BUT WOW. NO ONE WARNS you how tender your mouth feels after making out.
Making out. That was me.
I press my lips gently with my fingertips and immediately tap into my phone’s selfie camera to examine them. They look bee-stung and swollen. I look like a different Molly. Now I’m wondering how people kiss without the whole world knowing. Maybe it’s like flossing. Maybe if you keep kissing, your lips get used to it. I think I could do that. I could make kissing a habit.
Missed texts from Reid, sent at four fifteen this morning.
It’s official
That was the best thing that has ever happened to my mouth.
That includes Cadbury Mini Eggs
And egg-free cookie dough (no offense!)
I giggle, scrunching my legs up. None taken!
He writes back immediately. Whew! Three dots. Also, hi.
Hi. Beaming-smile emoji.
I am entirely made of butterflies.
Last night, he writes, actually happened. Right?
I THINK so?
I hope so.
Me too.
This is weird, he writes. But good weird.
So good weird. I smile while typing. And I never thought I’d make out with a guy wearing a map of Middle Earth on his shirt.
Three dots.
Oh, Molly. Okay. We better talk.
I sit up in my bed, feeling suddenly nervous. He’s typing something else.
So, you’re not WRONG, per se, but you should probably know that Tolkien actually hyphenates “Middle-earth.” Smiley emoji with a single nervous tear.
This is what Reid wants to talk about the morning after we kiss. I grin while I type: Hey, you’re kind of adorable.
Hey. So are you.
There’s a soft knock on my door.
One sex! Someone’s here.
OMG, YOU PERVY IPHONE. Sec. Not sex.
TOO LATE! he writes. Three dots. Does this count as sexting?
I think so?
Another knock, and the door cracks open, revealing Patty. “Sweetie, are you up?”
Oh God.
“I’m up.”
“Oh, great.” She steps into my room, shutting the door behind her. My mind races. She knew about the alcohol. Now she knows about Reid. I can tell from her face. How do moms always know?
I try to play it cool. I scoot up the bed, leaving room on the end. “You can sit.”
She does, scooting backward against the wall, and I realize she’s holding an envelope. “So, this was in the mail for you.”
She hands it to me, and now I can’t stop blushing. It’s the size of a birthday card, and all it says on the front is Molly. No address.
So, it’s hand-delivered.
So maybe that’s why Reid walked Olivia to my house.
And now I’m desperate to open it. Which means Patty needs to leave. I give her the okay, Mom, we’re good, thanks for stopping by now stare.
Which never works.
“So, sweetie, we really need to talk about what happened on Monday.”
Oh.
My heart sinks.
She leans back on her hand. “I’m really glad you and your sister have made some new friends. I know it’s been hard with Abby gone.”
I nod.
“And they all seem like really cool people.”
“I’m sorry about Will and the alcohol,” I blurt. “I know that was dumb of us. You can ground me. Seriously.”
“Sweetie, you’re not dumb. Please don’t say that.”
“Sorry.”
“And you’re not grounded. We obviously don’t condone you and your sister drinking.” She pauses, lips quirking upward. “But from what I understand, you didn’t actually drink anything.”
“Cassie told you that?” My mouth falls open.
“Did she misremember?”
“No, it’s just . . .” It’s just the fact that I was an utter asshole to Cassie, and she still covered for me. “Is Cassie grounded?”
“She got off with a warning. Anyway.” Patty tucks her knees up and wraps her arms around them. “I wanted to check in with you about something.”
“Okay.”
“I know we’ve talked a little about birth control . . .”
My face grows warm. “Oh, I don’t want to talk about this.”
“I know.” She smiles. “But this is important. Especially since it seems like things . . . might be happening.”
Oh God.
“Things,” I repeat.
“Well, I know your friend Reid stopped by last night.”
I mean, they ALWAYS know.
“We’re not having sex,” I say quickly.
“I know, sweetie. But you might.” She scoots closer to me. “We should think about starting you on the pill. Sometimes I forget you’re seventeen, you know?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. This conversation. I cannot. Hypothetical sex talk: sure. Patty probing into my sex life in particular? Holy. Fuck. No.
She laughs. “Stop looking so traumatized.”
“I’m not having sex,” I say again.
“Good. Look, I’m in no hurry for you to have sex. Believe me. I’m just saying, we should acknowledge that it’s a possibility.”
“So . . . you think I should be on the pill.”
“I think it’s worth considering,” Patty says. “You know, I went on it in high school. Senior year and all through college, right up until I met your mom.”
It’s hard to imagine that time before my moms got together. I guess they could have dated other people. Patty might have even dated guys. I’ve honestly never asked.
There’s something about exes. I’ve never had an ex-anything. The whole idea of it seems intolerable. Falling out of love. Becoming strangers. The thought of that happening with Reid makes me want to cry. And I’m not even in love with Reid yet. I don’t think.
I don’t know.
It’s funny—if you take away the kissing, you basically have Nadine and Aunt Karen. Their ruined intimacy. Their faded closeness.
Ex-sisters. Which sounds exactly like existers. And I guess it fits, because that’s exactly how things fall apart. That’s all it takes. Just the fact that you’re two different people. Just the fact that you exist outside each other. I get this ache in my chest when I think about it. I try to shake the feeling away.
Patty’s smiling. “So, are you going to tell me about him?”
I cover my face. “Nope.”
“Are you official? Is he your boyfriend? Check yes or no.”
“Mom.”
“Okay. But are you happy?”
I nod, smiling through the cracks between my fingers.
She squeezes my shoulders. “Kind of funny watching you and your sister go through this at the exact same time. You guys are cute.”
“Hmph.”
“Does Cassie know?”
“About Reid?”
Even saying his name makes me self-conscious. I slide my hands off my face, but my heart sort of skips.
“I don’t think so.” I bite my lip. “I don’t know. Were we really loud last night, or something?”
Patty’s eyebrows shoot up.
“No. Oh God. I did not mean it like that.” I grin into my elbow. “I meant, like, on the stairs. His footsteps. Not anything else. I’m going to stop talking.”
She pats me on the shoulder. “That’s probably a good idea.”
I open the envelope as soon as she leaves. And it’s Reid’s favorite card. The most badass of all greeting cards, with the most amazing Queen Elizabeth don’t fuck with me expression. I observe and remain silent.
On the inside, he’s written this: I’m watching your every move, and I choose not to say anything . . . yet. And he’s signed it Love, Elizabeth.
Oh my God. He’s such a goof. He is the actual weirdest. I can’t stop smiling.
And maybe I’m freaking out just a little bit.
Because we’re working the afternoon shift together today. And because, technically, the last time I saw Reid, I was making out with his face.
Which is good. Better than good. Better than best.
But now I don’t know what to wear. And my hair is kind of a catastrophe. And I can’t stop pacing around my room. Back and forth, from my closet to my mirror. Like, I just want to wear something normal. But I want it to be cute normal. I want Reid to think I’m cute. Pretty. Gorgeous. I don’t want him to think yesterday was a mistake. Not that he would think that. I just need to get this right.
Unfortunately, nothing—nothing—in my entire closet looks okay on me today.
I need to collect my shit and take my Zoloft and calm the fuck down.
I think I’ll wear a skirt. I have this dark yellow skirt, a tiny bit shorter than what I usually wear, but I think it’s okay, because I’ll wear it over tights. I pair it with this navy ruffled shirt with tiny flowers. But it looks dumb, so I take it off and try another. And another. And six more shirts after that. But then I finally go back to the navy one, which is fine, as long as I wear a cardigan, too.
A perfect fall outfit. In July. It’s just going to have to fucking be this way.
I step outside, and it’s one of those sun-kissed summer days. The air just has this softness. I’m running early, so I take the long way through town, past the purple house, past the shops. It’s quiet here on weekday mornings. Everything’s calm and hazy, except the commotion in my stomach. Which turns into fireworks and marching bands and atomic bombs as soon as I reach the entrance of Bissel.
Because of Reid.
There’s this thing Patty told me about, where your stomach pretty much functions like a second brain. They call it the enteric nervous system, and it lives in your gut, and when it thinks there’s an enemy nearby, you get this surge of hormones. It’s sort of a fight-or-flight response. And I guess it applies to crushes, too. Or boyfriends.
Not that Reid’s my boyfriend.
But my stomach thinks Reid is an enemy. I consider this scientific proof that I’ve stepped into something terrifying. Falling in love is terrifying.
Not that I’m falling in love. But maybe I’m a little bit lovesick.
When I see him, I smile. I honestly can’t help it. He’s working the register, alone behind the counter. Which looms between us like the Great Wall of China.
And then there’s Deborah. “Yay, you’re here,” she says. “We just got a new shipment of teacups. Want to unpack everything and get the price stickers on them?”
“Sure,” I say, eyes flicking up to Reid.
“I could help,” Reid says.
His mom looks surprised. “I thought you loved the register.”
“But I really love teacups.”
“Noted,” she says. Then she sends us to the storage room. I shut the door behind me, and for a moment, we just look at each other. I may not be capable of words.
He’s wearing a shirt that’s sort of different from his usual T-shirts—white, with blue baseball sleeves. His hair is kind of messy, and his eyes look almost gold.
I am utterly, enterically nervous.
“I don’t know how this is supposed to work,” I say finally.
He laughs. “Me neither.”
I settle onto the floor against the wall, tugging my skirt down over my legs. He slides down the wall, next to me.
“I got your card,” I say.
“My card?” He raises his eyebrows.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I got Elizabeth’s card.”
He nods solemnly. “That was nice of her.”
“Yeah. Except also kind of . . . threatening?”
“Hmm.” His dimple flickers. “Maybe she’s jealous.”
“Maybe.”
And there’s this tiny, hanging pause.
I bite my lip. “So, I guess we should talk?”
“Or we could not talk,” he says.
“Not talking is good,” I say softly.
His hand finds mine. Our fingers lace together.
“I really wish that door would lock,” I add.
“I wish my mom wasn’t on the other side.” He squeezes my hand. “I want to kiss you.”
He says it so quietly, it’s almost a sigh.
I laugh. “I’m so relieved to hear that.”
“Seriously?”
I nod, burying my face in his shoulder. I breathe in deeply. “You smell good.”
“Like deodorant?” he suggests.
I grin. “Like you.”
“I think that’s my deodorant.”
“Well, I’m glad you wear deodorant.”
He kisses my head. “Let’s go back to you being relieved I want to kiss you. Did I somehow not make that clear last night?”
I shrug.
“Or this morning?” He pulls out his phone, scrolling up through his messages. “Let’s see. Here’s the part where I said kissing you was the best thing that ever happened to my mouth. Here’s where I said you were better than Mini Eggs. Better than Mini Eggs, Molly.”
“I know.”
“How do you go from better than Mini Eggs to thinking I don’t want to kiss you again?”
“I don’t know.” I smile. “I just didn’t want to make any assumptions. . . .”
“Well.” He glances quickly at the storage room door, as if expecting his mom to burst through it. Then he draws in a breath and cups my cheeks gently.
And he kisses me.
“Oh.”
“You can make assumptions with me,” he says. “You can assume anything.”
“You mean—” I begin.
He cuts me off. “Yes.”
I laugh. “You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He kisses me again. “Do I want to kiss you? Yes. Do I want to do more than kiss you? Yes. But am I willing to take it slow? Yes. And do I want to be your boyfriend?” His voice cracks slightly, but the word comes out emphatically. “Yes.”
“Okay.”
“Okay to what?” He actually looks nervous.
“To all of it.” My heart is in my throat. “Except taking it slow. I don’t want to take it slow.”
“Then let’s not.” He laughs.
“Good.”
So, I think that means I have a boyfriend. I’m Molly with a boyfriend. Reid Jerome Wertheim is my boyfriend.
I don’t even know if my brain can process those two words as a unified phrase. “My” and “boyfriend.”
As in: My boyfriend is an excellent kisser. My boyfriend has five cats. My boyfriend stayed over until four in the morning. My boyfriend is the reason I am very, very tired right now.
But it’s a good kind of tired—a sun-dappled, floating kind of tired. It is the most hazily lit movie dream of my entire dreaming career. I want to put this on pause. I want to stretch out this moment. I want to just exist inside of it.
And now I feel a little bad for Elizabeth, because I totally just stole her boyfriend. And I’m really, really sorry about it, and I know she’s a queen, but the thing is, she’s dead. And I’m alive.
I feel very, very alive.