“What’d you say?”
“Just that Drew and I met up at the movies.” We hit the landing and booked it into his room. “And it let out later than I thought it would. Don’t worry, I didn’t mention you at all.”
“God, thank you. My mom would—”
“I know, I know. Basement, Dickens, gruel.”
“Exactly.” I closed the door behind us, then turned around and smiled at Oliver. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he said, then gathered me up and kissed me hard.
It took all the coordination in my body to hang on to his sweatshirt sleeve, but I managed to stay upright. He tasted even better than he had the night before, this time without the fog of alcohol between us, and I wrapped my hand around the back of his neck and pulled him closer, dizzy with the sort of longing that was now hitting me like a freight train.
“I was kind of freaking out,” I admitted when he pulled away for a second. “I thought . . .”
“You thought I was a douche canoe,” he finished.
“Yeah, kind of,” I giggled. “But not anymore. Quick, hurry, before they find us.”
Oliver pulled me closer, tighter than ever this time, and kissed me again. The only way I could describe what kissing him felt like was, like the last day of school, knowing that months of freedom and sunshine lay before you, the feeling that you could do anything you wanted and time stretched out in endless possibilities. That’s how I felt in his arms, like the future was limitless just because he was there. He was finally there.
We heard the door from the garage slam open, followed by, “Girls, do not slam the door!” We pulled apart once again. “Quick, which book do you want?”
“I don’t care, anything,” I said, and he shoved a copy of Mrs. Dalloway at me. “Wait, wait!” I whispered. “Come here, your mouth.” I pressed my thumb against his lips, wiping away my lip gloss. “Bonne Belle Lip Smacker in Dr Pepper just doesn’t match your skin tone,” I teased, and he kissed my thumb.
“Tastes good, though,” he said.
“Oh my God, you need to shut up right now.” I kissed him again, then pulled away and straightened my shirt. “You good?”
“Um, yeah.” He laughed. “This is way better than miniature golf.”
“Glad to know where I rank,” I told him, then clutched the copy of Mrs. Dalloway to my chest. “See you at school on Monday?”
“Absolutely,” he whispered back, then I left his room and went back downstairs, dodging Maureen and going out the front door, only letting the empty cul-de-sac see my face-splitting smile, my ridiculous happiness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Over the next week, Oliver and I kept to a pretty steady routine of going to school, going to the beach for more surfing lessons, kissing, making out in the backyard, and basically lying to our parents about all of that. (Except for school. That, unfortunately, wasn’t a lie.) Caro came to the beach a few times with us, since Drew was busy hanging out with Kevin at Starbucks or at soccer practice, but after the second time, she got bored. “I’m the third wheel,” she said on the way home. “I’m turning your bicycle into a tricycle.”
“Or we could just be three unicycles,” I replied. Oliver was in the front seat next to me, his hand on my leg as I drove with the window down, trying to dry my hair as fast as possible.
“Or we could be a penny-farthing,” Oliver said. “Maybe we could put Caro in a sidecar.”
“A penny what?” Caro and I both said at the same time.
“You know, that old-fashioned bike that had one big wheel up front and then a little wheel behind it?” Oliver mimed riding a bike, which, let’s be honest, didn’t help to clear up the confusion.
“Yeah, no, I’m not that,” I told him. “Can you roll your window down? I need more air.”
“You were saying about the sidecar?” Caro yelled, her voice nearly being drowned out from the sudden gust of wind. “It’d probably be less windy out there than it is in here!”
So after that, it just became Oliver and me. His surfing wasn’t really improving, but we spent most of the time bobbing up and down on the boards, talking instead of practicing.
But on Friday, when our parents thought we were doing another group project for AP Civics at Caro’s house but Oliver and I were actually down at the beach, he was subdued, almost tired. His eyes were heavy, his words soft. “Hey,” I said as we floated next to each other, our legs churning in the water. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine,” he said absently.
“You’re doing the dude sulk,” I told him.
Oliver laughed. “The what?”
“You guys always get pouty and sullen.” I poked my lip out and slouched down, trying to make him laugh for real this time. It worked. “What’s wrong?”
Oliver, though, just looked behind him and watched as a wave started to form. “You think I can get this one?”
I glanced at it. “Probably. You’re getting good.” And he was. He had already ridden to the shore several times that day, hooting and hollering with each successful wave.
“I’m taking it,” he said, then swung his legs out of the ocean and back onto the board as he started to paddle.
“Oliver, wait,” I said as he started to move, and he deliberately reached out and splashed me, leaving me sputtering.