Page 14 of The Second Kiss
As soon as I sit down I reach for the window control. “Do you mind if I roll down the window?” I know I smell like a gym sock.
He looks at me like I’m crazy. “It’s raining.”
“It’s always raining. If we kept the windows up every time it rained, we might never get any fresh air.” Lame, lame, lame, but it’s the only thing I can think of to say.
“Good point.” He climbs into the driver’s seat, rolling down his window a few inches. “I forgot how often it rains here.” As we start to move, I get worried that the wind blowing in will carry the smell to him. I huddle next to the door, freezing in a puddle of cold sweat.
“So, Jess.” I like the way it sounds when he says my name. Jacob always had a bit of a Southern accent, like his mom. The years he spent in North Carolina after they moved have made it stronger. “What’s up with your car?”
“My car?” I forgot I owned a car. I almost forgot that I have a name.
“Yeah, your car. Your mom said it wasn’t running.”
I make a face. “You mean The Nag.”
“Your mom?” He raises his eyebrows.
“No, my car. I call it ‘The Nag.’ You know, it's supposed to be a Mustang, but it’s more of...it’s a horse thing.” My car’s nickname suddenly seems extremely childish.
“But it’s not running?”
My explanation comes out in a nervous rush. “It hasn’t run well since I bought the stupid thing. Now it’s really dead, and I can’t afford to fix it.” I laugh; it sounds high pitched and strained. “If it were really a horse, I’d probably just shoot it.”
He drops one hand to the gearshift. “Maybe I could look at it. I’m pretty good with cars.”
“That would be great.” Jacob in my front yard, bent over my car. I like that picture. “But you don’t have to.”
“No problem, anything for an old friend.” His car accelerates onto the freeway and the sound of the engine changes from a whine to a loud buzz. He must have done something to the engine to make it sound that way.
Even with the noise of the engine, the car feels too quiet. I scramble for something to say. “I can’t believe how long it’s been since you--” I catch myself and bite my tongue. “I mean it seems like forever ago that you guys lived here.” For a second I thought I was going to say, ‘since you kissed me.’
I wonder if he ever thinks about the day he kissed me. Probably not the way I do. I’m sure Jacob has kissed a lot of girls, both before and since he left. I’m just the annoying little girl who had a huge crush on him. He probably kissed me because he felt sorry for me because I was crying. He probably never thought he’d see me again. Maybe he doesn’t even remember it.
“It has been a while. I saw your brother Tyler at the house. He was just a little kid when we left, now he’s almost as tall as me. Weird.” Jacob turns and looks at me. “And you. You’ve really changed.”
I’m not sure what to say to that. Thanks for noticing?
“I didn’t recognize you at all when I watched your class. Your mom didn’t tell me you were the instructor. If she had, it might have been easier for me to find you.”
“You were watching?” I can feel my face getting red. I don’t even like watching myself in the mirror. I finally got used to the class watching my every move, but Jacob…
“Yeah, it’s a good thing I figured out who you were before I did something stupid like ask for your phone number.” He laughs.
“My phone number?” My heart leaps. Is he interested?
“Yeah, you’ve grown up a lot. What are you now, fifteen?”
“Seventeen,” my voice squeaks when I find it.
“Wow, all grown up.” He grins and taps my shoulder with his fist in a fake punch. He used to do that when we were kids. “You’d better watch out; in a year or two you’ll have old guys like me hitting on you.”
I pull away. Fifteen? I look down at what I’m wearing—an old track shirt and yoga pants. If I had worn make-up, or a tank top, or short shorts—something that showed off the figure I worked so hard for, maybe then he’d notice I wasn’t a kid anymore, but those kinds of clothes have never been my style.
I look sideways at Jacob. Do I want him to notice me that way? What did Jaz say about Army guys? They only want one thing. But Jacob isn’t like that, is he?
“You’re pretty good at that, at kickboxing,” Jacob glances down, “Those long legs. You can really kick high. Are you a cheerleader or something?”
I point to my shirt. “Track.”
