The Last Best Kiss (20 page)

Hilary’s on her feet a few yards away from us, dancing to the music. I don’t know if she’s really that into it or just doesn’t want to be sitting near all the couples. Not that Lucy and Oscar are
really
a couple, of course.

Or Wade and me either.

Wait—are we?

I tilt my head back so I can study his face. He’s a good-looking guy. Good-looking enough that I would find him totally cute if I really liked him. Which I guess I don’t, at least not yet, since I’m sitting here studying him with detached curiosity. I’m weirdly calm. Shouldn’t I be kind of excited? I haven’t kissed that many guys—usually that kind of thing makes my heart start rattling.

Maybe it’s the weed that’s making me feel deflated. Unenthusiastic. A little bored even. Just one hit can make me feel cut off from myself. Maybe that’s why I’m not feeling at all aroused or on edge, despite all the kissing.

Except . . . I’m not actually completely cut off from my own emotions right now.

Because, if I were, would I be feeling a stab of misery every time I look over and see Lily looking so comfortable and welcome on Finn’s lap?

It’s past ten when the band finishes. We stagger to our feet and regroup. Hilary suggests we all go back to the VIP area so we can have some space to sit and discuss the rest of the evening’s plans, but Oscar wants to hear more music. She hands him the schedule and he scans it, then says, “No, you’re right—there’s nothing else good until eleven. Who’s ever even heard of these bands? Swordfish Barnacles, Monkey Brunch, the Molten Pops—”

Finn and I both cry out at the exact same moment. “The Molten Pops?”

“Have you guys heard of them?” Oscar asks, looking up again.

“I have their album,” I say.

“Me too,” says Finn. “It’s awesome.”

“I’ve never even heard of them.” Lily’s been clinging to Finn’s arm and swaying back and forth, humming to herself, but now she says dreamily, “The Melting Pops?”

“Molten,” I say. “And they’re really good. Weird, but good.”

“I’m getting tired,” Lucy says.

“Me too,” says Phoebe. “I need to sit down. And I don’t mean on the grass. I mean on a chair. And I could use something to drink. I’m dying of thirst, and they took away my water bottle.”

“Your ‘water’ bottle?” I say with raised eyebrows.

“I would have used it for water eventually,” she says defensively. “That was the plan.”

“I need to pee,” Lily says.

“You definitely want to do that up in the VIP area,” Hilary says. “The bathrooms out here are Porta-Potties, and they look disgusting. I’m sorry, Anna, but I think we’d all rather have a break than see that band.”

“Okay,” I say, but then Finn says, “Why can’t we just split up for an hour? Anna and I can go see the Molten Pops by ourselves. The rest of you go VIP it up.” He glances at me. “Right?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Okay,” Hilary says. “Meet us at the Galaxy Stage for Rock Basic at midnight.” Rock Basic is tonight’s headliner band—they get the closing slot.

“We could watch from there, right?” Lucy points to the hilly part of the VIP area that overlooks the Galaxy Stage. A bunch of people are gathered there already, waiting for the next show. “It would be less crowded, and we could find each other more easily.”

“That’s a good idea,” Hilary says. “Let’s do that.”

“Connor and I can’t get in there,” Wade says in a low voice to me. “We’re not VIPs. But I’m supposed to meet up with him and some other friends in fifteen minutes, anyway. So I can just take off now. If that’s okay with you?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” I’ve had enough kissing for the night, and I don’t really know what else to do with him at this point. “I’ll probably see you later tonight—or we can meet up tomorrow.”

“Great,” he says. “I’ll text you.”

I don’t know whether I should give him a good-bye kiss, and I don’t think he’s any clearer on the subject, because there’s an awkward pause and then he leaves with a wave and a nod.

“How did he manage that?” Eric asks, nodding after Wade.

“What?”

“His wristband. It’s blue.”

“I hadn’t even noticed.” But now that I think about it, Wade’s kisses had an alcohol tang to them.

“Fake ID,” Oscar suggests. “Or he has a big brother or cousin who lent him their license. Half the people drinking here are underage.”

“Just not us,” says Phoebe with a sigh.

“It’s my father’s event.” Hilary has a real edge to her voice. “Even if you
had
fake IDs, I wouldn’t have let you use them. He could get in trouble for serving minors.”

“But he
is
serving minors,” Eric points out. “Or the bartenders are, anyway.”

“I can’t control everything,” Hilary snaps.

“But she tries,” Lucy murmurs to me. “Lord, how she tries.” Then she shifts closer to me and says in an even lower voice, “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

I don’t have to ask her what she’s referring to.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper back. “I kind of got lost in the moment. It’s been a while since a guy has wanted to kiss me.”

“I was just left sitting there with you guys deep-tonguing all around me. And then that red-haired guy thought he had a
chance
with me—”

“I know. I’m sorry. I promise.” Meaning,
I promise never again to make out with a guy while another couple is also making out, leaving you stuck with a loser who thinks maybe that means he has a chance with you.

She knows what I mean, accepts my apology, and drifts off with the others.

Finn and I are suddenly alone. I mean, we’re surrounded by thousands of people, of course, but we’re alone compared to being with our group.

“Come on,” he says with a jerk of his head toward the South Stage. As we start walking, he says, “So tell me how you know about the Molten Pops. They’re pretty esoteric—I only know about them because the cousin of the bass player went to my old school, and he talked about his cousin the rock star all the time.”

“Because of their cover art. I was doing this image search for an art project, and up popped this unbelievable drawing.” I still remember seeing it for the first time. The colors were jarring and loud and wrong, and I couldn’t stop looking at it. I’d scroll away because I needed to keep working—and then I’d scroll back to look at it again. “I clicked on it and found out it was the cover art for their album, and I got curious about them.”

“I know about the artwork!” Finn says, all excited. Like the ninth-grade Finn, the one whose voice would sometimes get too fast and high because he couldn’t wait to tell me something. He’s peeking out again from this older, distant, crush-worthy guy. From this guy who was making out with Lily just a few minutes ago. It makes me feel happy and bereft at the same time. “The artist is the girlfriend of one of the band members. She’s a children’s book illustrator—I’ll show you some of the pictures from her books later—they’re pretty different, except that she uses color in kind of a similar way—”

“She loves neon green.”

“And that electric purple. Don’t you think it’s cool how her lines are wavy? She never uses a straight line.”

“I know! It’s like a handheld camera effect on a still picture.”

We reach the stage, but we’re early, which means we can weave our way through the waiting rows of people and get close to the action.

We still have another ten minutes before the set starts. Workers are busily removing the previous band’s equipment and bringing out the new amps and stands.

Once we’ve settled on a spot, Finn pulls out his phone from his pocket and does a search for the children’s books by the same artist. He shows me a couple of her drawings, and I like them, but not as much as the work she’s done for the band.

It’s funny. Back in ninth grade, when Finn and I would look at photos on his phone together, I never even noticed his forearms, but I can’t stop looking at them now. They’re long and slender and something about the way his wrist joins them to his hand seems oddly beautiful to me. Either I just didn’t notice the way guys were made back then, or he wasn’t yet made that way.

“Hey,” Finn says, putting his phone back in his pocket, thankfully breaking the spell. “I was wondering. What happened in the end with your sister and her girlfriend?”

“Good question. I haven’t heard from her since then. I should find out.” Molly and I don’t talk much when she’s at school.

“You still think what her friend did was unforgivable?” He says it almost too casually, and I get the feeling he’s been thinking about this.

Okay, here’s my chance to come down on the right side this time—on the side that actually helps me out. “No.” I shake my head emphatically. “I’ve changed my mind. People make mistakes. So long as they feel bad about them, they should be forgiven.”

He stares at the stage even though nothing too exciting is going on there yet. “But what if there’s some fundamental character flaw that isn’t going to change? So there might just be more mistakes? How do you trust it’s just going to be the one time?”

I have to say the right thing. I just wish I knew what that was. I take a stab and say slowly, “I guess it’s up to whoever feels betrayed. If that person cares enough, they’ll want to try again. I’d hope.”

He doesn’t respond to that, just stares at the stage with an unmoving face.

Well, I’ve exposed the wound this much—might as well pull the whole Band-Aid off. Either it will hurt like hell, or maybe it will have healed . . . and either way we both know we’re not really talking about Molly.

“You and Lily . . . you’re a couple now?” I say. He nods without taking his eyes off the workers in front of us. “That’s great.” My voice sounds flat, and I’m sorry the buzz from the joint is wearing off. I could have used a little more disconnect right now. “She’s one of my favorite people in the world.”

“I’ve never met anyone like her.”

“That’s because she’s unique,” I say, but as soon as the words are out, I’m remembering what Oscar said, about how she tries to be your basic manic-pixie-dream-girl cliché.

Whatever.

“She doesn’t care what anyone else thinks,” Finn says. “She does what she wants, no matter who’s watching or what other people might say. She’s true to herself.”

I glance up, and his eyes are on me, dark and intent, but they flicker away as soon as they meet mine. And I think, He’s talking about Lily. But he’s also talking about me. About what I’m not. What I wasn’t. What he doesn’t think I can ever be.

But he’s wrong.

“Lily’s more out there than the rest of us,” I say. “And she’s more fun. And a little crazier. But that doesn’t mean we’re not all true to ourselves too.”

He makes a noise. It’s a short noise, but it conveys a fair amount of skepticism.

I take a deep breath. “You think because I cared about what other people thought back in ninth grade, I’m not my own person. But that was ninth grade. We were all—” I struggle to find the right word. “Unformed. Barely cooked. But now we’re older, and it’s okay to be different. It’s
cool
to be different. When you’re in middle school—or even in ninth grade—it’s harder. Everyone just wants to fit in.”

“Not everyone,” he says. “I didn’t.”

“You were unusual.”

“And I bet Lily didn’t.”

“I didn’t know her then. But I bet she cared more than she does now. Everyone does. It’s hard to be different when you’re still trying to figure out who you even are.”

“Some people are brave enough not to care.”

“So you think Lily’s brave.”

He just sort of bobs his head.

It’s painful, but I say it: “And that I’m not.”

“You were either a coward or a hypocrite,” he says, and his sudden harshness tears at me. “I’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure out which one.”

I won’t let myself cry. That would just
prove
I’m a coward. So instead I force a smile. “Yeah? Any conclusions?”

“No conclusions,” he says. “Other than to learn from my mistakes.”

Now that the band’s going to play any second, people are crowding in around us. I feel weirdly alone and also so completely surrounded that I can’t breathe. The press of the crowd forces us to move closer together, but we’re careful to keep what little distance we can between each other.

“I’m guessing you think your mistake was to trust me,” I say.

We’re near enough to the stage lights that I can see the expression on his face. But I can’t actually read it. It’s blank. I guess the fact he’s closed himself off to me is expressive in its own way.

There’s a pause, and then he says in a voice so low, I have to lean in to hear it, “At first I hated myself—hated that I was such a loser that you couldn’t even look at me in public, let alone talk to me or dance with me. So I thought, I’ll change. I’ll change, and then I’ll come back and she’ll want to be with me because I won’t embarrass her anymore.”

“I didn’t want you to change,” I say. “It wasn’t that—”

He cuts me off. “Then I got angry. I stopped hating myself and started hating you. I still wanted to change and come back a lot cooler than I’d ever been, but only so I would be able to reject you like you rejected me.”

“I didn’t reject you. You never let me explain—”

He cuts me off again. “And then I stopped caring at all.”

“If you had just given me another chance—”

“Strangely enough, once I’ve been publicly humiliated, I don’t rush back for a repeat experience.”

“I didn’t mean to humiliate you,” I say, even though it’s getting harder for me to talk without bursting into tears. “I swear it. I know I hurt you, but I didn’t mean to. It just sort of happened. And I’ve been so sorry ever since.”

“I know,” he says a little more gently. There’s a pause. I’m working my throat—lots of swallows and chin jerking—trying to keep it from swelling so much that he’ll hear the thickness in my voice. And then he says lightly, “I admit I probably shouldn’t have worn that brown suit to the dance. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

That lets me choke out a laugh that’s really a small sob, but at least I can
pretend
it’s a laugh. Maybe I’m fooling him. Maybe not. “You did get cooler,” I say in a voice that I try to make sound as casual as his. But it’s shaky. “I mean—look at you. Every girl at school wants to go out with you.”