Kiss Crush Collide (21 page)

I drop my bouquet between an engraved place card and an empty wineglass. Petals drift as I shove the dirty plates and stained napkins out of my way to make room for my elbows.

The band is ratcheting it up since dinner is officially over. An old gray-haired guy, I think it’s Roger’s grandfather if I remember correctly from the receiving line, leans toward his companions, all gray-haired, too, and cups his hand around his ear in an attempt to hear over the music.

The hired event staff is scrambling. Pink vests are everywhere, dirty dishes disappearing like clockwork as the busboys clear the tables near the center of the room and lift off the round tops and roll them away, spinning them out through a door conveniently hidden in one of the side walls to make more room on the dance floor.

I search the cluttered table for a half glass of champagne or at least one with a little something left in it.

Freddie is off to France at the end of the month, and Yorke leaves tonight, as soon as the reception starts to wane and my mother deems it acceptable for her and Roger to slip away. A sleek black Town Car, with pink and white streamers trailing from the back and
JUST
MARRIED
painted on the rear window, is parked in front of the reception hall, ready and waiting to whisk her off on her honeymoon.

Maybe I am going to miss them. Maybe I have been resenting them all summer because it is easier than letting them go. Maybe Valerie is right.

I drain the champagne from the bottom of someone’s glass, hoping to drown all my thoughts or at least slam them deeper into the back of my head. I wince when the warm, flat liquid hits my tongue. Ugh, backwash. I hope it’s not Roger’s.

I set the glass down with a shudder and watch my sisters working the crowd. Handshakes and generous hugs, congratulations and
bonnes chances
, stop them at every table they pass.

Pride rushes through me, flushing my cheeks faster than the champagne, as Yorke moves through the room, brazen and unabashed. The long beaded train of her wedding dress is forgotten in her excitement and leaves a sweeping trail of destruction in her wake.

Delighted to be the center of attention, as always, tonight Yorke is the ultimate bride, elated to be here, surrounded by her family and adoring friends, happy to be exactly what she is, even if that does turn out to be just a louder, more exaggerated modern-day version of my mother.

Five feet away Freddie is almost flying under the radar, a mirror image of Yorke, sliding through the crowd with a shy smile, quietly finding her way without disruption or disgrace, unassuming and effortless, as always, thanking everyone as the well-wishes for her pour in from every side.

And me? I guess I am somewhere in between. Not quite Freddie, but not quite Yorke either. I don’t know who I am, but I know who I am not. I am not just the pink one or the third one in line.

I have always been fighting the fact that we are so alike, but it’s true—me and Yorke and Freddie, we are similar. You just have to look really closely to see our differences. I get it now.

Outside, the sun has set for sure, swallowed whole by a black sky dotted with stars, and the patio is swirling with loads of really drunk people. I slip through them, looking for a place to rest, to throw off my killer sandals and recover from a very intense bout of dancing on the slick wooden dance floor and Shane and his sweaty brow and grinding hips.

Passing by the tables that have been dragged just far enough away from the thumping upright bass, I slide easily past my older aunts and uncles and their handshakes and hugs and reminders that “Soon it will be your turn” with a smile because I know it’s not true. They can think what they want.

Holding tight to a rose-filled arbor, I bend over and pull my sandals off one at a time. I stand and stretch, toes at the edge of the patio, the lawn sloping away on all sides, deep and lush.

Shane walks up behind me, suddenly and unevenly, his cheeks hot and pink, the top few buttons of his tuxedo shirt undone and the white sleeves rolled up to let his thick forearms at the air. He wraps his hand on top of mine.

“What was that last night, Leah?” he asks, his voice thick and boozy.

He looks into my eyes, kind of sad and penitent and I realize I have been running from him all night, all summer really, and it is pointless, and I am tired. He is only going to follow. And that’s not his fault.

I haven’t made a choice. Ever. I’ve always waited for someone to make it for me—Shane, Yorke, Freddie, my mother, even Duffy. It’s finally my turn, ready or not.

I grip my fingers under his hand and brace myself for the good-bye ’cause I am scared of giving up all the things I will have to give up if I give up Shane. My whole senior year, my whole life, everything will be different, and I am worried that I won’t be brave enough.

And there’s nothing wrong with Shane. He’s nice. He’s fit. He’s supercute. He smells good. Occasionally he’s funny. I’ve got it good. I get that. But my whole life has been about going along, living with what has been given to me, which is kind of hard to bitch about, because I’ve been given a lot, but that doesn’t mean I have to drive around for the rest of my life with his hand weighing down my leg, does it?

“That was me breaking up with you,” I say, low and solid.

“But,” Shane says, looking a little stunned and a lot drunk, “but what about . . . ” He stumbles.

I pull away, cutting him off from what I know he is going to say, what we both expected to be the logical sequence of events. Semesters full of Friday nights lost in his backseat, homecoming court, followed by prom and parties and graduation.

I grab my shoes and step away from him, trying to keep it together. My mother does not like a scene, and Shane’s never done anything wrong, other than fit her mold.

“I’m sorry, Shane,” I say, my voice as tight and dry as it is sure, “so sorry, but you’re on your own.” He stumbles, one step away from me, and releases my hand. I drop my shoes onto the patio and walk away.

I pass the little boys in striped clip-on ties and short-sleeved dress shirts dancing with little girls with flowers in their hair, and Yorke looking heavy, carrying the only secret she’s ever been able to keep, the one that seals her fate, and Freddie, dancing cheek to cheek with Evan, tight and content in the middle of the dance floor, unwilling to give him up. And my mother, arms around my dad, wrapped safe and secure in her snug little world of family and friends. I do not feel left out or left behind. I feel free.

I pass the big white floppy hat and the friend that Valerie has become with a smile. No doubt she will pass on what she has witnessed here tonight. Soon enough Duffy will know everything.

I catch her eye and wave before I disappear, down a flight of stone steps and out into the night. I walk across the lawn. My footprints shine behind me in the moonlight on the thick, wet grass. I am finding my own way.

The first day of school is blooming hard and hot outside my classroom window, and it still feels like summer to me.

The days have been muggy and long. Life has moved in slow motion. The only thing that seems to be moving at all is my heart. It races, tight in my chest. I am counting down to I don’t know what.

My mother’s unhappiness with me is apparent. The slash of coral on her lips is cracked and stretched thin. She doesn’t understand how I could let Shane go, or why. She worries what everyone will think.

She doesn’t understand that I don’t have to live her life, or Yorke’s or Freddie’s, to get everything I want. She wants to keep me tethered tight, because my sisters are gone and she has no one else left. Our house is very clean.

The final bell is still ringing, and I am out, crossing the street on my way to the parking lot, filling my lungs with fresh air and searching for my keys, which always seem to sink helplessly to the bottom of my bag.

I look up, and my eyes glue onto him. My feet trip over themselves on the hot, cracked pavement. A threadbare T-shirt stretches across his chest. I read it, my eyes flicking up to catch his.
CAMP
KEWAUNEE
.

“So, is that where you’ve been?” I ask.

His smile cracks open, and I know, right then, that my heart has been racing for a reason.

My final few steps toward him are taller and straighter, evolution in practice, before I light to a landing just a breath away.

The toes of his scuffed work boots point toward the sky as he leans up against the car. He slides his hands down his long legs. Then he looks up at me.

“I heard,” he says.

“What did you hear?” I ask, stretching out next to him, the hot car instantly warming the backs of my legs.

“Just a story.” He shrugs.

“Yeah?”

“A story of a girl,” he says with a smirk and a smile. “She’s blond, she’s got these sisters . . . ”

“Well.” I stop him. “I am not that girl. This is not that story.”

“I know,” he says, nodding across the parking lot. Valerie is there, watching us on the sly, doing a spazzy dance of joy between the parked cars in the back, getting ready to add Cupid to the extracurriculars on her college applications.

“How does it end?” I ask, looking over at him.

He moves, his jeans sliding down a bit on his lean frame, the muscles in his back flexing as he turns toward the car and pulls open the passenger door.

He slides into a handsomely restored gunmetal gray ’69 Camaro with creamy white leather interior. The chrome shines, the polished paint reflects the open sky rolling over our heads, and the red-and- white plates read
PORTER
. It’s perfect.

“Climb in,” he says, “let’s find out.”

I eye him, and the car, suspiciously. He watches me, waiting quietly, his green eyes dancing.

“Yes,” he finally admits, running his hands through his tangle of thick dark hair sheepishly, “it’s mine.”

His smile opens up wide, and I melt right there into a pool of solder, shimmering onto the street. I climb in, drop it into first, slide my hand into his, and put my foot to the floor. Watch for the sparks.

CHRISTINA
MEREDITH
has always wondered, “How fun is it to drive if you always know exactly where you’re going to end up?” She lives in Sausalito, California. This is her first book.

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