Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

MARA

He came back Saturday.

Not for tutoring. There was no session Saturday. He just texted at two in the afternoon — are you home — and I stared at it for longer than I should have before typing back yes and then immediately questioning every decision I'd ever made.

He showed up twenty minutes later with two coffees from the place on Clement Street and no textbook.

I opened the door and looked at the coffees. "No bio today?"

"No bio today." He held one out. "I remembered you take it with one sugar."

I took it. "You remembered that."

"I pay attention."

I stepped back to let him in. My mother was home, which I'd forgotten to factor in, and she appeared from the hallway with the expression she'd been wearing for three weeks now, the one that said she found this whole situation deeply entertaining and was heroically not saying so.

"Cole," she said warmly.

"Mrs. Delgado." He smiled at her, the easy one, the full version. I'd started to notice he gave that one to her without the usual hesitation.

"I'll be in my room," my mother said, looking at me with sparkling eyes. "Doing things very loudly so you know where I am."

"Mom."

"What? I'm just telling you my plans."

She disappeared. I looked at the ceiling briefly and then led Cole into the kitchen because it was the only room that felt neutral, that had the established logic of textbooks and tea and a reason for him to be here.

Except there were no textbooks. He set his coffee on the table and leaned against the counter instead of sitting, and looked at me with that direct look.

"Hi," he said.

"You already said hi."

"I'm saying it again."

I set my coffee down. "Cole. What are we doing."

"I told you last time."

"You told me you think about me."

"Still true."

"That's not a plan."

He tilted his head slightly. "Does it need to be one?"

"I like plans."

"I know you do." He pushed off the counter and took one step toward me, unhurried. "What kind of plan do you want?"

My heart was already doing the inconvenient thing. "Stop."

"Stop what?"

"Looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you know exactly what you're doing."

He stopped in front of me, close enough that I had to look up slightly. "I don't know exactly what I'm doing. I just know I wanted to see you and it wasn't Wednesday so I came anyway." He searched my face. "Is that okay?"

"It's okay," I said, quieter than I meant to.

"Yeah?" His voice dropped too.

"Yeah."

He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, slow, giving me every opportunity to step back. I didn't step back.

"Mara," he said.

"What."

"Stop thinking so hard."

"I can't help it."

"I know." His hand stayed at the side of my face, warm. "What's the worst thing that happens?"

"I like you too much and it goes wrong and I have to see you every day until graduation."

Something flickered in his eyes. "You like me too much?"

"Don't focus on that part."

"That's the best part." The corner of his mouth curved. "I like you too much too, for the record."

"Cole—"

"Stop." His thumb moved along my cheekbone, barely. "Just stop for one second. You don't have to figure out graduation right now."

"I figure things out. It's what I do."

"I know. Figure this out then." He leaned in slightly, forehead almost touching mine. "Tell me what you want."

The kitchen was very quiet. I could hear my mother's television through the wall, some afternoon show, the distant murmur of it. I could feel the warmth coming off him from this close, and his hand was still at my face, patient, waiting.

"This is a terrible idea," I said.

"Probably."

"We're going to make everything complicated."

"Already complicated."

"Cole."

"Mara." His nose brushed mine, the lightest thing. "Tell me to stop and I stop."

I didn't tell him to stop.

He kissed me softly, carefully, like he was asking a question. One hand at my jaw, the other finding my waist, and I grabbed the front of his shirt without deciding to and kissed him back and the careful part lasted about four seconds before it became something else entirely.

He pulled back just enough to look at me. His breathing had changed. So had mine.

"Okay?" he said.

"Very okay," I said.

He laughed quietly against my mouth and kissed me again, deeper this time, and I stopped thinking about graduation and scholarship applications and everything that could go wrong. His hand slid from my waist to the small of my back and I pulled him closer by the shirt and he made a low sound that did something serious to my ability to think clearly.

We broke apart when my mother's television got suddenly louder — a very deliberate volume increase — and I pressed my forehead to his shoulder and laughed, really laughed, and felt him shaking with it too.

"She did that on purpose," I said.

"One hundred percent." His arms were still around me, loose. He pressed a kiss to my temple. "I like her."

"She likes you too. It's very inconvenient."

He pulled back to look at me. His hair was slightly messed up. I had done that. That was information I was going to have to live with. "So what now?" he said.

I looked at him, at this boy in my kitchen on a Saturday with no textbook and two coffees and his hands still warm at my waist.

"Now," I said, "I drink my coffee before it gets cold."

"And after that?"

I reached up and fixed the collar of his shirt, straightening it carefully. "After that we figure it out."

He caught my hand at his collar and held it there. "Together?"

"Together," I said.

He smiled. The full version. And I decided that was worth every complicated thing coming next.