Two Boys Kissing(25)
“That was intense,” Peter says, adjusting his jeans.
“Yeah,” Neil says, wiping some saliva from his stubble-suffering chin.
They turn back to the screen, see Harry and Craig in their dance.
Peter is about to say something else, but his father calls up to say that dinner is ready, it’s time to come down.
Avery can try to ignore the clock, but it’s harder to ignore the sun. He and Ryan say goodbye to Caitlin, each of them giving her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Avery’s already called home, looking for an extension. But he’s only had a license for a little while, and has never driven at night on the highway before. His mother doesn’t want his first time to be alone, and it’s hard to argue with that. But he will push dusk as late as it can go, knowing that even after sunset, there’s a gap before the entire sky goes the shade of night.
Ryan has him pull over a couple of minutes before his house will appear.
“This is a good spot,” he tells Avery. “I don’t want to say goodbye in front of my house, if you know what I mean.”
Avery thinks he knows what Ryan means, knows what Ryan wants to do, and immediately all of his senses are reaching out for it. The radio is on low, the dashboard glowing dimly in the increasing twilight.
“I’ve had a great time,” Avery says, because he feels it needs to be said.
“Me too,” Ryan murmurs. And it is the shift into that murmur that marks the turning within the car. Avery suddenly feels that he is breathing electric air, and it is through this air that Ryan is leaning. Avery leans into it, too, leans into all of it, and that is when their lips touch for the first time, that is the consecration of everything they’ve already known.
This is what we don’t admit about first kisses: One of the most gratifying things about them is that they are proof, actual proof, that the other person wants to kiss us.
We are desirable. We desire.
Every kiss that matters contains a recognition at its core.
Cooper returns to Starbucks a few minutes before seven-thirty, just in case Antimatter—Julian—is early. In the interim, he’s gone to Subway for dinner. And now he’s finally checking his messages. Well, the first message. Which is a mistake.
“You had better get your ass back here right now if you know what’s good for you. I will drag you back here myself if I have—”
Cooper hits delete. Then he hits delete thirteen more times.
We want to shake him. We want to tell him what we learned from blunt experience: While you have to listen to the first message, it’s the most recent message that matters the most. Tempers can calm. Rage can wear itself out. Sense can return.
We’re not saying he should go back. We know that’s a hard choice. But we think he needs to hear the most recent message before he decides.
All of the messages are from his father or his mother. No one else has called. It’s gotten to the point that Cooper barely notices this.
Julian is four minutes late. He looks like his photo on the app, which is a relief. Cooper is sure the person and the photo don’t always match. Since he’s never actually met someone from online before, he’s had no experience one way or the other. He knows he looks like his own photo. It’s only the words that are lies.
“Hey, there,” Julian says. Cooper can’t tell if he’s nervous. We can tell he is.
“Hey,” Cooper says back, casual. Like he does this all the time.
Julian remains standing. “Do you want to go somewhere else? Somewhere less Starbucks?”
“Like where?” Cooper asks. It comes out as a challenge.
“I don’t know. I’m sorry—I should have thought about that. A drink, maybe? Oh, wait. That won’t work.”
“Why?”
“Um … your age?”
“I might be nineteen, but I’m still up for a drink.”
“Do you have an ID?”
“No. But we don’t have to go to a bar.”
“So where …?” Julian begins. Then he gets it. “I’m not sure we should go to my place. Not … yet.”
“Why don’t we stay here for a little while, then? You don’t have to buy anything. I’ll just get a latte, and we can talk. Okay?”
Like that, Cooper’s taken charge. And he gets a charge from that.
It’s enough, for now, to balance out his disappointment. Cooper figures this guy isn’t a dream and he isn’t a nightmare. He’s just more of the same, better probably than Cooper feels he deserves. But at least there’s the possibility that the night will go a little differently than it usually does.
The sun retreats from the sky, and the light around Harry and Craig darkens. The lamps above them go on, and it’s a harsher light than Tariq had imagined it would be. If you look on the feed, Harry and Craig appear to be bleached-out blurs immersed in shadow.
The drama club springs to action. Most of them have stayed here after rehearsal, cheering on Harry and Craig. The head of the tech crew calls their advisor for permission, then instructs his squad to start running more extension cords from the school. Tariq is consulted, and spotlights are obtained. The tech crew works quietly. Smita expresses gratitude, and they are almost embarrassed by it. It’s one of the rules of tech crew: If you are nice to them, they will help you. If you are mean to them—if you push them into lockers, if you call them names, if you make it clear you think less of them—then they will burn you the first chance they get, and they will enjoy it. Harry and Craig have always been cool to them, so they’re pitching in.