Opposite of Always(23)

“About?”

“The truth?”

She laughs. “Honesty’s cool, yeah.”

“I want to kiss you.”

“Oh,” she says. Only I can’t decipher her tone.

Which means I’ve probably blown it. Too fast, too soon, Jack.

“So, how come you haven’t?” she asks. Her question bounces into me like sonar, reverberating down into my darkest depths. Why haven’t you, Jack? Why haven’t you? Why haven’t—

But before I can answer, she lifts my chin, takes my face in her hands, and her lips press into mine.

Her lips might as well be keys, because damn if they don’t instantly have me wide open.

And—

And—

Fireworks, guys.

Freaking fireworks.





Mall Talk


Three days before prom I’m at the mall trying on formal wear. But my primary functions are Jillian’s Chief Purse Guardian while she rifles through dress racks, and Franny’s Heckler as he models every suit in his exhaustive search of The One Suit Worthy of His Body.

“Kate’s not meeting us?” Jillian asks. We’ve just exited our two hundredth store, and Franny’s still empty-handed save for a pizza pretzel. You can’t shop on an empty stomach, Jack, he’d said. If you’re hungry, you make rash decisions.

I shake my head. “She has an appointment she couldn’t get out of.”

Franny slaps at my department-store bag, laughing. “Probably for the best. Otherwise she’d discover just how color-blind you are!”

“Leave him alone,” Jillian says.

“Thank you, Jillian,” I say.

“Personally, I think it’s cute that Jackie hasn’t learned his colors,” Jillian says.

“Wow. I really hate both of you,” I say.

And maybe I wasn’t excited about prom before—because, you know, it involves dancing and girls and maybe dancing with girls—but thanks to Kate, I’m starting to come around.





Orchid


I know little* about flowers.

*Nothing.

So, I ask Mom to help me pick Kate’s corsage—because 1) it’ll make Mom happy and 2) where do you even buy corsages?

We walk up and down the greenhouse rows.

Finally, Mom stops. “This is the one,” she says. She holds the brightest yellow flower I’ve ever seen.

“Perfect,” I say.

Ten minutes later, we’re driving home, the orchid balanced in a clear box on my lap.

Mom glances at me across the seat. “Jackie?”

“Yeah, Mom?”

Her hand leaves the steering wheel and she wipes her eyes.

I smile at her. “Mom, what’s wrong? Don’t tell me you’re having orchid remorse. We can go back and get the tiger lily. It’s not too late.”

“You’re a fool,” she says. She laughs through her tears. “Nothing’s wrong.” She ruffles my hair with her fingers, and I think about all the times she sat on the floor beside my bed, her fingers running across my scalp—nights I’d begged her to stay until I fell asleep. “I’m proud of you, Jackie. Of who you’re becoming. Who you already are.”

And I just nod—say a soft “I love you, Mom”—because what else do you say to the woman who made you you?

“Kate’ll love your orchid, but it has nothing to do with the flower.”

“I love you, Mom,” I say again. This time not soft at all.





Exits


Dad’s in full paparazzi mode.

Shadowing me, taking pictures while I shave, brush my teeth, while I rifle through my sock drawer looking for my favorite pair.

“Jack, just look this way for a minute.”

“Dad, c’mon,” I beg. “When Kate gets here, this has to stop, okay?”

“I make no promises,” Dad says, winking. “Okay, now turn your head a touch to the right. Nope, nope, that’s too much. Go back a little. There, there. Now hold it. Keep holding . . . hold it.”

“My neck is in danger of breaking if I hold this any longer, Dad.”

Mom slides her arms around Dad’s waist. “You know your father lives for these moments, Jackie. Let him have his fun.”

I break pose. “I don’t want to infringe on Dad’s fun. I just don’t want it to be at my fun’s expense. You guys know I hate pictures.”

“But you’re so handsome,” Mom says. She steps away from Dad to pinch my cheeks.

I sidestep her reach. “Maybe I’ll just meet Kate out on the front porch.”

“Ha ha ha,” Dad says, feigning laughter. “I still don’t understand why you aren’t picking her up.”

“I told you, she’s staying at her folks’ house this weekend, and she said it didn’t make sense for me to drive all the way out there only to drive back this way. I tried convincing her, but she insisted.”

“Hmph,” Dad snorts. “Back in my day . . .”

“You didn’t have a car and it was the worst snowstorm the earth’s ever seen even though it was April, and you trudged thirty-seven miles without a decent coat. And you still picked Mom up for prom.”