Between the Stacks

Chapter 19

Sometimes I don't make good decisions. Once, when I was four, I stuck a crayon up my nose and needed it surgically removed. A few years later I left a fork in the microwave and almost destroyed the kitchen. In high school I organized a flash mob to publicly ask out the captain of the swim team - who, it turned out, already had a date to prom.

But kissing Wesley?

A fantastic idea.

His hands, my hands, his body, my body. I couldn't keep track of the difference. I admit, making out with a guy in a dark hallway wasn't my finest moment ever - sorry, Mom - but it certainly was memorable.

I barely knew where I was. His roaming fingers, his legs pressed against mine, his breath as it skimmed my cheeks; all of it conspired to make me believe that I had somehow ascended to heaven, rather than a sketchy bar with cheap drinks. The moment I kissed him, his body froze for a slight moment before molding into mine. Before I knew it I was pressed up against the wall. He smelled like beer and something undeniably male.

When was the last time I had been kissed like this? Never, some half-sober part of me said. That was before I lost all rational thought, when I let myself succumb to the heat, the pressure, the feeling of stubble against my face.

He sucked on my lip and I thought I would die. I'm not sure where he picked up some of those tricks, but I sent a prayer to whatever kissing gods existed. They had taught Wesley well.

His hand roamed at the hem of my shirt. My skin prickled as he started to explore. I would accept the consequences. I would be forever known as The Girl Who Got It On In This Weird Hallway, and I would be okay with it.

Until -

"What are you doing, eh?" The two of us sprung apart. A waiter stood nearby with his arms crossed. "That's hella gross."

I wasn't sure if "hella gross" was the best description of what had just happened, although I was slowly starting to regain my senses. My heart was beating so loudly that I wondered if Wesley could hear it.

"Sorry," I managed to say to the waiter, who flipped us off before heading back to the bar.

Wesley and I were left alone.

"I think we-"

"Maybe we should-"

We cut ourselves off, not quite looking at each other. "Let's get some air?" he suggested.

"Sure." I tried to look cool and confident as we made our way up the stairs and back outside, even though I was internally shrieking. The fresh blast of air made it even worse.

In the shadowy darkness, in the closeness of the hallway, everything had seemed so easy. Natural, even. But there on the sidewalk I started to realize what a colossal mistake it had been. At least we were alone out here; the earlier crowd had melted into the night.

I had absolutely no idea what to say. Thanks seemed weird. Maybe I could say Haha, that was a funny joke. No, that was rude.

What about Want to come back to my place?

And instead I said, "I can't believe you're a cat murderer."

It took Wesley a moment to respond. The way the streetlights contorted his face almost made it seem like he was - disappointed?

"Remember, the cat didn't die," he said gently.

"No, it didn't." I realized how stupid this conversation was. Not-quite-dead cats were the last thing I wanted to talk about. I was so completely flabbergasted that I didn't know how to salvage the situation.