Page 43 of The Kiss Class

“I’m fresh out of chalk, so—” I laugh.

Cara remains straight-faced. “I can borrow some of my dad’s dry-erase markers.”

I shake my head slowly, a smile building on my lips.

Standing by the tree with a soft crooning carol in the background, Cara looks up at me imploringly, eagerly. Even though lately guilt and regret about my experiences with women and my reputation make me feel empty inside, it also equipped me for this moment . . . to create the opposite. Something sweet. Something real.

“Cara, I don’t think you need kissing lessons.”

“Kissing you under the Merry Kiss Me arch was the first time.”

“And you did great.”

“What if my pucker is too, I don’t know, puckery?”

“It was perfect.”

“Or if I have bad breath?”

I shift closer. “It’s minty fresh.”

“What if we bump heads or noses or,” her eyes widen, “teeth.”

I lift a shoulder with a shrug. “It happens.”

“But I don’t know where to put my hands or when to breathe or what to do.” Panic stripes her voice.

“When it’s with someone you’re attracted to and interested in, it comes naturally.”

She shrinks back. “Pierre, I am way too much in my head to even know what any of that feels like.”

I nod with the idea of going back to basics. “Okay, let’s try this.” I scurry to the kitchen and flip off the lights. I put on a few candles—my sister makes them from goat milk on the farm and sends me one every time she develops a new scent.

Cara didn’t move an inch during the ten seconds I was gone. I position myself so we’re close, facing each other. She tips her head up slowly, her breath a little wavery.

I say, “First, inhale. A deep, deep inhale.”

“Breathe, okay. I can do that.” She hastily draws a breath through her nose as if approaching this like an algebra equation.

I demonstrate long, slow, intentional breaths.

She sips the air like she is hoping for a hit of that cherry cola.

“Breathe like you’re sketching the breath.”

She tips her head to the side. “I can’t?—”

I continue to let my chest rise and fall, showing her how it’s done. She draws a calmer breath now as if realizing she was rushing through the assignment to get to the next part.

We stay like that for another minute or so, and then I say, “Now, look into my eyes.”

Her gaze flits to mine and then away. She traces my face with her eyes, but I keep mine locked on hers.

Cara’s eyes float to mine and then away a few more times before she settles in, and our gazes hold.

“This is intense,” she whispers.

“It is,” I reply as this moment reaches new depths inside me.

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