I sit down at my desk and pull out a sheet of paper.
Maggie,
Sorry about last night.
Caleb
I read it back to myself and it sounds idiotic. I crumple it up and start again.
Maggie,
If I scared you last night, I'm sorry. It was a harmless kiss
that didn't mean anything.
Caleb
I crumple it up almost as soon as I sign my name. Because it did mean something. Kendra's kisses are more hollow-to me than a flute. And, dammit, I'm not sorry I slipped up and got close to Maggie. I wanted to kiss her and I still want to kiss her. Okay, so I'd rather have her say something like Let's try that again, but I'd settle for her not running away. Getting a grip, I head to school early and try to forget Maggie and last night.
I trudge through my day until I get to computer class. Maggie is sitting in front, her eyes fixated on the screen in front of her. She doesn't even notice when I walk in. I expected to get some sign from her that everything is cool between us, but I get zilch.
Oh, yeah. I do get something--Kendra. She's been giving me her best seduction smiles all day, promising to fulfill all my fantasies. Little does she know my fantasies are consumed with a girl who refuses to look in my direction.
Lucky for me I manage to ditch Kendra and her overexposed cle**age all day.
I head to the bus after school, trying without much success not to be surprised if Maggie sits up front instead of next to me. I plunk myself down in back and catch sight of her pink t-shirt and faded jeans coming up the aisle. Her long hair covers the side of her face, as if shielding it from my gaze. She passes the front seats and heads to the rear, never looking up at me.
When she slides in beside me and the bus heads away from the school, I let out a breath. Being at school is stressing me out. The teachers stare, the kids stare ... everybody stares at me except Maggie these days.
I look down at our knees, slightly touching. Jeans against jeans. Does she notice the heat transferring from her body to mine? Does she even realize what she's doing to me? I know, I know, I'm not a virgin and the slightest touch of a girl's knee is driving me insane. I don't even know what I'm feeling for Maggie, I just know that I'm feeling. It's something I've tried to avoid and deny until yesterday, when I held her in my arms while her tears spilled onto my shirt.
God, our knees touching isn't enough. I need more.
She's knotting her fingers together on her lap as if she doesn't know what to do with them. I want to touch her, but what if she pulls away like before? I've never been such a wuss with a girl in my life.
I bite my bottom lip as I slide my hand about a millionth of a millimeter closer to her hand.
She doesn't seem fazed so I move it closer. And closer.
When the tips of my fingers touch her wrist, she freezes. But she doesn't jerk her hand away. God, her skin is so soft, I think as my fingers trail a path from her wrist to her knuckles to her smooth, manicured nails.
I swear touching her like this is driving me nuts. It's more erotic, more intense than any other time with Kendra. I feel as awkward and inexperienced as a freshman again. I look up. Everyone else is oblivious to the intensity of emotions running rampant in the back of the public bus.
When I look back down at my hand covering hers, I'm grateful she hasn't come to her senses and pulled away. As if she knows my thoughts, we both turn our hands at the same time so our hands are palm against palm ... finger against finger. Her hand is dwarfed against mine. It makes her seem more delicate and petite than I'd realized. I feel a need to protect her and be her champion should she ever need one.
With a slight shift of my hand, I lace my fingers through hers.
I'm holding hands. With Maggie Armstrong.
I'm not even going to think about how wrong it is because it feels so right. She's avoided looking right at me, but now she turns her head and our eyes lock. God, how come I never noticed before how long her eyelashes were and how her brown eyes have specks of gold that sparkle when the sun shines on them?
The bus stops suddenly and I look out the window. It's our stop. She must have realized this because she pulls her hand away from mine and stands. I follow behind her, still reeling.
We get to Mrs. Reynolds' house. I can smell the scent of cookies invading us as we walk inside.
"Oh, I'm so glad you both are here," Mrs. Reynolds chants. "Come in the kitchen. I have ..." The old lady cocks her head to the side, eyeing Maggie and me in her living room. "Is it hot outside?" she asks.
Maggie shakes her head while I say, "Not particularly."
"Then why are you both so flushed?" she asks, raising her eyebrows.
Oh, crap. While Maggie shrugs and heads to the kitchen, I inform the old lady, "I'm a guy. I don't flush."
"Uh huh," she says.
After eating the cookies, which she insists are her own secret Snickerdoodle recipe, I head outside. As I'm working, I steal glances at Maggie as she kneels on the ground and plants the bulbs with Mrs. Reynolds' verbal instructions never far behind.
When the old lady takes her nap, I listen to Maggie hum while I work on the gazebo. It's soothing. Her voice floats through the air as I work. But when the humming stops, I look around and Maggie isn't here. I head into the house.
I find her taking lemons out of the refrigerator. I watch as she cuts and squeezes them into a pitcher.
"Are you following me?" she asks, but doesn't meet my gaze.
"Yeah," I say.