|photo by Felipe Simo from Unsplash|
The Tinsley's Halloween party invitation says 8:00 p.m. When my aunt leaves the apartment at 8:45, I text Conner—who's been next door for several hours—asking him to come over. I don't want to be in a room full of people when we finally reveal our costumes to each other.
His reply, of course, is: Maybe. It's been the answer to every question we've asked each other over the last seven days. But he must've sent the text from the hallway because it arrives, perfectly timed with a knock on the door.
The peephole is blocked: a brownish blur that makes me smile. I scoop up the barking Chihuahua, make sure my pigtails are lying in front of my shoulders and open the door.
"I knew it," I tell him. He's dressed as a scarecrow—not The Scarecrow, but a loose interpretation: floppy hat, shredded jeans and a worn button-down shirt left open to expose a T-shirt that says: Straw For Brains.
He smiles my favorite smile and offers a gloved hand for No-No's inspection; a few pieces of straw fall to the floor. "Is this part of your costume?" he asks, taking the dog out of my arms.
"Of course. This is Toto."
Conner laughs, stretching his neck to keep his chin away from the dog's enthusiastic tongue. Everybody loves Conner. I don't tell him the whole story of how Antonio got his name, but I do explain the reason my mother and I call him No-No.
"So, we have a Toto," he says, handing him back to me. "Well, that's almost as unnerving as the tornado." He shakes his head. "No, not even close really."
I step over the threshold and close the door, leaving an opening just big enough to insure the disgruntled Chihuahua's one-way trip back inside. When I turn back to Conner, he says, "If we walk next door together, I'm calling it a date."
"You have nothing to say about my outfit?"
I'm a farm girl. He's a scarecrow. We didn't plan it but we match.
"I have plenty to say about your outfit. Are you sure you want to hear it?"
My cheeks go flash-fire hot. I shake my head and point to my feet. "Just...look at my shoes please."
He furrows his brow, drops his eyes to my slutty boots, takes a deep breath and lets it out with this quiet "Hmm," that sounds more like appreciation than anything else. "They don't go with the outfit," he says, still ogling.
"Should I take them off?"
He raises his eyes to mine, gives me the same flirty smile that inspired me to wear them tonight, and shakes his head. I wrap my arm around his. "Can it be a secret date?" I ask.
The smile fades. His chin wrinkles.
"Your mom is over there," I explain, "and some other people from school and I'm just...I'm not—"
"No, yeah. You're right. Secret date. But we leave at 10:00."
"And go back to Queens."
"Really?"
"Yeah. I want to see the lights like you said. The Brooklyn Bridge. I want to ride the Q."
* * *
The party is mother-of-holy-freaking-shit awesome. I want to call Megan, video chat her from my phone so she can see this place, see the costumes. It's like the Tinsley's penthouse has been converted into a nightclub, complete with a spinning disco ball and a DJ. And an "undead" wait staff circulating the crowd with beautiful food and trays of golden champagne.
Conner touches my shoulder to get my attention and I feel it everywhere. He points to our hosts, then puts his hand on my lower back to lead me to them. My feet move and I put on a smile, but there's a nuclear meltdown happening on the inside—and my cheeks warm with mortification because there's no way Chase's parents aren't going to notice.
"Thea, you look adorable."
Mrs. Tinsley hugs me and when she lets go, I move as far away from Conner as I can. "I love your sari," I tell her. It's coral with gold trim. And she looks amazing.
"Thank you. It belonged to my grandmother."
I compliment Mr. Tinsley as well but really, the Indian prince getup isn't doing him any favors. He looks like one of those cheesy models in a costume catalogue.
My aunt, dressed as Marilyn Monroe, saunters up to the group and she literally takes my breath away—although I will never ever admit this to a single soul. Except for Megan.
"Interesting," she says, making a show of looking me up and down. Then she does the same to Conner and her eyes come back to mine as she lifts a curious eyebrow. "We have our work cut out for us," she says, sliding her arm through Jesminda's. This is her response to my farm girl costume—which I wore to annoy her.
Maybe it's my imagination, or maybe a blush really does come to Jesminda's cheeks. But either way, I'm so, so glad I took Conner's advice and ditched the slutty debutante idea. Nothing fazes my aunt. She's an impenetrable pain in the ass. But I wouldn't have been able to forgive myself if I'd embarrassed Chase's mom.
"See what I have to put up with," I tell Conner as we walk away. He's holding my arm but it's not having the effect it was before. I'm too pissed off.
I've already told him about the negotiations, which are going slow. "She won't budge on the shoes. She's insisting on white."
"Then maybe you should insist on wearing those." He glances at my feet and his cheeks turn red.
"You know," I whisper. "For a guy with straw brains, you're kind of a genius."
He gives me a crooked smile and his eyes get all soft and sexy. And just like that, I'm back in meltdown mode.
"Dance with me, Dorothy."
"We can't. It's too obvious. It's bad enough that we're dressed like a couple."
"It's just a coincidence," he says, grinning like the freaking Cheshire cat. "Look." He changes our course. Chase, the hottie pirate, is dancing with two girls: one familiar, one not. "We're just a couple of friends, dancing in a group. No one cares. Just relax and have fun."
I find out that Conner Barlow can dance—which is just... God. Something I did not need to know. Because boys who can dance just... Damn.
A slow song comes on and he holds out a hand. I take it, against my better judgment, and he steps in and rests his other hand on my waist. He keeps a respectable distance as we move to the music but it's pointless. I remember this feeling: the heat that radiates the space between two bodies, the thrum that starts in my stomach muscles and travels. I can't imagine that anyone who might be watching would be fooled. We are so much more than friends. Officially. As of right now.
* * *
Conner's favorite doorman is waiting at the curb holding the door of a yellow cab. "The train station is over there," I remind him—as if he hasn't walked there a thousand times.
"We're not riding the Q," he says, eyes bright, brows lifted.
"What are we doing?"
"Something better."
It's on my mind to remind him that his last surprise was awkward and conflicted, but the thought dissipates when he captures my hand, doing that thing where he threads our fingers together, studying the way they fit, shaking his head.
Thirty minutes later, he pays the driver and we get out in front of City Hall.
City Hall.
Conner laughs when I wrinkle my nose. He draws a circle in the air that means turn around. So I do. And there's the Brooklyn Bridge.
"Oh. We're going to walk." Well that explains why he traded his straw hat for the sexy black knit cap, and why he insisted that I change into a pair of jeans and "sensible" shoes. Because stopping by the penthouse on our way out was most definitely not a ploy to get me alone so he could kiss me. Nope.
"I've heard about this," I say. "We can walk all the way across, right?"
"We could." He takes my arm and we step into the crosswalk, into the middle of an animated crowd—some dressed in costume...
Or, no. Maybe not. Those piercings are real. So the hair, sadly, is probably just a poor fashion choice.
"I wanted to take you over to Brooklyn," Conner says. "The view is a million times better walking toward the city. But..." He shakes his head. "Too much travel time. So, we're going to walk halfway and turn back. But you have to promise not to look until we get to the middle."
"You mean not look back at the city?"
"Yes, that's what I mean."
We're land-locked now. The buildings around us are prettier at night but still not much to look at. But our protected sidewalk is starting to rise up between the lanes of traffic, coming from and going to the bridge, and once we're out over the water... "It's going to be impossible."
"For you, yes. But it will be worth it. Trust me."
"What do you mean, for me?"
"You don't like surprises."
"Yes I do."
"You asked me about my costume eleven times. I kept track. And on the taxi ride here, you asked where we were going every five seconds."
"You're exaggerating," I say, but not by much. He's right. I'm the kind of person who likes to know what's coming. Like right now, I want to know what Conner has planned for later. Because I thought the point of leaving the party was to find some privacy and we're not going to find that on the Brooklyn Bridge.
"Speaking of costumes," he says, sliding his hand down to mine, igniting that outrageous spark. "I keep thinking about your tornado. I know Zachary is just a detour for you—and like I said before, I admire your ambition..." He lifts our joined hands to his chest. "But have you thought about the Dorothy-meets-Scarecrow thing? Have you thought about this?" He moves his free hand back and forth in the space between us.
I nod. That's why we're here, right?
"It feels big to me, important," he says and I nod to that, too.
Conner stops, right in the middle of everything. And people just navigate around us while he moves in front of me and slides his arms around my waist. He looks at my lips and I'm thinking not here but nothing's coming out of my mouth.
And then he leans in and says, "It's a game changer."
I breathe the warm air that comes out with the words and reach for his neck, urging him closer. Because I'm so ready to be kissed by this boy. He smiles, appreciation for my eager response, and tightens his hold on me but there's nothing playful about the way his lips move against mine.
This is serious. This is why we're here. And oh...my god. I'm in so much trouble.
Someone near us clears a high-pitched, criticizing throat and I come back into my head, find my fingers buried in Conner's hair, find myself straddling one of his thighs. And, yeah, maybe we got a little carried away.
Conner mumbles something as I try to create space between us. I don't catch the words but the tone is disbelief mixed with fascination and his hands are urgent, and his lips pull me back into oblivion and I don't care if our display is inappropriate. I want more. I want people telling us to get a room.
I want the freaking room.
I don't know how much time passes before he pulls back, just enough to lean his forehead against mine. "Damn. I think I need to sit down," he says and I smile because I feel it too. My legs are so shaky, I'd probably collapse if he let go. "That was..." He shakes his head.
"Yeah," I say. I can't think of a word either.
Conner takes my hand, and we step onto the bridge: wooden planks under our feet, industrial steel fencing us in. Protection from the traffic below. Support cables strung with white lights shudder over our heads and a massive stone arch looms in front of us. He veers to an empty bench. We sit close but our bodies are rigid, like a couple of shock victims waiting for the world to make sense again.
And we stare at the lights of New York City. The view is incredible. And I'll never be able to look at it again—at anything in this city, really—without thinking about the boy sitting beside me.
"Definitely a game changer," he says. He still has my hand in his, still has that stunned look on his face.
"What does that even mean?" I ask.
"It means you are my universal nudge."
All the air leaves my lungs and it kind of sounds like laughter. But nothing about this is funny. "Conner, I don't believe in fate. I believe in hard work and informed choices. In making plans and following through with them."
"And then a tornado destroys her school and she moves to New York so she can make out with some guy on the Brooklyn Bridge."
I smack him on the arm. "I'm serious."
"I know. You have a right to your opinion, Thea. Even if it's wrong."
I smack him again and he laughs and stands. "Come on," he says, offering his hand. "I promised you a view."
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Author's note: Hello! You made it to the first kiss—FINALLY!!! But there are still eleven chapters to go. Is it going to be smooth sailing for Dorothy and Scarecrow from here on? Pretty sure you know the answer to that question. ;)
Thank you so much for reading this far—and for the votes and comments! Interacting with readers is my absolute favorite thing about being on Wattpad. ❤️❤️❤️