Page 13 of Kissing is the Easy Part

“What’s that?” He points to the tapa cloth hanging on my wall as art. The fabric is deep brown and off-white, woven with geometric patterns of diamonds framed by intricate borders of crosshatches.

“It’s a masi,” I say, grateful for something to talk about. “I got it during our family trip to Fiji. It’s made from tree bark, isn’t that cool? They soak the bark, then pound it until it’s soft enough to turn into cloth.”

“That’s fascinating. I’ve never even been out of the country. Was it a good vacation?”

“Oh yeah.” I pull a photo album from my bookshelf. “I actually have some photos here. Want to see?”

“Sure. You have them in print?”

“I like physical copies.”

I sit down and he scoots over, his shoulder rubbing against mine. He doesn’t pull back, so I don’t, either, and I take the chance to breath in the warm, clean scent of his cotton shirt. He makes all the appropriate noises of interest when I show him our luxury resort, over-the-top breakfasts, and translucent water, until I flip to a new page. There’s me lying in the sand, and my thighs are smooth, which is great, but a random guy (Alex? Adam?) is lying next to me, which is not that great.

Out of reflex, I flip to the next page. More Alexes grin at me. Blood rushes to my face and I snap the album shut.

“It’s okay. I didn’t see that,” Sean says calmly beside me.

I stand up. “This isn’t interesting to see. I mean, Fiji is just an island . . . with lots of water surrounding it.”

He nods. “Yeah, I believe that’s the definition of an island.” I don’t miss the teasing glint in his eyes, which reminds me of the lagoons in Fiji under an overcast sky. “We could look at something else?”

“I could show you the one where I went to cheerleading camp?”

“That’s something I’ve got to see.”

My fingers pause over the album. For sure there were no guys there.

Wait. Madison’s then-boyfriend visited and brought a friend, who hit it right off with me. It was strictly platonic, of course, but it might not look innocent on film. Maybe the photos I took back in the days of St. Margaret’s would be fine. It’s a private girls’ school after all.

No. We had dances with St. John’s.

I sigh.

“Not safe either?” Sean asks from the floor. It’s impossible to tell if he’s more turned off or amused.

I drop down beside him, folding my legs underneath me. “Look. I need to be honest with you.” I knit my fingers together. “I have a lot of friends, and at least half of them are guys. They’re just friends.”

“Hey, it’s okay. You don’t need to explain.”

“All that is BS to me,” I say, scanning his face.“Before Sean.”

He gazes at me, then his face breaks into a grin. Relief blooms in my chest. “You have a cool life, I’m not judging you.”

He stands up and wanders around my room, stopping to glance at a few snapshots lining my shelves. Seven-year-old me in a tutu. Eight years old, clutching the reins of my favorite horse, Sammy. Ten, in baggy black sweatpants from my hip-hop phase (a style choice I’ve never revisited). Middle school violin and fencing, where I lasted all of six months before giving them both up. None of it stuck. I have tried everything under the sun yet somehow ended up feeling no closer to figuring out what I’m good at.

“You have so many talents,” Sean says. “And no surprise there, you were a cute kid. Seems like you’ve been beautiful all your life.”

“That’s actually my one and only talent,” I say without thinking. It’s a joke, but also true. Aside from applying nail polish with my left hand, there isn’t much else I’ve mastered. My brother, Jeremy, once told me that with me what you see is what you get, since my face is the only thing worth mentioning about me. Wanting to direct the attention from myself, I swallow. “I bet you’ve been beautiful all your life too.”

“Not really. I was a scrawny kid in middle school and wore braces.”

I refrain from telling him that even if he had them now, I’d still totally kiss him.

My bookshelf is crammed with magazines I started collecting when I was younger. Even with influencers dominating the scene now, there’s something about glossy pages that I can’t let go of. When I try to stick my photo album of Fiji back into place, a leather-bound scrapbook tumbles to the floor. A couple of buttons roll out.

“What’s that?”

Picking up the buttons, I hide my face behind my hair. “It’s silly. It’s kind of a fake magazine I put together when I was little.”