Page 40

Crescendo

Seventeen Years Old, Tennessee

He takes long strides in my direction, making quick work of the dark pavement. When a few feet separate us, he opens his arms.

Tonight, I’m a girl who’s impulsive, who lives in the moment, who’s falling for a boy—a different boy. I leap into his embrace, looping my arms around his neck, letting go of the bullshit baggage I’ve been lugging around.

He catches me, laughing, hair shower-damp and smelling of juniper and mint.

“You were amazing,” I say.

He grins. “I’m glad you came.”

“I told you I would.”

“Yeah. Not everyone keeps promises though.”

I cradle his face in my hands. Softly I say, “I do.”

His gaze is steady on mine. I lean forward, close enough to see the many shades of brown in his bottomless eyes.

I want to kiss him so badly and I think…maybe…

No, he gathers me close, hugging me tight, comforting in a way I didn’t know I needed.

The night’s gone strangely quiet.

I pull back to find the basketball players on the bus glued to the windows. Every last one of them is gawking—Trevor wearing the most self-satisfied smirk of all.

They break into a chorus of cheers.

Isaiah turns and, with a low laugh, says, “What a bunch of assholes.”

I smile. “They’re rooting for you.”

“They want a show,” he says, rolling his eyes. He loosens his hold and, regrettably, I do too. As my feet find solid ground, he catches my hand. “Are you going to Molly’s?”

“Yeah. Are you?”

“I am now.”

***

At Molly’s house, a Victorian by the river, there are bottles of booze lined up across the kitchen countertop. She’s supplied canned soda, along with bags of chips and crackers. When the girls and I arrive, she’s in the kitchen, passing out cups like a legit hostess. She hugs me. We’re friends now, because Isaiah and Trev are, and I’m glad about that. Paloma, Megs, and I end up with root beers spiked with generous splashes of vanilla vodka. Sophia, our DD, swigs her soda straight as the four of us toast Paloma and her USC acceptance.

I’m halfway through a refill, gossiping with the girls in the living room, when there’s an eruption of whooping and clapping near the front of the house.

“The team has entered the building,” Meagan says in a put-on announcer’s voice. She taps her cup against mine. “You ready?”

I’m a little tipsy, a little nervous, but thanks to the lingering high of the team’s win and a bit of liquid valor, confidence comes easy. “Totally.”

“We’ve got your back,” Paloma says, as if I haven’t been one hundred percent secure in that knowledge for the last six months.

I wrap the four of them in a vanilla-vodka-infused hug. “I’m going to find him.”

Isaiah’s in the kitchen with a few guys from the team, including Trev. They’re passing around sodas and inhaling snacks and making a ruckus. I hang back, sipping my drink, watching as Isaiah laughs with his friends. They’re all good looking, all jovial and winsome, but he’s a light among them, a full moon in a star-speckled sky.

Trevor spots me. He throws his elbow into Isaiah’s side.

Isaiah turns, then ditches his Coke and crosses the kitchen.

I set my cup aside and step into his arms, linking my hands at the small of his back, resting my head on his sternum. He holds me like he did the day we met, like he did earlier in the parking lot: like letting go is unthinkable.

The kitchen clears out—probably because Isaiah and I are hugging like a pair of weirdos.

He pulls back to find my gaze.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” I tell him, because I can’t with pretenses—not anymore.

He smiles. Picks up my cup. Peers into it. “You need a refill.”

I follow him to the makeshift bar. Choosing a dry section of countertop, I hop up to sit while he sniffs the dredges of my cup. “Root beer?”

“Yep,” I say, pointing to the Smirnoff Meagan used to spike my drink. “And this.”

“Classy,” he teases, popping open a can of soda. He finds ice in the freezer, then fixes my drink, a little less generous with the vodka than Megs was. After opening three different drawers, he finds flatware. He uses a soup spoon to stir, then passes over my cup.

I take a sip. It goes down syrupy smooth. “You’re not having anything?”

He gestures at the Coke he abandoned a few minutes ago. “No boozing during the season.”

“You’re very responsible.” We are—for once—the same height, thanks to my perch on the countertop. I like looking directly into his eyes.

He steps closer. “I’ve no choice but to be.”

“I used to be.”

“Now you’re not?”

I lift my cup, shrugging. “Less so. The Lia of before wouldn’t have wasted an hour of her school day taking Ceramics, that’s for sure.”

“I like the Lia of today,” he tells me, very serious.

“I think I’m starting to.”

His attention drops to my mouth, and he frowns. His eyes close in a series of rapid blinks, as if he’s trying to clear his thoughts.

“What’s happening in your head?”

He rests his hand on my knee. The warmth of his palm bleeds though the denim of my jeans. “I’m thinking about kissing you.” He gives a reticent laugh. “I think about it a lot.”

“What’s stopping you?”

He hesitates, taking his hand back, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t know if you’re ready.”

“You could ask if I am.”

He shakes his head. “Not sure I need to. You miss him. You ought to. But I can’t kiss you and wonder if you’re remembering him. Stacking me against him. Wishing I was him.”

“I would never do that.”

“Did he call you Amelia?”

“Sometimes.”

He studies my right hand, with its band of white gold and two sparkling stones. Gingerly, as if it might burn him, he touches my ring. “Did he give you this?”

“Yes.”

“Do you ever take it off?”

“I did, after—” My words bump up against the lump in my throat. I swallow, holding tight to his gaze. It’s imperative that I explain, that he understands the ring’s evolving symbolism. “I didn’t wear it for a long time. It was too hard to look at. A reminder of what I’ve lost. But I put it back on in November.”

“Because you love him.”

“Because I wanted to go back to believing in a future full of promise.”

Voice soft, he says, “And then you met me.”

He’ll appear when you least expect it.

“And then,” I repeat wistfully, “I met you.”

I grasp the hem of his sweatshirt and tug him forward, until he’s settled in the space between my knees. I could lean in, put my mouth on his, but if he wants to talk this out, if he wants to be certain, I want the same.

I whisper, “I think about kissing you too.”

He blinks, canting his head the way Major does when he’s puzzling out the meaning of my words. “Since when?”

“My first day of Art Club. When I drew your face.” Reaching up, I let my fingertip skate the bridge of his nose. “I knew I wanted a redo. I wanted to kiss you the right way, for the right reasons. I wasn’t ready, but I thought about it. A lot. And honestly, that terrified me. But…it also gave me hope.” I brush his hair off his forehead, revealing his scar, a sharp contrast to the olive tone of his skin. “All those afternoons in Ceramics, that day on the basketball court, the other night at your house… Don’t tell me my crush isn’t obvious.”

His mouth quirks into a smile. “Maybe it is.”

“Maybe it is, but…?”

“But, historically, I’m not so lucky.”

I smile. “If luck is catching the attention of a girl who sometimes feels really fucking sad even though life’s starting to come through for her, then yeah. You are blessed .”

He uncrosses his arms to hold my face in his hands. “Tell me what you want.”

My response comes without contemplation. I lean forward and kiss him.

He answers back, and it’s nothing like that first time back in November. Tonight we’re gentle and sweet, mindful of the soap-bubble-frailty of the moment—until Isaiah’s hands slip from my face to my throat, and what started out as careful slowly builds, crescendoing in flushed faces and shallow breaths.

If loving Beck was a serene snow dusting, falling for Isaiah is a blizzard: fierce, disorienting, thrilling. I shiver, burrowing into his hug, committed to riding out the storm.

Magic 8-Ball

Would Beck hate me if he knew?

Reply hazy, try again.

Will Mom and Dad go ballistic if they find out?

Without a doubt.

Will Bernie’s heart break?

You may rely on it.

Am I doing the right thing?

Cannot predict now.

Am I a terrible human?

My sources say no.

Should I give up on fate?

Better not tell you now.