bench-press her,” I tell Hannah. “He totally looks like the type of guy to do that. She’s like, ‘Stop being obnoxious,’ but he’s like, ‘I totally can!’ I mean, why else is he putting his hands up like that?”
“Maybe.” Hannah smiles politely at me, and then looks back at the crowd.
My smile fades. This is one thing I’m trying not to focus on. Hannah is great. She’s wonderful. But she’s not Jamie.
I clock out of my shift at five and pull out my phone. I click over to Jamie’s page. I scroll down past the photo of the poster at the temple, and the handful of photos from our Jordan Rossum meet-up. I look at the one with us and Rossum. Then the selfie with just Jamie and me. And the next one. Where I’m grinning into the camera like meeting Jordan is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
I stare at my expression.
Suddenly—it all hits me at once. Like my life is a movie, flashing by at warp speed. Jamie and me in his car. The gift bag of Goldfish. Chocolate cake at Intermezzo. Sitting in the patio section together. Curled on his couch. The way my head fits so perfectly in the crook of his neck. How I get shy when he looks at me just so. The way he holds my worries and fears and happiness, and cradles them as though they are his own. And—I look down at the photo—the way he makes me happier than anyone I’ve ever known. Suddenly I miss Jamie so much I physically ache. I’m not heart eyes for Rossum. That goofy, lovesick grin isn’t about him. It’s about the boy I’m looking at. The one taking the picture.
I don’t just want to kiss Jamie.
I’m in love with him.
My body bursts with adrenaline.
I need to see him.
Right now.
The last photo he posted is from this morning. A table with “I voted” peach stickers fanned out on a desk, with the caption: Today’s the day! Get out the vote! Unplugging and unwinding now. Fingers crossed for good news tonight.
Unplug. Unwind.
I know exactly where he is.
I park my car in the Target parking lot and hurry inside. Past the Starbucks and video game consoles, past the magazine racks and shelves of DVDs. I swing by the clearance outfits. And there it is. The patio section.
And there’s Jamie.
He’s sitting in the wicker egg-shaped seat, thumbing through a magazine.
Suddenly, my confidence wavers, thinking of how we left things. How he yanked his hand from me. What if the things we said to each other are things we can’t move on from? He said he loved me.
But what if he doesn’t anymore?
Just then, he glances up—he sees me. His eyes widen.
“Maya,” he says.
Don’t think. Just go.
“Jamie.” I hurry over to him. I sit down next to him. Our knees brush against each other.
“I’m so sorry, Jamie. For what I said . . . the things—”
“No,” he says in a rush. “I’m sorry. I should never have spoken that way. I was insensitive and off base. But I get it now. Your parents have their view on how this should go. And if you share their view, that’s fine. More than fine. I know your religion and faith are important to you. I get that.” He looks at me. His green eyes meet mine. “If we can’t date, we can’t. I respect that. But I don’t want to lose you, Maya. That’s what matters most to me. And I just—”
But I don’t let him finish. I don’t let him say another word.
I lean forward and kiss him.
He startles, and then he wraps his arms around me and kisses me back.
His lips are gentle and warm.
He is mint and lemons.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Jamie
Oh. Dear. God.
Maya just kissed me. I mean, she’s kissing me. Present tense. My first kiss is happening right here, right now, in Target, of all places, which, okay, feels weirdly appropriate. Maya’s hands cup my cheeks, and her lips taste like vanilla ChapStick.
My brain exits the station completely. I can barely breathe, my head’s so foggy.
We move tentatively at first, but then we sort of find our rhythm. Her lips make space, and I fill it. I was so sure I’d be hopeless. I’ve never gotten anything right the first time. Not anything. Not ever. But somehow, this clicks. My lips just know how this works. At least with Maya, they know.
Pretty sure we were born for this. Pretty sure kissing didn’t exist until we tried