Page 60 of The Breakup Artists

“What was that? Couldn’t hear you over the sound of that wave.”

I whip my head toward the ocean only to discover he’s right: a big wave is headed our way, and while it probably won’t knock us over, it’ll do a hell of a job getting us wet.

He stands his ground and I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for impact. But at the last second, he takes three steps backward, and while the wave misses us, the spray mists my feet.

Bentley chuckles and puts me down in dry sand.

I unwrap my arms from his neck and hit him right in the chest. “You are such an idiot.”

“Maybe... but I did get you to smile.”

“I definitely wasn’t smiling,” I reply, even though I suspect I was.

Amusement teases up the corners of his mouth. “Says the girl who just called herself honest two minutes ago.”

My eyes widen. “Wow. Now I want to hit you again.”

He steps closer and takes my hand in his, placing it on his chest. “Here, I’ll help you.”

I shake my head, but logic has become an ephemeral thing, no easier to grasp than a cloud. His heart beats a mile a minute under my fingertips, and mine speeds up to match it.

His clear blue eyes soften in a way I didn’t know they could. “You challenged me to kiss you the other day in my kitchen.”

“Correction: I challenged you to show me your game.”

“But I didn’t. You know why?”

I want to respond, but my thoughts are convoluted nonsense. I’m currently touching Bentley Cavendish’sverybeautiful chest, I’ve recently discovered he’s not the shallow idiot I thought he was, and my stomach is dipping in a way that makes my skin tingle.

“Because I’ve liked you since forever.” His voice is uncharacteristically quiet. “And I wanted our first kiss to be better than that.”

“Better?” I swallow, not moving an inch, not telling him to stop leaning closer. In fact, I think I’m the one who’s gravitating toward him.

“Better,” he repeats, tentatively reaching his hand out to rest on my hip. “I wanted you to know that when I kissed you, it mattered.”

I feel the heat of his palm through my dress, and his fingertips press lightly into my skin. “Prove it,” I say in almost a whisper, and the corners of his mouth pull up mischievously.

He glides his hand from my hip to the small of my back, gently pulling me into him, and when our bodies touch, I feel brighter, like I swallowed the fading sun and it filled me with its warmth. He pauses, our chests rising to meet one another with each breath and our lips slightly parted. His expression shifts ever so slightly to a question, as though he’s checking if this is okay. I nod almost imperceptibly, not only wanting him to kiss me but needing him to.

Some part of him must understand because he lets out a breath that feels like relief and his other hand moves to the base of my neck, gliding into my hair. His stomach tightens as he tips his head down, and when his lips angle toward mine, I press against them. He’s gentle with me, but as he teases my mouth open, my whole body goes pleasantly taut. I wind my hands into his hair and push up onto my tippy-toes, pressing closer even though there’s no space left between us. My enthusiasm pulls a sound from him, small and quiet, but the feeling of which rumbles through my body like the base of a stereo. And suddenly, I want this. I want the taste of his sun-drenched kisses and the strength of his hands on my back.

We stay like that a long time, learning each other and finding our rhythm. And when the sun disappears and we know it’s time to leave, I brush the tips of my fingers against his lips like I could take the essence of them home with me.

30

august

After Des passed, I camped out in her room for weeks with my sketch pad and paints. Her pillow smelled like her; there was a pile of clothes on her vanity chair from choosing an outfit the night before; and her journal lay closed on her bedside table like she had no concern whatsoever that her younger brother might read it. So I never did. It felt invasive, like at any moment she might walk through the door and be disappointed.

Those weeks I was quiet. I sketched and painted her over and over, went through her photo albums a thousand times, and cried until my face hurt. And when I felt that the weight of losing her might actually crush me, I closed the door, leaving behind my art supplies and some piece of my heart I knew I’d never recover.

“What are you two party animals up to tonight?” Des asked, popping into my bedroom and leaning on the door.

Tiny and I lounged on my bed in our pajamas, rationing out the last of our stash of Halloween candy.

Tiny held up a stack of DVDs. “Movie night.”

“Well then, I guess it’s a good thing I made this popcorn,” she said, pulling not one but two bags of movie theater extra butter from behind her back and tossing them to us. They were warm to the touch and smelled like salty goodness.