Page 5 of Open Secrets
“Both,” I said flatly. That got him to laugh, quick and rough.
It felt good, hearing it cut through the whine of bugs and the pounding in my ears. For a second, the woods didn’t press so heavy.
I pushed off the tree and jerked my chin forward. “Come on. He’ll come looking, but I’d rather meet him halfway than get dragged out.”
Lyle exhaled through his nose, tucked the bottle back into his pack, and trudged after me.
“So where else have you lived?” I asked after a while.
He didn’t look at me, just kept swiping branches out of his way. “My dad’s Army. All the men in my family are. We’ve moved a lot. Georgia, Colorado, Kansas… then Fort Hood.”
“Must be weird. New schools every year.”
He shook his head. “Not schools. My mom homeschooled us.”
That stopped me short. “Wait—you’ve never been to a real high school before this year?”
He glanced at me, mouth quirking. “Real high school? Yeah, this is the first. Feels like being dropped into a foreign country.”
I smirked. “You don’t say.”
I kept walking, the path curving through thicker trees, but something about the shape of the clearing up ahead tugged at my memory. The way the branches arched, the dip in the dirt.I’d been out here once before with some girls from the team, sneaking cigarettes we swore we didn’t inhale.
I glanced back at him, his face shiny with sweat, his jacket slung over one shoulder. “So this is your first school?”
“Yeah,” he said, confused.
“And your first date.” I smirked. “Must be a big year for you, Lyle. What’s next? First time holding hands?”
He rolled his eyes, but his ears went red. “Not my first time.”
“Oh no?” I slowed just enough to grin at him. “How many girlfriends did you have while your mom was teaching you algebra at the kitchen table?”
He gave me a sideways look. “Maybe I didn’t have girlfriends. Doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing.”
I barked a laugh. “Big words for a guy on his first date. Careful, or you’ll trip over a root and ruin your whole image.”
His jaw tightened, but I caught the twitch of a smile before he hid it.
Then he stopped walking.
Before I could ask what he was doing, he reached out, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me toward him. The movement was sharp, almost clumsy, and then his mouth was on mine.
It wasn’t smooth. His lips pressed too hard, his nose bumped mine, and for a split second I thought about shoving him back. But the heat of it — sudden and real — sent a jolt down my spine.
When he pulled away, breath fast, his eyes searched mine like he’d just broken some unspoken rule.
“See?” he said, voice low, a little rough. “Not my first time.”
I stood there, heart hammering, lips tingling, trying to decide whether to slap him or kiss him again.
I didn’t have to decide. He leaned back in, slower this time, and I met him halfway.
The woods pressed in around us, sticky and hot. My back hit the rough bark of a tree as he kissed me harder, one hand braced near my head, the other still clutching my wrist. His shirt was soaked through, sweat rolling down his temple, and I could taste salt when his mouth slid against mine.
It wasn’t practiced, it wasn’t perfect — it was messy, eager, both of us laughing against each other’s lips when our teeth knocked together. Still, I didn’t pull away. Neither did he.
That’s how my dad found us: sweaty, tired, and making out against a tree about a mile from the car.
