Page 92 of If Looks Could Kill
Mike said nothing, but paced back and forth, eyeing me strangely. As if he was trying to make up his mind about something. About me. About whether or not this was the moment he could simply and sensibly walk away from this loony of a Salvation Army Disaster Girl.
“What do we do now?” he asked drily. “Flip a coin?”
“Don’t be vexed with me,” I pleaded. “Just let me go find my friends.”
“And get killed?”
He was truly angry now.
“I don’t know what you want, Mike,” I told him. “I—”
“That’s plain.”
“And cryptic statements like that don’t help any,” I snapped. “I can’t wait any longer.”
He took a step closer. “What I want,” he said, “is for you to wake up tomorrow morning. Alive.” He shook off the snow piling atop his darkhair. “And if I could have it my own way, I’d wake up alive too, knowing you were safe. I’d call that a fine morning.”
There he went again. Courteous. Concerned. Confusing. And, because of me, in peril.
“I never meant to drag you into danger,” I said.
He pulled a large, folded handkerchief from his pocket. “I’ll blindfold myself,” he said. “Hold my hand and lead me in. We’ll go together. All right?”
I couldn’t hide my relief. We had no good option, but this might work, and our chances were better together than apart. “Yes, please,” I confessed. “And… I’m sorry.”
“Sorry, nothing.” He rolled his handkerchief into a band. “It’s never dull, thank the good Lord, when you’re around.”
He knotted the band and tested it over his eyes, then pulled it down.
“And since I don’t know what comes next,” he said, “and since you’re too brave by half and you keep running headfirst into danger—”
Too—“What?”
“And if anything happened to you, I’d never—”
I never knew what he’d never. Not in words.
May God forgive me. I forgot all about my friends.
The next thing I knew, Mike’s cheekbone nestled against mine, with the softest touch. A sigh left his chest, and we breathed together.
Mike O’Keeffe is standing this close to me, I thought. Because he wants to. Wants to be this close to me. Wants to feel my cheek against his own.
Girls raised like I was don’t know what to do at a time like this.
He’s going to kiss me, I thought.
No. Perhaps not. Perhaps he just wanted to stand here this way.
His forehead rested against mine, shielding my face from the snow, then his nose traced a slow line up the length of my nose, over the bridge and down the other side. As if this moment could not be slowed enough.
And all of this, this impossible tenderness, was for me.
I didn’t know how to bear the blissful weight of it. So much caring I hadn’t seen coming. So much feeling I did not believe I could ever deserve.
Something, it seemed, ought to be done.
So I kissed him.
