Page 4 of Last First Kiss
“Isabella painted it.”
And that makes it even more special. Isabella is one of our best friends, and she loves painting. I have no doubt she will be huge someday. So, having something this beautiful from her and Alejandra makes this one of my most treasured possessions.
“I don’t know what I would have done without you,” I say, holding on to Alejandra tightly.
“Luckily, we never have to find out.” She pulls back and holds my stare. My eyes well up with tears again, because what could I have done in my past life to deserve Alejandra?
For a fleeting, ridiculous second, our almost kiss a few months ago flashes through my brain, and all I can focus on is the warmth of her breath against my skin. The space between us vanishes, and time slows, maybe even stops.
It would be so easy to lean in, but then I see her—really see her. The comfort of her smile, the safety of her presence, the way she’s always been there, unwavering and true.
She is my anchor, my calm, my person.
Suddenly, everything makes sense—why dating never felt quite right, why no girl ever fit. The space I’ve been trying to fill has always been hers.
I don’t know how I missed it before, but I see it now. I’m in love with my best friend.
CHAPTER ONE
ALEJANDRA
Dating has been an absolute nightmare.
Everyone I go out with ismeh. Nice. Funny enough. Sometimes even hot. But still, every time, there’s something missing. And it’s driving me to complete frustration, because no matter how hard I try, I cannot figure out what it is.
I try—God, I try. I ask about their siblings, act fascinated by a job I barely understand, and even toss in that tinkling laugh where I flip my hair and touch their shoulder, really trying to put myself in a flirty mindset. But at the end of every date, there’s still nothing. No spark, no pull. Just the clock, counting down the minutes until I can go home. At this point, I don’t know if the problem is them or me.
I walk toward Clara’s bedroom door, the way I always do when I need to escape my brain for a minute. She’s a long-suffering witness to my disastrous dating life, and the one who keeps me grounded.
Odds are, she’s knee-deep in one of her eighty-seven meetings, or solving a work crisis that shouldn’t be her problem, so I knock on her doorsoftly.
“Come in,” she calls.
I push the door open and find her cross-legged at her desk, earbuds in, her dark blue shoulder-length hair clipped back with a few loose hair strands framing her face, and her glasses sliding down her nose, looking utterly adorable.
The second I appear in the doorway, Clara looks up from her laptop and frowns. “That bad?”
“Worse than last week’s,” I say as I walk toward her to give her a quick kiss on the forehead before throwing myself onto her bed, landing face-first.
Clara winces.
I’m here for our date post-mortem, because that was excruciating and I need to vent before I spontaneously combust. We’ve been doing this since college, back when we first started dipping our toes into dating, drawn in by the abundance of cute queer girls to go out with. Every time one of us goes on a date, we end up finding each other at the end to talk about how amazing or how painful it was.
We’ve been through it all together, every phase of dating, messy situationships, ghostings, a few heartbreakingly intense breakups—mine, not Clara’s, she’s had the good sense to avoid dating altogether. But we’ve also been there for the hundreds of great dates and hookups we’ve had. I know what she likes and what she doesn’t when it comes to dating, and so does she with me. Maybe more than any best friend should know, but we’ve always been ridiculously close, so knowing every tiny detail about each other’s dating lives—and lives in general—it’s who we are. At this point, we know each other better than we know ourselves.
“What happened?” she asks, closing her laptop before inching toward the edge of her bed and pulling at the strings of my boots so she can slide them off.
“God, it was terrible.” I turn over and grabone of her pillows, hugging it tightly against my chest, breathing in deep until all I can smell is Clara’s shampoo—floral and sweet, mixed with her favorite cologne. It’s a smell that’s so uniquely hers and can calm the most hectic of days.
“She talked for two hours straight. I don’t think I said more than five words the entire date.”
“I’m sorry, that sounds awful. What did she talk about?” Clara starts massaging the sole of my foot. A low sigh slips from my lips before I can stop it, and my shoulders sink deeper into her mattress. The steady push of Clara’s warm hands sends a slow ripple of relief up my spine, and muscles I didn’t even know were tense relax.
“Honestly, I have no idea what she talked about for the entirety of our date. Something about FinTech and how it’s ‘revolutionizing the industry,’ but honestly, I tuned out after the third mention of ‘blockchain scalability.’ I kept nodding and sipping my drink, hoping she wouldn’t notice that my soul had left my body. At one point, I think she asked me a question, but I just smiled and said, ‘Yeah, totally,’ and that seemed to satisfy her. By the time the check came, I couldn’t even remember her name. Remind me to never again go on a date with someone who lists ‘networking’ as a hobby.”
“Jesus, where did you find her? LinkedIn?” Clara laughs.
I laugh a deep, full laugh because I very easily could have. It had felt like I was interviewing her for a job—a job I’m sure she would have secured in the real world. She’s got passion, which isn’t bad. I just wish she had talked about at least one other thing, or even asked me a question.
