Bright Before Sunrise (30 page)

“Admitting I know CPR seems like tempting the fates. Don’t get any ideas—I’ve no desire to prove it. And no to stitches; I nearly failed home econ, I wouldn’t trust me anywhere near a needle.” He erases the coded words on my palm, gently turning my hand to wipe the alcohol pad down along my wrist. My pulse drums beneath his fingers, tempo increasing as he slides his thumb across the fragile skin. He must feel it.

“How’d you get so good at this?” My voice is breathless, and I hope he knows I mean first aid, not making me flush, pant, and way too aware that his thighs are pressed against my knees as he plays doctor.

“I took a first-aid course. My dad had—well,
has
—a boat. Not that there was anywhere special to use it around here, but I bet he lives on it in Florida. He insisted I take first-aid training when I was younger. Bet he’s more worried about his new first mate’s ability to fill a bikini than handle a boat wreck.”

He settles my hand on my thigh and tears open a Band-Aid, ripping the actual bandage in half, scowling, and shoving it in his pocket.

A topic change is in order and a change in mental picture—I’m visualizing Jonah on a boat, shirt off … “Um, have you ever used the training? I mean, besides patching me up.”

“Yeah.” His voice quiets and his fingers still on the box of bandages. “Paul was holding Sophia a few weeks ago—and somehow she got a button off his shirt. I looked over
and she was turning blue. He hadn’t noticed. I had to grab her and … Those seconds when I was holding her facedown and thumping her back … I think
I
stopped breathing till she started to cough.”

“You saved her life.” My whisper matches his and is twisted with awe for this boy I can’t begin to understand.

He makes a noise that’s reluctant agreement. “And I’ve been a dick to Paul—even though he’s practically destroying himself with guilt about it. Tonight was the first time Mom talked him into going out since it happened. Sophia’s fine, but he … he’s even been sleeping in her room.” His eyes twitch from the bandage box to my face, then back to my hand. He sighs so heavily that I feel it on my palm. “Sometimes I’m such an idiot.”

“Oh, Jonah.” If my hand weren’t otherwise occupied, I’d curl my fingers around his. I don’t have any wisdom to give him either, so after he applies the second bandage and closes the box I offer a distraction. “Now we’ll play some more?”

“You’re done playing tonight. These are barely sticking.” He presses again on the adhesive striping the length of my palm. I fight the urge to close my fingers around his thumb.

“And I was just starting to get the hang of it. There go my dreams of turning pro.”

He laughs.

I love his laugh.

“Thank you for this. Being up there, it was …” He looks at me, raises my bandaged hand, and presses it to his mouth.

My eyes grow wide and my lips part to ask a question—any question. I almost do. But then that’s how this night
will end: with conversation. The choice is mine; the move is mine.

I make it. One deep breath and all questions are erased by the touch of my lips as I lean forward to press them against his.

37
 
 
Jonah
 
 
2:26 A.M.

I’d be lying if I said I had no expectations. I’ve imagined kissing her a hundred times tonight. In a hundred different places and positions. But in the instant she kisses me, I’m not thinking about anything but
her
. The way her eyes widened with admiration and the shape of her lips when she commented about saving Sophia’s life. The feel of the skin on her inner wrist and the size of her hand in mine. The thoughtfulness of bringing me here and her willingness to go back up that hill—despite her bandages and her remarkable inability to throw or catch.

And I want to teach her. Today, tomorrow, the next day. I want to teach her to catch a ball. I want to teach her how to punch guys like Digg, walk Never, and deal with stress in ways that don’t end with bandages.

But right now, mostly I want to learn what she tastes like.

Press her back against the hood. Slide my hands up the backs of her legs. White cotton underwear. More!

Thoughts pulse against my brain as my mouth explores
hers. But not her, not Brighton Waterford. I won’t. But, God, if she makes that little noise in the back of her throat again … And her legs. Does she know she’s let them slide down on either side of mine?

One foot wraps around the back of my leg and draws me closer; she knows.

My body wants to rush the moment, to find out what’s next, but I won’t let it. With Carly, kissing was like stretching before a game. It was important, but it wasn’t our final destination. With Brighton … well, I don’t want to be thinking about Carly.

Her lips against my lips. My world shrinks to the sensation of our mouths coming together and apart. The glide of her tongue across mine, the tug and give of her mouth. I feel drugged, hypnotized. Greedy. My legs halve the inches between us, and my mouth seeks more access.

Bright shifts away and I freeze. Is this the part where she changes her mind? Realizes she could and should do much better?

She removes her arms from my neck, and I hold my breath. She slides down from the hood of my car so she’s pressed between the bumper and my body. My hands are on her shoulders, shivering with the desire to be in her hair. I need to know if she wants them off her and in my pockets.

Step backward
, my mind orders my reluctant legs. I do, with movements awkward and uncoordinated and eyes that won’t look higher than her flip-flopped, bandaged feet.

They step forward. Her hands circle around to press against my back. She waits for me to look at her—her eyes feverish and uncertain—then her lips brush feather-light
across mine. My mouth opens in a groan. She tilts her head. Her mouth and my mouth are reunited. And I’m learning her as she learns me.

Not until she pulls back and buries her face in my shirt do I remember she’s fragile; I was going to treat her gently. But maybe she isn’t after all. Maybe she’s stronger than me.

I rub her back with one hand and lower my face to where my fingers are tangled in her hair. She smells like rain and something clean and innocent—like lemons and daisies. I know I should say something, but I’m too calm, too excited, too baffled to form any thoughts but
Hold still. Stay
.

I feel her mouth move against my shirt more than I hear her speak.

“What?” I smooth my hand through her tangles, reaching down to tip her chin up.

Her face is flushed, her lips swollen, and her eyes flicker over me, around the air. She sighs. I watch her hand curl in, nails hitting Band-Aids. She frowns and presses her palm flat against her leg. I fight the urge to crush her back against me and smother her words about
this
in my shirt; against my lips. Or buckle her in the passenger seat and drive away, leaving all consequences in the parking lot.

Her unbandaged hand reaches up to barely, barely touch my face. I lean my cheek into her palm, shutting my eyes for an instant to savor the sensation, then open them to watch her and worry about her silence.

One half of Brighton’s mouth quirks with mischief. “It’s only fair to warn me: Are you noisy and smelly too?”

38
 
 
Brighton
 
 
2:31 A.M.

I’d really said:
That was nice
.

Those were the words trapped in the weave of his shirt. As soon as the sentence crosses my lips, which still tingle and taste of him, I realize how wrong it is. I try to breathe and erase the tangle of emotions from my face.

When he steps away and asks, “What?” my heart lurches with fear he’s heard and is offended. Then comes the panic of finding something else to say. I reject all adjectives. How can I describe something that makes me feel like I floated out of myself while simultaneously making me more aware of my body than I’ve ever been?

His skin
feels
different than mine. I hadn’t considered that skin can be masculine, but his is. I want to trace the lines of all his bones beneath the covering of stubble and calluses and textures.

No. I need to speak.

We need to talk and say what that was. The Band-Aids on my hand interfere with my attempt to make a fist.

Jonah’s leaning away, shutting his eyes and shutting me out. The moment is dying.

I blurt out the first words that hit my tongue. “It’s only fair to warn me: Are you noisy and smelly too?”

His laugh rebounds off the empty pavement and the walls of the school. It settles in my stomach and calms the knives of panic while curling into a different type of flame.

“Sometimes.”

He slides his hand across my palm; fingertips on skin, Band-Aids, skin. Fingertips on fingertips, feeling like they might glow from the intense sensation. My laughter dies in a choked gasp.

“I really said,
that was nice
.” I won’t lie to him. Not now.

My fingertips slide from his, and my other hand drifts from his shoulder to my side. I look up at him through my lashes. His eyes are dark, searching, full of something I don’t understand and don’t know how to react to.

“Nice?” he echoes.

I’m hollow. Cold. Like he’s already interpreted this as an insult and walked away—taking with him all of the emotion of the night and all the warmth from the air.

“No.” He shakes his head. “No.”

I feel every slightly damp spot on my dress. I’m hyper-aware of the sweat on my lower back and palms—it’s turned glacial. I’m shivering. On my way to shaking.

And then—heat!

Jonah’s hands on my arms. Burning. Urgent.

“Nice isn’t good enough.” He leans closer, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “I think we owe it to ourselves to do better than
nice
.”

I smile against his lips—more than willing to be convinced. When his mouth leaves mine to explore my neck, I whisper in his ear, “
Really
nice …”

His fingers lace through my hair.

“
Super
nice …”

His teeth drag lightly against the skin behind my ear.

“
Really, super
nice.”