Page 11 of Kissing is the Easy Part

“The last time I heard someone talk like that, it was my mom,” I say. “My parents work at a pharmaceutical company in Seattle. My dad’s the global marketing VP, and my mom just got promoted to senior VP. She’s always talking about changing the world and improving patients’ lives. And the way she plans her career—every move feels so intentional.” I shake my head. “She makes it all look so easy.”

“Your mom sounds remarkable.”

Nearby, a family chats quietly, and a group of students tap away on their laptops. A comfortable silence settles between us as he finishes everything on the plates and I drain the last few drops of my chai latte.

“But they’re on business trips all the time,” I say. “They just launched a new cardiovascular drug, which is why no one was home last night.”

“I thought you had an older brother?”

“Yeah, Jeremy. He’s at Harvard now.”

Sean takes a sip of his coffee. Most people either envy my freedom or joke about throwing a party without parental supervision, but he asks, “Do you like being alone in the apartment all the time?”

“I get to do whatever I want, but if I could choose, I’d pick a family brunch over anything. I don’t care how lame that sounds.”

“No, I get it. I’m lucky, my dad cooks every night.”

“I wishmydad cooked. Or at least ate at home. We have a gigantic kitchen, but it only ever gets used to boil water.”

When was the last time I sat down and ate with my parents? I can’t remember. Sometimes I try to conjure up an image of my mom’s face, but all I can picture are her scarves. They’re always silk, soft and delicate, patterned with prancing horses or Parisian streets. She often comes home, drapes one over the quartz countertop, and then forgets to take it with her on her next trip.

“Is that why you go to all those parties? Because you want to get out and see people?”

“Weekend parties are a must. I read somewhere that in parts of the country where there are no bars, the incidence of violent crimes more than doubles. People need to blow off steam, you know,” I ramble. “I got invited to a college bonfire tonight—”

That’snotthe kind of thing to say to impress a guy like Sean. I add, “Oh god. I promise I’m not trying to hook up with some college guy or anything—”

That’s enough, Flora. Kindly shut up now.

Sean’s expression remains stoic.

“Would you like to go with me?” I suggest, in a feeble attempt to turn things around.

“Nah, hooking up with college guys really isn’t my thing.”

Okay, that’s some pretty dry humor, and I also want to die. My heart has sunk all the way past the table and onto the floor, flopping about like a fish out of water, when he adds, “But if you need a ride home, you can call me.”

My head snaps up. “Seriously?”

“Yes. But maybe don’t get drunk?”

Don’t get drunk. It’s not cute.

“You’re afraid I’ll puke in your car,” I can’t resist saying.

Sean puts down his coffee and lifts his eyes to meet mine. His gaze is simultaneously firm and tender, steady but not intrusive, allowing something soft to curl up inside me.

“No,” he says. “I’d be worried about you, friend.”

* * *

Seven hours later, I’m firmly planted in the passenger seat of Sean’s Honda Civic. Night has fallen as he sweeps me away from jazz music, a small patch of sandy beach, and grassy hills, where a bonfire is starting.

“I wasn’t expecting your call so early,” Sean says, eyes on the road ahead. His navy-blue bomber jacket creases slightly as he shifts, the cuffs snug against his wrists. Around us, the city wakes with lights. “It’s only nine thirty. What happened to the college bonfire thing?”

I sneak a peek at his profile. “I decided it’d be more fun to sit in your car instead.”

“Oh. The pressure is on.”