Page 59 of The Kiss Principle

Zé held on. “Lots of big stuff, right? Last night. And now this morning.”

“Yes.” I tried again, but he was like a terrier. “I’m not happy about it.”

Those fuzzy eyebrows went up.

“Uh, I mean, I’m happy about the part with our dicks.”

“Good God.”

Since he wasn’t letting go, I decided to hold on to him too, and I squeezed his hand. “I mean, I wasn’t joking about all that stuff, Zé. Not totally. You’ve seen my family. I meant what I said. I feel strongly for you—”

“You think you love me.”

“Yes, God damn it. Can I please finish a fucking sentence?”

He kissed my knuckles again, maybe to hide a smile.

“I am seriously fucked up.” I tried to soften my tone. “I want to see where this goes, but—”

The sound of the door opening interrupted me. Then voices moved into the house.

“I said I’m done talking about it,” Mom snapped. Her voice was high and tense, like she was at the edge of her control.

“Well, I’m not done,” Cannon said. “I didn’t kiss her, she kissed me—”

The crack of a slap rang throughout the house.

“You fucking bitch!”

I was out of my seat, passing Igz to Zé, before Cannon had finished the words. When I reached the living room, he froze mid-step as he advanced on Mom. The cute little white boy had a red cheek now, and he looked like he hadn’t slept: his eyes were bloodshot, his stupid blond-broccoli hair was a mess, and even from across the room, I could smell the pot and booze on him. Mom didn’t look much better. She still wore what she must have had on when they went out the night before, her little black dress and a new pair of heels, but her makeup was smudged, and it made her face look strangely skewed, as though she were a portrait of herself, and the paint had smeared.

“What the fuck is going on?”

“Nothing,” Cannon said. Then, to Mom, “I want to talk to you in your room.”

Mom laughed and turned to me. Cannon caught her arm.

“Get your fucking hand off her!”

Cannon drew his hand back like he’d been burned, and his face got redder. I saw the indecision in his body: the little dry-humper thinking about if he wanted to take a swing.

Before he could, Mom said, “Don’t talk to him like that.”

“Talk to him like that? He called you a fucking bitch.”

“This isn’t any of your business.”

“You’re my mother!”

“Fernando,” Zé said from the kitchen.

I shot him a look and turned back to Mom. “You don’t want me getting involved?”

“I’m handling this,” she said.

“Yeah,” Cannon said. “Stay out of this.”

“Whose fucking house do you think this is, pencil-dick? Get over here and say that to my face.”

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