Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Cassie: You up?
I laugh softly. Swim plan instantly abandoned, I reach for the phone.
Me: Is this a booty call or a debriefing?
Cassie: Debriefing. I need my wingman ASAP. Me: I’m on the dock.
Cassie: Be there in two.
The heaviness in my chest lifts as if someone flicked a switch. I try not to question it too hard. It’s crucial to this friendship that I don’t.
The tall grass at the base of the slope rustles, and I turn to see Cassie emerge from the shadows. Her hair is no longer arranged in a side braid but falling around her shoulders. With her white dress, bare feet, and loose copper waves, she has an almost ethereal quality about her. Practically floating down the dock toward me.
She plops beside me, legs over the edge, and releases a moan of unhappiness. “Hi.”
I grin. “That bad?”
“No. Not bad at all. We stayed out past midnight, so obviously there were lots of checks in the plus column.” Yet she’s visibly distressed.
“Okay, let’s hear ’em. Give me the play by play.”
“He’s super funny. He’s smart. He didn’t monopolize the conversation. Asked me lots of questions, but it didn’t feel like an interrogation. It was just, you know, a good conversation. Flowed easily.”
“All pluses so far.”
“He held my hand and didn’t ask beforehand if he could. I figured you’d view the confident hand grab as a plus.”
I snicker. “Oh, absolutely. What else?”
“He’s scared of heights, but still rode the Ferris wheel after I said how much I love seeing the town from above. That was another plus.”
“Agreed.”
“The carnival grounds close at eleven, so we left and got slushies afterward. We sat in the parking lot and talked, and …” She pauses, and I notice a blush rising on her cheeks. “We were definitely feeling each other.”
“This is all good so far,” I point out, ignoring the weird clench in my chest. “How did he manage to fuck this up? What were the minuses?”
“Just one minus.” She turns to me with a look of defeat. “The kissing. Oh my God, Tate.”
“Aw, shit. Our boy Aaron can’t bring it home? What was the issue? Saliva? Because that might not be his fault. My friend Chase dated a guy once who had something called hypersalivation and—”
“It wasn’t the saliva,” she interjects. “It was the tongue.”
“Too much of it?”
“Too much is an understatement. And it was right from the get-go. I’m talking even before our mouths actually touched. He came at me tongue first, eyes closed. Want me to demonstrate?”
“No, I think I get—”
Cassie ignores my objection and demonstrates anyway. “It was like this.” She squeezes her eyes shut, sticks her tongue straight out, and comes barreling toward my face.
It’s so unsettling I instinctively rear back.
“Holy shit. He didn’t.”
“He did. It was terrible.”
I try to control the laughter bubbling in my throat, but it’s difficult. “Okay,” I say carefully. “That sounds … unpleasant. But once the lips made contact, did it get better?”
“It did not,” she groans. “It was just too much. He was trying so hard to be passionate, I guess, but it wasn’t working in the slightest. When it finally ended I felt like I’d run a marathon. Or worse. Like … like I’d just changed a duvet cover.”
“Did you ask him to slow down at any point?”
“No.”
I roll my eyes. “Why the hell not?”
“I don’t know.” She offers a self-conscious shrug, her fingers toying with the hem of her dress. “I’m not that person.”
“You’re not the person who asks a dude not to shove his tongue halfway down your throat and pretend you’re sword-fighting during a make-out session?”
“I’m not the person who tells someone they’re a bad kisser,” she corrects.
“Requesting to go slower isn’t telling him he’s a bad kisser,” I argue. “You’re just vocalizing your needs.”
“Vocalizing my needs? What are you, a self-help guru?”
“Apparently you need one,” I say in accusation, flashing a smile so she knows I’m half kidding.
“Why, because I’m too polite to tell a guy he’s doing it all wrong?”
“Would you rather be polite, or would you rather enjoy a kiss? And anyway, you don’t go about it that way, like he’s doing something wrong. You make it about you. You pull away and say something like …” I ponder. “I like it slow. And make sure to sound all breathy, even apologetic, as if it’s a you problem. Know what I mean?”
Wariness flickers through her expression.
“Or you could pull back and whisper something like, I like being teased. Then flutter your eyelashes and give him that hot-girl look and order him to tease you for a bit.”
Now she looks fascinated. “Okay, you’re not bad at this.”
“I know,” I say smugly.
“But it’s easier said than done. It’s easy to imagine myself saying and doing all those things after the fact. In the moment, though, I know I’ll freeze. People are so vulnerable when they’re kissing. It’s like this super precarious state of being. When he’s kissing me, his self-esteem hangs in the balance. One negative word from me, and it’s an embarrassment he’ll carry with him forever.” She heaves a sigh. “Plus I don’t like conflict.”