Page 70 of The Narrow

VERONICA STAYS SUNDAYand Monday night with me, getting special permission for a school-night sleepover after explaining about my broken arm. It’s not something I can exactly hide anyway, but I don’t like the idea that the administration is officially aware that I got hurt. Having Veronica around reminds me of just how much I’ve missed her presence, her jokes, her easy affection. But she doesn’t try to hide her discontent about our plan, and a cloud seems to hover around us constantly. When she goes back to Westmore on Wednesday, part of me is relieved.

The first thing I hear when I get back to Abigail House after classes is the sound of Del’s footsteps. I haven’t been upstairs since Maeve’s visit. I felt too much like the river water was still clinging to my skin; I couldn’t shake images of Del seizing on the floor, water trickling from the corners of her mouth. Now, with studious care, I go through the monotonous routine of decontamination.

By the time I get to the top of the stairs, the pacing has stopped—because Del is there, waiting for me.

“I—” I begin, but I don’t get out anything more because her arms are around my neck, and her lips—cool and soft and insistent—are on mine, and even if she stopped kissing me, I couldn’t speak because I have forgotten every word I’ve ever known.

I have imagined kissing her before, but no amount of imagination could supply these sensations. The way her fingernails scrape lightly at the nape of my neck. The soft hum she makes against my mouth. The way her body fits so perfectly against mine. The pain that sparks in my bruised lip and how much it doesn’t matter, and the way our noses bump together when we pause for a breath, my brow against hers and a soft laugh, so inaudible it is only a shiver in the air, escaping her.

“I was so afraid that I would lose the chance to do that,” she whispers.

“That would be tragic,” I agree, and she laughs again, more audibly this time. I realize I’ve stopped keeping track of how often she laughs; it has become familiar enough that I don’t have to keep score.

My pulse is racing. God, she’s beautiful—those startling eyes, the sweep of her pale lashes, the perfection of her mouth. Every part of her is its own verse in a poem about beauty.

And next to her, I’m a lump. A lump in scrubs and a shower cap.

“It’s not fair. You’re stunning, and I look like a lunch lady,” I complain.

She reaches up and plucks the cap from my head. “We can fix that,” she tells me. She takes my good hand and draws me toward her room.

“Your clothes are not going to fit me,” I remind her as I follow her in.

She turns and reaches past me, pushing the door shut with a quick, almost-flippant movement. “I wasn’t planning on lending you clothes,” she says. She draws close to me. Her fingertips play along the hem of my shirt. “You could take this off. If you like.” She bites her lip, flushing with nervousness. I bump my fingers against hers.

“We don’t have to go fast,” I tell her. “We only just kissed.”

“I want to see you,” she says, wetting her lips with her tongue. “And—kiss you again. If that’s all right.”

In answer, I lift the hem of my shirt. She has to help me get it over the splint, and then it falls to the floor. She wears a soft camel-colored sweater, and when she leans in to kiss me again, it brushes against my bare skin, the sensation so delicious I’m not even very tempted to remove it.

We make our way to the bed. There’s some negotiation and awkwardness, trying to find a position that doesn’t hurt. We kiss hungrily at first, desperate for each other’s touch. After a while, the kisses grow slower as we luxuriate in each other.

The sweater comes off eventually.

Straddling me on the bed, her bright red bra stark against her pale skin, she kisses me deeply as I rest my palm on her hip. Her skirt spills over me, and her fingers play with the strap of my embarrassingly plain and functional black bra.

“I think I like kissing,” Del says with a little grin I would kiss away if I could reach her.

“I think I like kissing you,” I say.

She tosses her hair back, straightening up.

I reach out as if to catch her but only trail my hand down her arm. “This is good, then?”

“It’s very good,” she assures me. Then, nervously, “What about for you?”

“It’s perfect,” I promise her.

“I know you’ve probably done a lot more before,” she says.

It’s my turn to laugh. “That’s right. I’m a real player.”

Her cheeks go pink. “You must have dated other people.”

I shake my head. “Ruth is the only girl—only person—I’ve dated, and we were fifteen. We didn’t get much past a few kisses. I’ve never...”

“I just assumed...”

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