Page 101 of Kissing is the Easy Part

“We can’t both get drunk. Someone has to drive.”

A faint frown crosses her face. “Are you having a good time?”

“The best time,” I say, injecting as much enthusiasm as I can manage.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Don’t worry about me. I don’t mind being here at all.”

She sets her drink down. “But you’re sitting here like a chaperone. I can’t relax knowing you’re tired and miserable. You’re probably keeping track of how much I’ve had too.”

Three glasses down, working on the fourth. “Go have fun, Flora.”

She shakes her head and lifts her drink again, taking slow, deliberate sips like she’s saying goodbye to it. Then, with a quiet clank, she sets it down. “Let’s just go.”

Tugging on my hand, she pulls me outside with a force in her stride. We pass Raymond on the way out.

“Heading out already?” he asks, reeking of pot.

“Yeah.” Flora brushes her hair behind her ear. “Just a long day.”

Ray’s gaze flicks to me. “You guys good?”

I nod. “Thanks for having us.”

“Of course. You know you’re always welcome.”

They share a quick fist bump, and we’re off.

The moment we step into the cool night air, I can breathe. The chill is quiet and soothing, like slipping under a cool blanket.

There’s a small garden in the backyard. Flora sits on one swing, and I take the other. The paint on the wooden beams is chipped, and the frame creaks under my weight. She traces idle patterns in the grass with the toe of her shoe.

“I feel guilty for forcing you to come here,” she says. “You tolerate the things I like and you’re the sweetest, but I wish you genuinely shared my interests.”

I take her hand. “I can try harder. Give me time.”

“No, it’s fine.” She squeezes my hand tighter. Her eyes are darker than usual, like rare pieces of meteorite. “You’re a simple, sensible guy, and I love that about you. I can do your thing.”

When Flora tries to be the understanding one, I get twice as scared of losing her. Pointing out the obvious isn’t easy. “Button, you’re not happy doing my thing.”

We’re both trying to please each other, like pushing a plate back and forth, insisting the other take the last bite. Sharing food is easy. Finding common ground is a lot harder.

I like order. She thrives on chaos. I think things through. She leaps first, asks questions later. I rely on routines to keep my sanity, while she craves the rush of the unpredictable to feel alive.

We’re not just different. We’re complete opposites.

She rocks on the swing, watching people stagger in and out of the house. “We have nothing in common.”

“We both like ice cream.” I try to lighten the mood.

“Well, if that counts . . .” She tilts her head, letting a strand of dark hair fall. “We both hate it when it melts too fast and drips through the bottom of the cone.” She stills. Swallows. “Have you ever wondered if it’d be easier to date someone more compatible?”

Her words crush the wind out of me. I love her too much to even consider it.

“It would be easier,” I say, gazing at the face I wish to look at forever. “But I don’t want easy. I want you.”

Her eyes shine, and for a second I think she’s going to cry. My throat tightens.