Page 222 of Coach
“Ooh, the plot thickens.” Sisi steepled her fingers. “That sounds intentional. A near-handhold, I’d call it.”
“Two points max. It was a brush, nothing more. He’s not getting the full five points for a handhold,” Matty said, somehow becoming the official referee of all things body language (and making up thepoint system and rules as he went).
“Two points. I’ll take it,” I said.
“But that kiss,” Matty continued. “We might need to consult the Gay Manual for that one. There has to be some obscure rule or guideline covering lip-to-head contact.”
“There’s a whole section entitled, Below the Belt, but I’m certain that involves a different head.” Omar smirked.
“Not helpful, Omar,” I drawled.
“But funny.” Matty grinned at his beloved.
God, those two were syrup on top of sugar laced with saccharine.
“All right,” Sisi said in an alarmingly sincere voice. “Let’s set aside our preconceived notions of a child’s bedtime smooch and explore the meaning behind this first-of-its-kind adult emotional evasion technique.”
“Emotional—”
“Silence, witness!” Sisi cut me off. “We will conduct a scientific inquiry. Now. Possibility one: Forehead kisses are for children, small woodland animals, and people who say ‘bless your heart’ unironically. In which case, we’re in trouble.”
“Possibility two,” Matty chimed in, “it was a soft, tender ‘I care about you, but I’m broken and emotionally stunted’kiss.”
“Oh! The ‘I’m scared to feel something real’ kiss!” Omar added, nodding. “A classic. That’s a man who’s read one book and it was a furniture manual with feelings repressed between the lines . . . or a comic book. Could be either.”
I slumped forward. “Can I finish my toast before you dismantle my entire psychological makeup?”
“No,” they said in unison.
Sisi leaned in. “Did he look at you after? Like,reallylook? Like, ‘he kissed you, but he didn’t know how to deal with what he felt and panicked’ kind of look?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose with two fingers. “He blinked at me like a confused dog, kissed right below my hairline, and fled the scene. There was no look, at least not a long, meaningful one laced with clues for Nancy Drew. There was only escape.”
Matty gasped. “You got forehead-kissed and abandoned? That’s art.”
“He probably panicked,” Omar said. “He seems like the type who’s allergic to joy.”
“Or,” Sisi said, raising a finger, “he’s one of those guys who doesn’t do big gestures. And that forehead kiss? That was him throwing his whole soul into one square inch of just-beginning-to-wrinkle skin.”
Everyone turned to look at me, my forehead, specifically. I’d never been self-conscious about myskin before; but in that moment, I swore to buy cologne and moisturize daily.
I blinked. “I . . . I think I liked it.”
Sisi sat back, stared a moment, then nodded as though confirming her findings. “Then it counts. It’s an official first kiss with all the meanings, insecurities, and silly lovesick hopes assigned to one.”
Matty beamed. “Congratulations. You’ve entered the foreplay of feelings phase.”
Omar raised his coffee. “To forehead kisses. May the next one be two inches lower.”
“To his nose?” Sisi’s whole face screwed up.
“Baby steps,” Omar said, his voice instructional. “A guy like Shane can’t be expected to jump from the cranium straight to swapping spit.”
“He’s got you there,” Matty agreed because, of course, he did. “Nose it is! Let there be nasal love!”
“Hold right there, gents.” Sisi raised a palm, a queen silencing her court. “There’s another question we have yet to explore, and it may be more vital than any silly kiss or handhold.”
My stomach churned. I knew I was in trouble when Sisi entered “professor mode.”
