weekend of meetings and skiing. Hamlet, after promising to hang out with us on the last night, instead hooked up with an ambassador’s daughter, leaving Horatio and me to our own devices. Sore from a day on the slopes and too tired to bother getting dressed up for a fancy dinner or a wild party, we decided to kick around at the lodge—a spectacular, two-centuries-old wooden structure with a great room full of books and mounted animal heads.
Horatio and I sat in front of the roaring fire chatting about one of our favorite subjects: Hamlet’s playboy status. The conversation morphed into a half-kidding discussion of how much easier it would be if Horatio and I were a couple. We decided that we would have to kiss and see what we thought of it. We both admitted to not having feelings for each other but thought the benefits of the experiment would be twofold: (1) we could each say we had kissed someone on vacation, and (2) once we were lip-locked, attraction might spring up—a convenient outcome, we agreed, given how often Hamlet left us alone together anyway.
And so we sat knee to knee on the burgundy velvet love seat, trying not to crack up. “You first,” I said, which was stupid because a kiss kinda takes two to accomplish. It made him laugh, so that when he leaned forward our teeth knocked, sending both of us backward in hysterics.
“Okay, okay, be serious,” he said after a minute, and took me by the shoulders. “We can do this.” He leaned in. I felt the warm dampness of his lips and then he pulled away. We looked at each other and considered the kiss—a reaction that proved there wouldn’t be another. All I could think was that it had been no more exciting than kissing my brother. Which, let me be clear, meant not at all.
“I, uh…” he began, and I could tell he was afraid to hurt my feelings. “I didn’t, um…”
“Me neither,” I interrupted, and the tension left his face. “You’re a good kisser, though, Horatio.”
He settled sideways into the oversize sofa cushions. “Yeah?”
“Where do you learn moves like that?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Martha Kensington.”
The Elsinore Academy junior was the worst combination: ugly, bossy, and mean, but she was part of the popular crowd. “Gross,” I said. “Do not tell me my lips just touched lips that have touched Martha’s.”
He smiled. “She critiqued me the whole time, but it did make me a better kisser.”
“Ew,” I said, and then pretended to be the hair-flipping, sour-faced Martha, telling him where to better place his hands, when to move his tongue, and how to tilt his head just so. This sent us into an uncontrollable fit of giggles that Hamlet walked in on.
“What’s so funny?” he asked, pulling off his sweater before sitting in front of the fireplace.
Horatio opened his mouth to explain, and I shook my head.
“What?” Hamlet asked, getting a little offended.
I locked eyes with Horatio, then said, “Fine,” and turned to Hamlet. “We were doing an experiment.”
“What kind?” Hamlet asked.
I squinted at him. “We kissed,” I said lightly.
“Reeeally.” He looked from one of us to the other. “And?”
“And,” Horatio jumped in, “turns out we’re both good kissers, but we have no future together.”
“I’m a good kisser?” I asked, and Horatio nodded.
“Cool,” said Hamlet, “my turn.” He got on his knees and leaned toward me.
I lifted my eyebrows and put up a hand. “You can experiment on Horatio but not me.”
“Why not?” he asked, puffing himself up.
I climbed over the side of the love seat and headed for the door. “Because it’s late and I don’t want to kiss you. Good night, boys.”
Horatio called out his good-bye, but Hamlet gave chase up the dimly lit, dark wood lodge steps. “Why don’t you want to kiss me?” he asked.
“It’d be weird,” I said, taking the stairs two at a time. The suite my parents and I were sharing was the first floor up from the great room, so I was on the landing quickly.
“And it wasn’t weird with Horatio?” he asked, still following me.
“It was,” I said, stopping at my room, nearly catching my long hair on the antlers hanging from the door.
“So?”
“So nothing. I don’t want to.” The truth was I did, and that was what had me worried. I’d always been more than a little curious, and every once in a while, when I thought of Hamlet, it wasn’t just as friends. I had pangs of jealousy when he