Page 73 of The Fangirl Project
I cut Max a glare, not impressed by the joke—or by his lurking. Now that we’re face-to-face, I’m embarrassed by the fact that I had a bit of a meltdown, and by all the things I said to him. I’m embarrassed thathehad to come and check if I was okay, because my so-called bestie was too preoccupied to notice. And that he’s caught me hiding from the partyagain—when I should be the one throwing myself into it, when he’s the one whose name people get wrong, when…
When he’s looking at me like that, unflinching, seeing too much, and I bristle, hugging my arms tighter to me.
“Just because Jake—”
“Drop it, Max.”
He doesn’t, though; he steps into the room, closing the distance between us inch by inch. “Just because he’s getting on with Anissa, or because he’s friends with me, doesn’t mean—”
“I don’t want to hear it.” I don’t. It’s bad enough I have to reassure myself that Jake isn’t trying to get rid of me; I don’t need Max’s pity, too. “I told you, my friendships are none of your business. Jake and Anissa can—they can do what they like. And Anissa—”
Anissa isn’t even my friend anyway, except…I’d really like her to be, but I feel like I’ve already screwed that up because of how I’ve approached it, even if she’s none the wiser.
“It is my business, if it’s upsetting you,” Max says. “I thought we were—”
“Just because we called a truce—”
He scowls. “Cerys, I don’t know how many ways I have to explain it for you to understand. I thought we were on the same page here.”
“Oh yeah? And what page is that?” I snap, but it’s a serious question. Just because I understand where he was coming from being all judgmental, and he knows I was jealous of his friendship with Jake, just because wetalked…
I’m shivering, teeth gritted and beginning to chatter, and he’s near enough that he angles himself between me and the draft from the open doors, his hand on my arm, rubbing it up and down.
It takes me back to the Worlds Beyond con, how I didn’t bring a jacket because I wanted Jake to offer me his.
“Listen,” he tells me. “Jake is not going to—”
“Why do you care so much, if something upsets me?” I bite out.I want to know,needto know all of a sudden, but I also really need to not hear the end of that sentence. Jake is not going to—what, ditch me, forget about me, ever be interested in dating me?
“Because,” Max says, visibly frustrated, shifting a little closer. The hand on my arm has stilled, holding me rather than warming me up, although the heat of his palm is searing, sending prickles all through my body. His jaw is clenched, his breathing heavy and shallow. Mine is, too. Has been for…I don’t know how long. “Because—”
I never get to hear the end of that sentence either.
I think I realize what’s happening the split second before it actually happens, because my chin ticks upward and I inhale his exhale sharply, lips parting, before his mouth crashes down on tomine.
My mind eddies, void of everything but the sensation of being kissed, of kissing, of the body against mine and the silk-soft hair between my fingers when I drag my hands up to anchor him closer. My nostrils fill with a sharp, clean scent like pine; the hand on my arm slips to settle between my shoulder blades and the other rests on my hip, the grip tight and trembling, just like my arms around his shoulders are.
I’ve kissed boys before. Three, to be exact. One at a party when I got a little tipsy—sloppy and only half remembered the day after; one behind the bike sheds at school when I was fourteen and we were supposed to be on litter-picking duty—not worth remembering; and one fleeting peck on the lips on a date when I was thirteen that might as well not really count.
I have never been kissed like this before. I have neverkissedlike this before.
I always assumed I would have to think so intently about every part of a kiss like this: how our lips fit together, careful not to knock teeth, hyperconscious of where I put my hands and where his are and if our noses are in the way and how to move my lips and to remember to breathe (do I always breathe this loudly and weirdly?)…And trying to figure out the right pressure, or if it’s appropriate to add tongue andwhento add tongue, and a million other things the movies never quite explain.
But this isn’t like that. At all.
It justhappens.
Max’s mouth is soft and urgent against mine, and when his teeth catch my lower lip ever so slightly I gasp, and test how he responds when I drag the tip of my tongue just a little overhislip.
I knot my fingers tighter in his hair, vaguely aware of the fact I’ve stumbled—stumbled,like my knees have actually, genuinely gone weak. The foot-pop moment inThe Princess Diariesis suddenly making total sense to me. The wall is now at my back, and I’m very content to be pressed between it and Max if it means thiskiss.
We break apart to catch our breath. His pupils are blown wide, his eyes as dark as his hair. I’ve messed up his bun, he’s all disheveled now, and his lips are full and bright and his cheeks are flushed and I wonder if I look like that, too. I bet I do.
I want to kiss him again.
“Cerys,” he murmurs, “I—”
I drag one of my hands through the silken waves of his hair, bringing it to settle against his shoulder, and that’s when I noticethem.
