my family, I lead Tucker outside to where he’s parked on the street.
I lean against the tailgate of his truck with my arms crossed. “Thanks for the pound cake?” It comes out more like a question.
“Are you sure about that?” He laughs, and then swallows. “You were pretty incredible last night.”
“Thanks for the nudge,” I say, feeling suddenly shy as I remember his lips on my neck.
He steps toward me and pushes the toe of his boot between my two feet. “I guess I’m a really, really efficient nudger.”
Overhead, the streetlights flicker to life. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears. I’ve spent the last few weeks explaining away every little touch or sign, but there’s only one explanation left.
Tucker snakes an arm around my waist and presses his hand flat against my back, pulling me to him.
I let out a short gasp, and run the tip of my fingers along the line of his jaw, something I’ve wanted to do for a very long time, I think. His lower lip is full and tempting.
“I need to talk to you,” he says, and his voice is husky.
“I don’t feel like talking right now.” I kiss him, my lips parted, before he can say another word. Whatever he needs to say can wait. His hand against my back is unmoving as our bodies press so close together we could melt into one. My hands race up and down his arms as his tongue deepens our kiss. Nothing about this first kiss is gentle or patient.
I open my eyes for only a second, but it’s long enough to see one of Grammy’s curtains shift, and I’m quickly reminded that we’re standing in the middle of a street making out like we’re starved for it.
I tilt my head back so that I’m barely out of his reach, and he leans forward still searching for me. It takes his body a moment to catch up, his lips still nipping at the air between us. It’s maybe the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say breathlessly. “Sunday best.”
He nods, finally taking a step back.
I feel all the blood rushing back to my brain and away from my pants.
“Monday morning,” he says from the driver’s side of his truck. “Sunday best.”
Twenty-Seven
I find Hannah pacing the backstage of the auditorium on Monday morning. She’s wearing black jeans, combat boots, a white button-up shirt, and a WORLD’S #1 DAD tie.
The minute she sees me, she says, “I’m kind of freaking out. Like, to the point I’m wondering if I should lie and say my ’lita died to get out of this.”
“Excuse me?” I ask. “The ever-cool-as-a-cucumber Hannah Perez is fuh-reaking out?”
“Maybe not the time to rub it in, okay?”
I shake my head. “You’re right. Sorry.” I’m still completely buzzing from my mini make-out session with Tucker—who, by the way, I haven’t seen all morning, but who I did text with until I fell asleep. “What’s got you so nervous?”
“I don’t—” She shakes her head furiously. “I don’t know. I feel like I have gnats in my stomach.”
“You mean butterflies?” I ask.
She shrugs and slumps against an empty prop table. “That’s a little less gross, I guess.”
“You’ll be fine,” I say.
“Prom court!” calls Mrs. Leonard. “We’re on in one minute!”
“Shit, shit, shit, shit,” Hannah mutters.
I’ve never seen her so panicked, which is, by extension, making me feel panicked. I didn’t realize that Hannah’s indifference to everything had this calming effect. She can’t lose it, because if she does, we both will. “You did that whole pageant a couple years ago, and you were fine then,” I say as casually as I can even though I can feel sweat gathering in places where I don’t want sweat to gather.
“But this is different,” she whines as she paces in a circle.
“How is this different? It’s a bunch of people competing for something that doesn’t actually matter and being judged by standards that don’t mean anything in the real world.”
“I didn’t care about that,” she blurts.
“But you care about this?” I ask.
She stands up and begins to pace again. “Think about it. What an epic way to end my time in this hole of a place. Prom king. Dancing with the girl I love—”
“Love?” I knew they were serious, but love is such a big, permanent word.
Hannah nods.
“Does Clementine know that?”
“No, but she will.” She begins to chew on her cuticles, and I pull her hand away.
“I want to tell her,” she continues, “on the dance floor.