before. We’d talked, but not about things that mattered: how he didn’t like his mom’s new boyfriend or his older brother’s decision to stay at college all summer. It wasn’t why he’d brought me here, but it was nice.

“Was it all bad at your grandparents’ house? I’m glad your grandfather’s doing better.” He picked up my hand and kissed the palm.

I stroked his cheek, tracing the creases of his dimples as he smiled at me. “Thanks. I’m glad to be home. How’s your job? Is it Baywatch come to life?”

“Hardly. For every hot girl there’s three old men and five moms with insane kids. When are you coming down to make my Baywatch dreams come true?”

Each time he asked about me, I deflected. I relaxed under his stories and warmed under his fingers as they made slow circles on the skin below my belly button. Ever lower circles.

Finally he ran out of stories and I’d run out of questions. He lowered his lips to mine and rolled toward me, keeping his hand where it was: dipped below the waistband of my shorts and just brushing the top of my underwear. “Is this okay?” He pulled his lips off mine enough to breathe the words.

“Yes. So far.” As long as he kept his hands away from my port and out of my fragile hair, I could pass for a thinner, paler version of the girl from June. Except his words had flavored the kisses: I wasn’t hooking up with a hot guy from school; my lips were against Ryan’s, the boy who missed his older brother and dreamed of his own escape to college.

His hand skimmed along the top of my shorts. It stopped at the button and unfastened it in a moment. He paused again—his pinky just edging down my fly—and looked in my eyes for confirmation. There was hesitation; he read it and moved his hand back up to my stomach.

Was he as frustrated with me as I was with myself? I couldn’t figure out if I wanted him or wanted reassurance he still found me attractive. Was I hesitating because I wasn’t ready? Or because I didn’t want to reveal my illness? I needed a sign.

My cell rang. I looked away from Ryan and saw it on his bedside table beside his alarm clock. It was 5:13, my lucky number combined with the unluckiest number. What did that mean?

“It’s my mom,” I groaned and reached for the phone.