throes of passion, so it totally didn’t hurt.
Except it kind of hurt. I mean, it was right on my funny bone. All five times. I think I’m going to have a bruise there now.
Also, my mouth is like really drying out, but Tristan is still going at it. Kissing me like the world is ending and our lip-lock is the key to humanity’s salvation. Does Tristan have any saliva left? How is that even biologically possible? My saliva glands are running on hyperdrive over here trying to keep up.
And what exactly are you supposed to do with your hands when you’re making out with someone for this long?
I already did the hair muss, the shirt grab, the lower back push, the face cup. All the things you see girls do in the movies, but now I’ve run out of moves. What should I do? Put them in my pockets?
No, that would be really weird. And awkward. I don’t even have pockets.
I bet that new girl Sophia would know what to do with her hands. She’s from Los Angeles. They probably teach make-out session hand placement in school. It’s probably an elective. And she probably aced it.
Stop.
Stop thinking about Sophia.
Tristan is here with you. Not her.
But that’s really only because I practically dangled this in front of him like a carrot in front of a cart-pulling donkey. Would he have come with me if I hadn’t offered a clandestine make-out session? If I hadn’t been wearing the shortest skirt I’ve ever put on in my life? If my legs weren’t covered in fishnet stockings?
What would he have done if I’d just asked him to come with me?
Would he have chosen to stay in the cafeteria with the new girl and make more lame jokes about his sugar intake?
The bell rings and I feel a glimmer of relief. My chin was starting to get raw from Tristan’s face stubble. I pull away and stare at my boyfriend. My beautiful, sexy, rock star boyfriend. His eyes are still closed. His touchable dark blond hair is even messier than it usually is.
“Wow.” He breathes the word more than speaks it.
“Yeah,” I agree. “Wow.”
That’s the word I was looking for!
Duh.
“Well,” I say, straightening my top. “I should probably get to the gym. You know, big speech and all.”
I reach for the door handle, but Tristan’s hands are on my waist, pulling me back to him. “Wait. Don’t go. Stay a little longer.”
A little longer?
How much longer can two people be expected to kiss?
It’s not that I don’t like it. I do. I really, really do. Tristan is so incredibly sexy, but, you know, I have my speech to think about.
I disentangle his arms from my waist. “No, no,” I say, trying to keep my voice light and playful. “I have things to do. People to impress. Elections to win.”
I lunge for the door before he has a chance to pull me back again. The blast of fresh air is startling. Did we use up all the oxygen in this tiny cubicle?
I step out and head for the stairs that lead to the main floor of the library. I’m halfway down when I hear my name.
“Ellie!”
My body tenses. Is Tristan seriously trying to lure me back inside the oxygenless make-out lair again? But then I realize the voice is coming from in front of me, not behind me.
I look down and see Owen standing at the foot of the stairs, beaming. I skip down the last few steps to greet him. “How was book club?” I ask.
“I would tell you, but I have a feeling you already know.”
“Death. Narrator. Movie. Yadda yadda yadda.”
He smirks. “How’s the new look working out for you?”
Just then, Tristan appears at the top of the stairs. Owen glances back and forth between us, most likely noticing Tristan’s disheveled hair and clothes, and my certain lack of lipstick. “Ah,” he says, putting the pieces together. “I guess pretty well, then.”
Tristan trots down to us, wrapping his arm around me. “Hey, Reitzman.” He nods to Owen.
Why is it that guys always have to call each other by their last names?
“Wheeler,” Owen responds in kind, but his voice sounds weird. It’s all deep and scratchy, like he’s trying to disguise it. He turns to me. “I’ll see you in the gym.”
“That’s where we’re heading,” I say. “Walk with us.”
Something indecipherable flashes across Owen’s face. It reminds me of the look he got in the sixth grade when Jacob Hurtzlinger hit him smack in the