Taylor

I should've stayed. It's good I left. I can't even decide. My head is swimming, and I feel like I'm already asleep and dreaming, but I'm not even tired.

That kiss. No one's ever kissed me like that. Certainly not Henry, not even when we first started dating. That kiss was everything I pictured a first kiss would be back when I started liking boys, when everything was fresh, perfect and new. Before I woke up to the reality of love. Because after three boyfriends whose kisses didn't quite make me weak in the knees, I realized that was just a fantasy, something they feed you on TV and in movies, so you'll shop more, and go see more movies. Romantic love is just a fairytale, never attainable in real life. Love is about making a commitment and sticking with it, and sure there’s strong feelings involved, but they’re not overwhelming. I wrote a whole paper on that in my junior year at Columbia. But after that kiss, I’m thinking I might have been wrong.

"Hey, I'm talking to you, Taylor!" my sister snaps at me, her eyes locked on mine in the rearview mirror. She should watch the road, since she's driving.

"What?" I ask instead of telling her that though, because I'm too elated to spoil it with an argument.

"What do you mean what? You're just kissing random guys on sidewalks now?" Claire says. "What happened to your boyfriend?"

"I think Henry's cheating on me," I mutter, since the other question I can't even begin to answer. Yes, I kissed a stranger. Or more like, he kissed me. But I did kiss him back. He was also hot as hell, with his bulging biceps, and rock hard abs. The kind of guy I'd never even think about pursuing, because they're reserved for the skinny, tall model types. Not short, size ten girls who can't wear flats with skirts like me. Only, when I try to picture this guy, it's not even the muscular arms I see, or the way his jeans hugged his thighs just perfectly, or how his hard, chiseled abs felt under my fingers. It's more the way his arms held me like they were always meant to. But it's even more than that. He called to me with more than words, like his soul touched mine. And that's an even dumber notion than fireworks going off inside my mind when he kissed me. He's a perfect stranger, living in the moment, like he said. Nothing more.

"Why do you think Henry's cheating on you, Taylor?" Amanda asks.

I pull my mind firmly into the present and hand her my phone. "He sent this to me. Couldn't explain it when I called."

Amanda reads Henry's text then shows it to Claire, while we're stopped at a red light.

"That pig," Amanda says and hands the phone back to me. "But you're sure it's not for you?"

"Almost positive," I say and stuff my phone back into my bag. The kiss showed me something else too, besides fireworks. Me and Henry together, that's just not working out. I don't feel what I should for him. And I don't think he does either.

"That guy though," Amanda says and pauses, turning in her seat to face me. "I think he's the reason the concert got cancelled. I saw him arguing with Jesse."

"What?" Claire asks, saving me the trouble.

"When I went to look for Taylor in the bathroom I saw them talking behind the stage."

"So he knows Jesse?" I ask, my heart doing a weird summersault-like thingy in my chest.

Amanda shrugs. "Looked that way."

"That's it then. He's gay," Claire interjects causing Amanda to snap her neck in her direction sharply.

"Who is?"

"Well, both of them, I guess," Claire says.

She can be so mean. Just because a guy kisses me there's something wrong with him? And the worst thing is, I don't even think she realizes how hurtful she really is. These kinds of things just come out of her mouth.

"No, Jesse's not gay. He's dating that singer…what's her name," Amanda says. "Besides, I thought they kinda looked alike, sort of. I think they're family. Brothers maybe."

My minds reeling now, calculations going off at warp speed. The brother of a celebrity singer, how hard could he be to find?

I let Amanda and Claire bicker and pull out my phone again, searching for anything on Jesse Dean + family. My hands are shaking, because what am I even doing? I have a boyfriend. And I don't kiss strange guys on the sidewalk. Likely he was so drunk he didn't even see me properly.

Dean's hometown is Upstate, near where we have our country house. I could go there, find him.

Real good plan, Taylor. And what am I going to do? Just track him down and kiss him again. Like that'll ever happen. I can just hear Claire laughing if I even suggest it. Laughing so hard she might never stop.

I turn off my phone and stuff it in my bag. What’s wrong with me? I seriously need sleep.

* * *

Adam

As soon as I'm on the expressway, I gun it. This is what life should be all about. Me and my motorcycle on open, empty roads, with not a fucking care in the world. A girl never figured into that equation much before, but she could now. Yes, she definitely could.

So why am I going home instead of tracking her down right now?

Fuck, if I know.

Going home seemed like a good idea a couple of weeks ago, after two months of absolute freedom became too weird. I thought about riding across the country, never stop anywhere for more than a day or two. That was my dream for years, what I did during nearly every leave I had in the last eight years since I joined the Marines. Just never in the States. And those leaves never lasted more than three weeks. With a whole life of leave in front of me, I couldn't handle the freedom.

So I went home. What a bright fucking idea.

Nothing's changed. No one's changed. And I haven't either. I'm still right back where I was eight years ago. Dying to find a way to leave again.

I take a turn too fast, nearly crash into the truck I'm overtaking. The adrenaline that rushes through my veins is something I haven't felt in months. I love it. So I don't slow down, take every risk I can on the rest of the way home. It saves me from thinking, from trying to find reasons. There are none.

This is what life is: today, tonight. Tomorrow's just another today, or not. And if I can't have that, I don't actually have anything. Besides, maybe after this little exercise in reckless fearlessness, I can finally get through a night without waking up in a cold sweat every couple of hours.

At just after three AM, I park in front of the run down cabin that's been my home for the first sixteen years of my life, and somehow is again now. My father's added onto it over the years as the family grew, expanding it into the monstrosity it is now. He basically just stacked wooden boxes to the side to create more rooms, because he's no builder and he never had enough money to hire one. One look at this place and anyone would keep driving. But I go in.

Only the small light over the counter is on in the kitchen and my mom's sitting at the table in near darkness, wearing a thin pink nightshirt that's seen better days. She doesn't react when I close the front door and cross the living room to the rickety staircase that leads to my bedroom up in the attic.

I'm coming down hard from all the adrenaline, my hands shaking slightly, and nausea rising in my stomach. I just want to sleep. But I don't go up. Instead I enter the kitchen and unzip my jacket, hanging it off the back of a chair.

"Do you want some breakfast?" Mom asks, so quietly I barely hear her.

She places her hands on the tabletop and pushes against them as though to get up. But it's all in slow motion, and it looks like she'll take about an hour just to stand up.

"No, Mom, I'm fine," I whisper, matching her voice.

She relaxes back into her seat, again in slow motion.

Her green eyes are soft, unfocused, empty and vast as she looks at me. She looks like she's sleepwalking, like she's not even awake. I don't think that's a new thing like my sister Julie does. My mom always sleepwalked through her days. I never held that against her the way my brothers and sister do.

Some of my best memories growing up are just sitting with my mom in this kitchen, not talking, not doing anything. Just sitting quietly. Because even though she never said much, she understood. I know she did. She just couldn’t do anything about all the crap Dad and my brother Theo were dishing out, so she accepted it. Fully and unconditionally. But she understood.

So that's what we do now, just sit here in this dark kitchen. Watch the sky outside turn grey, then pink, listen to the house creak as it wakes under the first rays of the sun.

Mom finally gets up, squeezes my hand and shuffles out of the kitchen, her bare feet sliding across the wooden floor. It takes me awhile to snap out of the fuzzy dreamlike state. I think I'll be able to sleep now, maybe even without dreaming.

My mom's the reason I came home, but maybe it was more selfish than that. Maybe I came home so the dreams would finally stop.