Page 55 of The Cost of Forgetting You

I snort, and she tilts her head, one eyebrow quirked. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing,” I murmur. I highly doubt she’d enjoy knowing it’s my dead father’s beer that’s been sitting in our fridge, untouched, for months. Neither myself nor Mom could bring ourselves to throw it out.

Her foot brushes against mine beneath the table. At first I assume it’s on accident. But then it happens again. The third time, she rubs higher up my calf in a slow stroke. Our eyes meet and the corner of her mouth quirks. “Wanna give me the tour?”

“Um, sure.”

I stand, and she does, too. She takes my hand in hers, our palms slick with condensation from the cold beer cans. It doesn’t take more than a few steps toward the living room for them to grow warm again.

“Mom’s room is there.” We stand in the awkward liminal space between the kitchen and the living room, and I point to the closed door beside the couch. “Mine is this way.” We turn and walk down the hall, passing the only bathroom in the house on the left before coming to my door.

Kimberly juts her chin toward the door opposite mine, which sits partially ajar. “What’s that?”

“A guest bedroom-slash-junk room kind of thing? Mom has a sewing machine and she used to make clothes in there, but she doesn’t do that much anymore.”

Doesn’t have the time to, if I’m being honest. I think of the antique Singer sitting there, gathering dust, and my heart seizes.

“Shame,” Kimberly hums. She turns back to my door and grabs the knob. “So what should I expect? A bunch of nudie posters?”

My dick twitches. “No.”

She smirks. “Uh-huh, sure.”

The hinges whine as she pushes inside. I flick on the light, and we glance around simultaneously. I try to see it through her eyes, as someone who hasn’t slept in this room their whole life. There’s a window by the bed that I keep open at night to let the sound of wind through the live oaks filter in. My bedspread is a plain blue quilt Mom made for me years ago. There’s a guitar in the corner. It’s a little beat up, since I bought it used at the thrift store in town, but it’s functional. My songbook lies open on the desk in front of us. I reach for it, but Kimberly’s closer. She snaps it up in one smooth motion and spins away from my outstretched arm.

“‘Wish I could forget your long blonde hair. Wish I could do anything but care. If it were up to me, baby, we could go anywhere. As long as we go together.’“ She pats the gathering of hair on her crown. “It’s like you knew I was coming, Henry!” She flops back onto my bed, her dress pooling on either side of her legs. “What is this?”

I flush crimson. “It’s nothing.” I pluck it from her hands and close the notebook, returning it to my desk.

Her hazel gaze drifts to the guitar. “Oh, you’re a musician! Those are songs? And here I thought you were a wannabe e. e. cummings.”

She stretches her arms up and folds them beneath her head. Something about the expanse of skin the movement exposes—the swath of cream from her elbow to her underarm—helps me ignore the disbelief in her tone. I shrug out of my jacket and drape it across the wooden poster of my bed. When I stretch out beside her, the mattress sags, folding our bodies close enough that our sides touch.

“Poetry and music aren’t all that different.”

“Except people call cummings a literary master. No one says that about the Spice Girls.” She laughs. “But it’s a cute hobby, anyway. Not like you’re trying to make a career out of it or anything.”

I rub at my chest, working out the sting that forms there in response to her comment. “Yeah. You’re right.”

She rolls in toward me, propping herself up on an elbow. Tendrils of blonde hair are falling from her butterfly clips. Without thinking, I reach for one and brush it behind her ear. Her lips part, a small breath escaping. It smells like the beer we drank mixed with cherry lip gloss. An unpleasant scent, if it weren’t accompanied by the sensation of her body aligning with mine. The swell of her breasts presses against my ribs. Her soft belly brushes my side. Gentle fingers caress my cheek. Then my neck.

Everywhere they touch, goose bumps erupt. My dick aches. For her, I realize. And it may be insane, but it’s the best realization in the world. To be this completely enraptured by someone other than Lucy. To forget about her long enough to want someone else.

“Are you a virgin, Henry?” Her eyes are on my lips as she asks the question. Before I can answer, she closes the short distance between our mouths. Her lips slant over mine. Gentle. Exploratory. When she pulls away just enough to meet my gaze, her pupils are blown.

I debate lying. I’m not exactly eager for another dig akin to the one about my cute hobby. But if this goes anywhere, she’ll find me out quickly. Better to be honest up front.

“Yes.” I clear my throat. I take advantage of her attention on my words and try to adjust myself. “Are you?”

Her hand settles over mine where I was moving my dick to my waistband. And squeezes.

“No.” Her lips curve. “Do you want to still be a virgin when you graduate?”

To be honest, I haven't had a lot of time to think about it the last few months. But now that she’s mentioning it? “Not really.”

She’s giggling as our mouths crash into one another. She finds the button of my shirt and tugs. One after another, they come loose, until the last is pulled free and my heart leaps into my chest.

“Idon’thaveacondom,” I murmur in a rushed breath.

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