moment to compose myself. I glance down.
Dean waits.
I clear my throat and look back up at him. His blue eyes are patient. “No, the songs I write are more folk-rock, I guess you’d call it.”
“Ah, a classic singer-songwriter.” He smiles and rests his forearms on the table. “I can see that in you. You’ve got that intelligence in your eyes.”
I feel magnetically pulled toward this boy.
Dean licks his lips and leans toward me.
My chest is clanging a mile a minute.
His eyes darken. “Your freckles are killing me right now,” he whispers.
Oh my God. Spillage on Aisle Shaynee.
“Everything okay?” Mr. Jimmy asks, suddenly standing at the edge of our table.
Dean leans back in his chair and clears his throat. “Oh, yeah, man, everything was ridiculous. You laid it on thick for us, Mr. Jimmy. I owe you big.”
“You just keep coming here on Wednesday nights,” Mr. Jimmy says, “and I’ll take good care of you.”
“Deal.”
I’m suddenly alert. I look at my watch. It’s 9:45. “Oh crap. I promised my dad I’d be home by ten.”
The night air is chilly. “Where’s your car?” Dean asks, scanning the parking lot.
I motion toward my coupe thirty yards away. “Over there.” I shiver.
“Are you cold?”
“A little.”
“Just a sec.” He drops my hand abruptly and takes off in the other direction, leaving me standing there unsure what the heck he’s doing. In just a few bounding leaps, he arrives at his motorcycle, which I only now notice a few yards behind us. He opens a locked box just behind the seat and pulls something out of it. He sprints back to me, his combat boots clomping on the asphalt as he goes. “Here you go.” It’s his black leather jacket—his dad’s black leather jacket—and he’s offering it to me . “You can give it back to me the next time I see you.” His face is flushed.
“Won’t you be freezing riding home?”
“Naw, I’ll be fine.” He places the jacket over my bare shoulders and I hug it to me. “I could use a big blast of cold air right about now.” He flashes a mischievous smile.
I blush.
Now that I know what this jacket means to him, there’s no doubt I should tell him, “No, you can’t let me borrow this.” But that’s not what comes out of my mouth. Instead, what I say is, “When can I give it back?”
“Tomorrow.” He pulls me close to him.
My heart lurches into my throat. “I’m working tomorrow after school. At Sheila’s? It’s a coffeehouse in PB.”
“I know it well,” he says. “I’ll see you there tomorrow.”
I want to kiss him more than I want to breathe. I bite my lip.
He leans his face close to mine, slowly, double-checking he’s invited, and when I close my eyes and tilt my face toward him, I feel his hand on my cheek and then his lips against mine.
Oh my God.
His lips are warm and soft. And he smells like the ocean (assuming the ocean smells preposterously delectable) . I return his kiss with obvious fervor and his breath hitches in surprise. He responds to my enthusiasm by wrapping his arms around my back and pressing his entire body into mine, until I can feel his heart leaping out of his chest and knocking against my own, begging to come in. “ Yes, yes, yes, ” my heart replies to his. “Come in.”
I’ve never tasted anything so scrumptious in all my life. I inhale him, breathe him in. I want to ingest him like oxygen. I want him to infiltrate my blood and course through my veins and implant himself right into the very tissue of my heart. I want to gobble him up like how Pac Man devours those little white dots. I want to slurp up him up like chicken noodle soup, absorb him like a dry sponge dunked into a bucket of sudsy water, pull him into me like a vacuum cleaner on a shag carpet.
I want to jump his bones.
I press my body into his and his lips continue their now voracious entreaty.
My cup runneth over, I suddenly think . And over and over and over.
I’m not sure I can continue
Dean waits.
I clear my throat and look back up at him. His blue eyes are patient. “No, the songs I write are more folk-rock, I guess you’d call it.”
“Ah, a classic singer-songwriter.” He smiles and rests his forearms on the table. “I can see that in you. You’ve got that intelligence in your eyes.”
I feel magnetically pulled toward this boy.
Dean licks his lips and leans toward me.
My chest is clanging a mile a minute.
His eyes darken. “Your freckles are killing me right now,” he whispers.
Oh my God. Spillage on Aisle Shaynee.
“Everything okay?” Mr. Jimmy asks, suddenly standing at the edge of our table.
Dean leans back in his chair and clears his throat. “Oh, yeah, man, everything was ridiculous. You laid it on thick for us, Mr. Jimmy. I owe you big.”
“You just keep coming here on Wednesday nights,” Mr. Jimmy says, “and I’ll take good care of you.”
“Deal.”
I’m suddenly alert. I look at my watch. It’s 9:45. “Oh crap. I promised my dad I’d be home by ten.”
The night air is chilly. “Where’s your car?” Dean asks, scanning the parking lot.
I motion toward my coupe thirty yards away. “Over there.” I shiver.
“Are you cold?”
“A little.”
“Just a sec.” He drops my hand abruptly and takes off in the other direction, leaving me standing there unsure what the heck he’s doing. In just a few bounding leaps, he arrives at his motorcycle, which I only now notice a few yards behind us. He opens a locked box just behind the seat and pulls something out of it. He sprints back to me, his combat boots clomping on the asphalt as he goes. “Here you go.” It’s his black leather jacket—his dad’s black leather jacket—and he’s offering it to me . “You can give it back to me the next time I see you.” His face is flushed.
“Won’t you be freezing riding home?”
“Naw, I’ll be fine.” He places the jacket over my bare shoulders and I hug it to me. “I could use a big blast of cold air right about now.” He flashes a mischievous smile.
I blush.
Now that I know what this jacket means to him, there’s no doubt I should tell him, “No, you can’t let me borrow this.” But that’s not what comes out of my mouth. Instead, what I say is, “When can I give it back?”
“Tomorrow.” He pulls me close to him.
My heart lurches into my throat. “I’m working tomorrow after school. At Sheila’s? It’s a coffeehouse in PB.”
“I know it well,” he says. “I’ll see you there tomorrow.”
I want to kiss him more than I want to breathe. I bite my lip.
He leans his face close to mine, slowly, double-checking he’s invited, and when I close my eyes and tilt my face toward him, I feel his hand on my cheek and then his lips against mine.
Oh my God.
His lips are warm and soft. And he smells like the ocean (assuming the ocean smells preposterously delectable) . I return his kiss with obvious fervor and his breath hitches in surprise. He responds to my enthusiasm by wrapping his arms around my back and pressing his entire body into mine, until I can feel his heart leaping out of his chest and knocking against my own, begging to come in. “ Yes, yes, yes, ” my heart replies to his. “Come in.”
I’ve never tasted anything so scrumptious in all my life. I inhale him, breathe him in. I want to ingest him like oxygen. I want him to infiltrate my blood and course through my veins and implant himself right into the very tissue of my heart. I want to gobble him up like how Pac Man devours those little white dots. I want to slurp up him up like chicken noodle soup, absorb him like a dry sponge dunked into a bucket of sudsy water, pull him into me like a vacuum cleaner on a shag carpet.
I want to jump his bones.
I press my body into his and his lips continue their now voracious entreaty.
My cup runneth over, I suddenly think . And over and over and over.
I’m not sure I can continue
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