Ethan walks me back until I’m pressed to the locker behind me. Our legs tangle, his chest heaving against mine. Distantly, I’m surprised how strong Ethan feels. His arms hold us together, and I don’t object.
It’s like our hatred has ignited, changed state. Water into steam. We hit the point of transition, our atoms vibrating, energy and heat building between us, until suddenly we’re something new. My mouth meets his every movement, and my brain can’t keep up. I abandon arguments and comebacks in exchange for lips and hands, gripping his back while he deepens the kiss. The fight hasn’t stopped, only moved to new fronts.
When his tongue brushes my lips, it’s like it triggers whatever instinct the intensity of the moment overwhelmed. We break apart, eyes wide, and fly to opposite sides of the hallway. My mind unlocks. Realization slams into me, knocking the wind I have left from my lungs. I just kissed Ethan.
Daring to lift my eyes, I find him looking like he’s having an identical reaction. “You . . . kissed me.” He gets the words out past heaved breaths. With an agitated hand, he thumbs his lips, and I notice how uncharacteristically disheveled his hair and shirt collar are.
“No,” I reply hotly. “You kissed me. Why would you do that?”
“I wouldn’t. I despise you.” There’s an unconvinced waver in his voice, a forced quality. He averts his eyes when the words pass his lips, like he’s aware of how wrongly they landed.
“Likewise,” I manage to say, my lips stinging. They’re probably swollen. I lift my hand to check, and Ethan’s eyes follow the movement, mesmerized. His expression is one I don’t entirely know how to read. I’m not sure I want to, either. Like he’s been slapped, he suddenly blinks, then spins sharply on his heel and storms out of the hallway.
I watch the door swing shut behind him, my nerves jumping under my skin. What was that? I’d almost believe it never happened were it not for the lingering burn on my lips and the scattered newspapers at my feet. I bend down to pick them up, straightening edges and refolding pages with shaking hands.
The kiss was an anomaly, I tell myself as I make my final deliveries. An outlier. Data sets allow for outliers, and they don’t have to destroy years of careful research and analyses. I reassure myself of this repeatedly. My lips on his—nothing more than a quirk of nature.
Except I enjoyed this anomaly. The feeling of his hands in my hair, his mouth harried and heated. It fed a flame in me, one I’m finding it impossible to ignore. Just admitting to myself that I didn’t hate it infuriates me. I don’t even like Ethan, not as a person, and certainly not as someone I’d choose to kiss. The fact that we did kiss, that for a breathless moment I wanted nothing but to keep kissing him, is something I can’t reconcile with everything I know about myself.
So I won’t, I decide. The kiss and the feelings they sparked don’t matter. I simply need to return to my life as it was thirty minutes ago. To a world governed by gravity and the laws of nature.
I pull myself down the way I do whenever Ethan threatens to push me out of control. I hold on to what’s real—goals, plans. Logistics. This day’s requirements, and the next day’s. Ethan will be seeking revenge for my newspaper coup, and I have to be prepared. We’ve both upped the ante. Now I have no choice but to play for keeps.
Thirty-Six
HOURS LATER I’M ON the couch sandwiched between my dad and Jamie while my mom scrolls Netflix. I don’t typically join in for family movie nights, but when I tried to work on homework or the reunion alone in my room, I couldn’t focus. I grit my teeth, hoping my mom finds something to put on before I lose control of my thoughts completely.
“How about a drama?” Mom asks.
“Only if it’s not sad,” Jamie replies. “No crying. What about a comedy?”
“A rom-com!” my dad interjects.
“No,” I say too quickly. All eyes turn to me.
My mom stops scrolling. “Okay, so what would you like to watch, Alison?”
“Just. Not that.” I feel heat in my cheeks. There’s absolutely no reason why I shouldn’t be able to watch a rom-com right now. None. Except the idea of watching characters who don’t get along eventually realize their love for one another turns my stomach. Worse, having to see actors passionately make out will frankly make it impossible to not think about the way Ethan’s hands tangled in my hair, his chest heaving against mine—“How about a documentary?”
“Seriously?” My dad frowns. “What is wrong with you?”
“Let’s just watch . . .” I scramble. “Something about revenge.”
“I’d watch an action movie,” my mom adds.
I sink deeper into the couch, letting my family debate what movie will have the highest explosions-to-frame ratio. When they finally agree on something, I don’t object. The opening sequence plays, and I try to focus on the international crime setup. It doesn’t work. One question plays on repeat in my brain, consuming me. What was that kiss?
I remind myself the most important thing right now is not letting Ethan get an edge on me. I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that Ethan’s obliterated the kiss from his memory. He’s probably finishing assignments, gloating over how distracted I must be.
But I can’t help it. My thoughts stray to the locker hall, his lips, his body pressed firmly to mine. It’s infuriating.
Surreptitiously, I slip my phone out of my pocket, earning a glare from Jamie, which I ignore. This is Ethan I’m daydreaming about. Something is very, very wrong. I open Instagram and search Ethan’s profile. I don’t follow him, obviously. Hoping the sight of his hateful face will set me straight, I select his most recent post. He’s sitting on the wall outside the Chronicle, glancing sideways at the camera and wearing a Harvard sweatshirt. It’s stupidly vain. I select another. This one’s a selfie. His hair is pushed up from his forehead, his eyes cool and distant. The caption is dumb. The face of a man studying for finals. I select another. Then another.
I hate everything about them. It’s not helping, though. I keep noticing things I shouldn’t. The broad square of his shoulders. The fullness of his lips. The way his hair curls on his forehead. When I woke up this morning I found absolutely nothing about Ethan Molloy attractive. Now . . . My throat is dry, and I’m pretty sure I haven’t blinked in minutes. Something is seriously wrong with me.
It’s because I haven’t kissed anyone since last year, I reason. That’s all this is. I’ve put Harvard and valedictorian first for too long, and now my hormones are desperate. I ignore the part of my head pointing out the times I kissed other guys don’t even compare to the overwhelming rush I felt this afternoon with Ethan.
I open his Stories and watch the clip he posted an hour ago. He’s walking through his house, which is clearly being readied for a party. Ian and Cole, the senior sports editors, are setting up speakers and putting out chips in the background while Ethan speaks to the camera. Birthday party tonight. My place, Ethan says.