My alarm clock sounds, and I suck in a sharp, disgruntled breath as it rips me from the clutches of sleep. I silence it immediately, sparing not one thought in regards to my skipping church again, but instead rolling over and burrowing myself deeper into my pillow. My head aches just a little, but I hardly notice as the comforting arms of sleep pull me back under.
It’s my bladder that wakes me a couple hours later. I try and ignore it, but I have to go so badly, I’m afraid I might actually burst. I force myself out of bed and hurry to the bathroom. After I’ve relieved myself, I wash my hands and brush my teeth—my morning breath implying I skipped over that before falling asleep last night—and then I shuffle my way back to bed. Once underneath the covers, now a little more awake, I take an assessment of how I feel.
The headache I felt before is all but gone, for which I’m relieved. That means I chased away my hangover. I think about the fact that, for the first time in my life, I find myself concerned over such a thing, and I wait for the guilt to hit. Last night, I broke the rules. No, worse, I broke the law! I’m only nineteen—almost twenty—years old. I’m not allowed to have alcohol, a rule I know just about everybody breaks, but one I never thought I would. And I didn’t just break it a little. I didn’t have one beer, I had five. I wasn’t just tipsy, I was drunk. And it felt…exhilarating.
Hugging my pillow to my chest, I embrace the truth that I feel no guilt. Not even a little. Last night was fun, more fun than I thought it was going to be, and I don’t regret it. Not a single bit of it. On the contrary, I would do it all again. There’s even a part of me—a big part—that hopes I get the chance. It’s not even a matter of getting drunk, either. In all honesty, beer isn’t that great, but it forced me to calm down and relax enough to appreciate that the company I was surrounded by was actually really awesome. Certainly different than I’d ever been around before, but no less enjoyable.
I squeeze my pillow tighter, closing my eyes as I think of Coder. My stomach clenches hard, and I can’t fight my smile as I replay the night—remembering that kiss over and over again. I definitely wasn’t expecting my night to end so spectacularly, and I imagine I won’t forget that moment any time soon.
Then the guilt hits.
My eyes fly open and I worry my bottom lip between my teeth as I think about Brooke. I know she was disappointed that she wasn’t able to be there, and there’s no doubt in my mind that I’ll be hearing her complain about it all week; but I also know that last night wouldn’t have been so amazing if she had come. In her absence, I got my chance, and I somehow found the bravery to take it. I did just as Maribel had advised. I put my name in the ring, and Coder chose it. At least, I think he did.
Suddenly, doubt and worry start to mingle with my guilt.
Coder isn’t like any guy that I’ve ever been interested in before. I didn’t meet him in an environment that’s natural to me. Neither did I run into him for the second time in a place that I would usually frequent. I don’t know a whole lot about him, but what I do know leads me to assume that we’re not just a little different. Our career paths, our belief systems, the company we keep, they almost seem to clash. That’s not what worries me, though. What worries me is that I don’t care. What worries me is that my fanciful daydreams of Coder have now exploded into full-on, undeniable, deep seeded hope.
Last night, I felt like someone else entirely. I hardly recognized myself. But the me I saw in his bathroom mirror—I liked her. She wasn’t so timid and afraid. She was daring and willing to try new things. Coder made me want to try new things. I don’t know what it is about him, but he made me feel safe and looked after. He made me want to trust him. And if I’m honest with myself, being with him made me feel adventurous.
I don’t know how fast I’m willing to chase after the girl I saw in the mirror—but after last night, I’m curious enough to take the chance to find out. It felt good, embracing a different side of me, not worrying about school, sick kids, death, God, and whether or not I still want to be a doctor at all. Last night was about me. It was about spending time with a guy that I think I might like. It was about not hiding my eyes—not hiding my smile—but allowing myself to be seen. It was nice. No, it was more than just nice.
I want to see him again. I want to get to know him more. I want him to get to know me more. I definitely want to kiss him more. Like, a lot more. Yet, at the same time, I don’t know that my feelings are good. Partly because, while evidence may suggest that he’s interested, there’s always a chance that he got all that he wanted last night. Or maybe he’s the kind of guy that’s just after a hook-up, and I’m definitely not that girl. At least, I’m pretty sure that I’m not. I never have been before. Then again, there’s a chance that a hook-up is not what he’s after, in which case, I’ve got entirely different problems.
Or, rather, one big problem.
Brooke.
She wants Coder, too. While she might not have been at the party last night, I’d have to be stupid to believe that she’d give up on someone she has deemed boyfriend material after one spoiled attempt to sink her claws into him and claim him as her own. If I’m honest with myself, I know that I shouldn’t get my hopes up about Coder. It’s possible that even after what happened between us, he might still choose her anyway. It’s the Brooke way. I’m just Kenzie, and I’m mature enough to recognize that one kiss—the best kiss I’ve ever had—it doesn’t make Coder mine. In fact, I don’t know what it means at all. For all I know, it could have just meant goodnight. I really have no idea.
I sure wish I did, though.
I roll onto my back, letting go of my pillow as I free a sigh. Thinking maybe I’ll find some answers if I check, I reach for my phone in search of any new messages. Other than a text from my friend Emily, who goes to my church, I have nothing.
“I’m not sure what to do with this version of you,” announces Brooke as she invites herself into my room. With her steaming cup of coffee in one hand, she makes herself comfortable at the foot of my bed, folding her legs underneath her as she sips and stares at me.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I mumble, trying to mask my disappointment that Coder hasn’t reached out to me yet.
“I mean, this is the second Sunday in a row that I’ve found you in bed at noon. It’s weird.”
“God and I are sort of arguing at the moment. Well, it’s actually pretty one sided at this point, but whatever. I don’t want to talk about it. Besides, I had a late night.”
“Yes, I know—and I want every detail! Did you meet any hot guys? Did you talk to Coder? Did he ask about me? More importantly, did you tell him how much you love your best friend because she’s awesome? Oh, did he mention hanging out again?”
Her questions sting. I shouldn’t be surprised by them, and I guess I’m not, but they sting. So much so that I don’t want to answer a single one. I don’t want to tell her that Coder didn’t ask about her—not once. I don’t want to tell her that I did meet some hot guys, but that I spent the majority of my night with one hot guy. And most of all, I don’t want to tell her that before this particular hot guy said goodbye, he kissed me so well that my legs gave out. I don’t want to tell her any of it—because it’s mine, and it makes me feel good. I know the moment I tell her that, it won’t be mine anymore. It won’t feel good anymore, either.
“Um, hello—earth to Kenzie! Come on, spill it,” she demands, reaching out to hit the side of my leg.
“I got drunk last night,” I blurt out, not knowing what else to say.
She gasps, her spine straightening as she gapes at me in surprise. “Oh, my god, Kenzie! Are you shitting me right now?” When I shake my head, she throws her own back and laughs hysterically. “Dammit! I can’t believe I missed that,” she says, her eyes, bright with amusement, meeting mine. “What kind of drunk are you? Do you remember? How are you feeling now?”
“Uh…” I think about opening up to Coder about Timothy, and all the times I told him thank you as he drove me home. I can’t hide the small smile that tugs at my lips as I admit, “Chatty. I’m a chatty drunk.”
“This is amazing,” she says, still laughing. “I’m pissed at you for doing it without me there, after all the times you’ve told me no, but I’m also wildly impressed. So, tell me more!”
“Well,” I start before I pause.
It takes a split second for me to decide that I’m really not going to tell her about Coder. Not yet. Not until I know what’s going on between us—if anything. I don’t know what the truth will do. We’ve never been interested in the same guy before. Of course, that’s not to say that she’s not ever been interested in the same guy as one of her other friends before. She has. And to say that she’s got a competitive spirit is an understatement. I mean—she’s a national championship cheerleader, for crying out loud. I can’t compete with her. I don’t want to compete with her. She’s my best friend. So while I know it’s wrong, I do what I think is best. I tell her part of the truth.
“Coder’s roommates are cool. We all hung out, and it was fun. I don’t really remember the whole night. Parts of it are a blur, but I had a good time.”
“Ahh, my Kenz, a lightweight. I love it!” she giggles. “Seriously, though, I can’t miss that shit next time.” She uncurls her legs and steps out of my bed, taking a sip of her coffee before she starts for the door. “I have to get ready for work. Can you believe that? I didn’t get off until two, and Eddie is still making me come in for my shift today,” she grumbles. “I won’t be home until after close, so I guess I’ll see you later.”
“Okay—have a good day.”
“You too, hon.” She stops in the hallway and then turns to grin at me as she adds, “Don’t forget to hydrate today.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
When I’m alone, I clap my hands over my eyes, stifling a groan. I’ve never lied to Brooke before, and I can’t say that it feels good. Yet, at the same time, I’m relieved to know that what happened last night is between Coder and me and no one else. At least for now.
I jump when I feel my phone vibrate against my stomach. I reach for it immediately, and my heart skips a beat—or maybe even two—when I see Coder’s name lighting up my screen. I’m quick to open it, and what I find sends a rush of blood straight to my cheeks.
Woke up thinking about those lips… Damn, babe.
I flip onto my stomach, burying my face in my pillow as I free a squeal of excitement.
Oh, my goodness! I think he likes me.
After Brooke has left for work, I get up and shower. With plans to stay at home for the rest of the day, I don’t bother with my hair. While it’s still damp, I pull it up into a high ponytail and then pile the long, messy strands into a haphazard bun. I take the time to put on a little make-up, as usual, and then I slip into a pair of black skinny jeans before tossing on a long-sleeved, CSU t-shirt. It’s obnoxiously yellow, the school letters in dark green, and I always feel as bright as the sun when I wear it. Today, it seemed like the appropriate choice.
Coder hasn’t texted me back since I sent my reply earlier, but I don’t read into it. I can’t. I’m still too giddy over what he said in the first place. So instead of agonizing over whether or not I should strike up further conversation, I decide to just wait and go about my day as usual. Of course, I keep my phone close at all times, but that’s mostly so that I can reread his message whenever the urge strikes.
Mom calls me around three, and we talk for an hour. I catch her up on the first couple weeks of school, and she fills me in on how everything is going at home, as well as what Beckham and Addie are up to. They’ve been married for just a year and a half. While mom knows they’re still young with plenty of life ahead of them—not to mention more medical school, plus an internship and then residency for Beck—she’s still constantly inquiring about whether or not they’re ready to give her a grandbaby yet. According to today’s call, they’re still not anywhere close.
After we’ve said our goodbyes, I spend the rest of the afternoon immersed in homework. Or at least, I make a really good attempt. I find myself frequently zoning out, thinking about almost anything but school. It’s been happening more and more lately as my passion for my purpose and my goals seems to be on vacation. I can’t say I’m surprised. I’ve got some serious questions about the future and not so many answers. It’s hard to stay on task when I don’t know if there’s a point to my task.
In a moment of concentration, I’m pulled from my work when there’s a knock at my door. I check my phone, noting that it’s nearly seven o’clock, and then I set my stuff aside as I get up from the couch in order to see who’s here. Thinking it’s Owen—as Brooke and I don’t usually get random drop-bys—I don’t bother looking into the peephole as I unlock the knob.
“Owen, I’m kind of—”
My sentence trails off when I open the door and find someone taller, leaner, and decidedly more alluring than Owen standing on the other side. He’s wearing the same gray Carhartt he had on last night, the thermal shirt he’s got on underneath a light gray, which he’s paired with his fitted, dark-washed jeans. He takes a step toward me, with his motorcycle booted feet, and my lungs constrict when he slides his hands around either side of my waist, pulling me closer.
“Who’s Owen?” he grunts, leaning into me as he slowly dips his head.
“A—a friend. He’s just a friend,” I stammer, my voice hardly more than a whisper.
I watch as his smile crinkles the skin at his eyes before my gaze drops to his lips. My insides melt when I see him form the word, “Good.” I don’t hear it, the sound of my pounding heart drowning out his voice. Then, just like that, his lips—hot and smooth and hot!—are pressed against mine. When his tongue snakes out and grazes across the seam of my mouth, I grab hold of the lapels of his jacket as I open up for him, not even hesitating to kiss him back to the best of my ability. He kisses me long, hard, and wet, and it’s even better than last night.
When my arms start to get cold, I let go of his jacket and slide them inside, wrapping them around his back. He groans—wow, I really love that—his grip around me tightening, and I melt into him further. His chest is hard and warm, his kiss is deep and delicious, and I don’t know when I became the girl who makes out with gorgeous, older, motorcycle-boot-wearing guys I barely know, but I like this version of me. A lot. Something tells me he does, too.
I’m so wrapped up in him, I don’t notice as he backs me inside; neither do I hear it when he closes the door behind us, shutting out winter’s chill. It isn’t until he pulls his mouth from mine that it registers—my sock-covered toes are no longer cold, and I don’t feel a breeze washing over his back and crashing into me. Not that I would care if I did—not so long as he was looking at me the way he’s looking at me right now.
His eyes are hooded, and they seem darker somehow, like pools of deep, rich, amazing chocolate—chocolate I’d like to swim in.
“Grab your coat. Get your shoes,” he says softly.
“Hmm? What?” I mutter, shaking my head in an attempt to ward off the haze my head seems to be drowning in after that kiss.
“Your shoes, Mack. Let’s go.”
“Go? Go where?”
A half smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he brings his lips so close to mine, I breathe in his exhale. “Does it matter?” he asks before touching his lips to my lips. “Coat. Shoes. Let’s go, babe,” he insists, kissing me one more time. He then takes a step away from me, shoving his hands into his front jean pockets as he stares at me expectantly.
I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, hesitating for only a second before I turn on my heels and hurry toward my room. As I go, I look down at myself and immediately start mentally sorting through my wardrobe for alternate shirt options. By the time I cross the threshold, I know exactly what I’ll wear.
I rip the bright yellow top from off of my body, discarding it on the floor as I start digging through the t-shirts in my dresser until I find the one I want. It’s an olive green, plain, V-neck, and I pull it on as I shuffle to my closet. When I’ve straightened out the bottom of my shirt over the top of my jeans, I then reach for the hanger with my matching, plaid button-up. I shrug it over my shoulders, not bothering to fasten any buttons, but instead cuff the sleeves the way I like. When I’m finished, I shove my feet into my black, high-top Converse sneakers and then grab my winter coat, hurriedly sliding my arms into it as I search the room for my purse. When I’ve found it, I sling it over my shoulder. Then I stop, needing just a second to breathe.
Coder’s here. He’s here—for me.
After a couple deep, calming breaths, I reach up to run my fingers over my lips. I smile, remembering Coder’s kisses, and then I blush, my insides getting squishy as I realize something. While he might not have texted me back earlier, he was thinking of me. So much so that he came all the way over here to get me in order to take me…who cares where? The point is, he wants more, too.
Not wishing to make him wait any longer, I head back into the living room, finding him exactly where I left him—waiting patiently at the front door. He looks my way as I approach, and I see his eyes take me in from top to toe before our gazes align and he smiles at me.
I don’t notice that his intense gaze has stopped me in my tracks until he chuckles and says, “Come ‘ere.”
With a nod, I make a quick detour to the couch to grab my phone, and then I meet him at the door. As soon as I’m in arm’s reach, he grabs me and plants a solid, closed mouth kiss against my lips. It doesn’t last but a second, and yet it steals my breath anyway.
“Hungry?”
“Yeah,” I answer, suddenly incredibly grateful that I hadn’t gotten around to making dinner before he showed up.
“Good.” He let’s me go and then opens the door, allowing us both to step out into the cold night. I’m quick to lock up, dropping my keys in my purse as we turn toward the flight of stairs. Just as we begin to make our decent, he takes my hand, sending a shock of tingles all the way up my arm. I look to him as we walk down together, but he doesn’t return the favor. Instead, he looks straight ahead of him, as if holding my hand is the most natural thing in the world.
Oh, yeah—I think he likes me, too.