22. Kayla

Chapter 22

Kayla

We’re supposed to be getting ready for dinner with our parents and Hannah and Cameron, so obviously we’re naked in my bed. Ryan is sprawled out sideways, sweaty and spent, with his head in my lap. My fingers are doing a terrible job of smoothing his hair back down from where I’ve mussed it up, but Ryan’s hair has always been inclined to do what it wants.

Trapped in this liminal, post-orgasmic haze, we don’t talk, just lay there watching each other, hands creeping wherever they please. It’s already dark outside. Why would we get up? If we stay here, I won’t have to think about the end of the trip, or the end of us.

There was a time when I loved the annual New Year’s Eve fireworks display. We got to stay up extra late, strangers always gave us even more chocolate, and our grandmothers taught us to make wishes on the first explosion.

In recent years, the end of December is not much more than a crappy reminder we only have a few days left together. No amount of fireworks or chocolates could convince me there’s a better plan than staying in bed.

“I think we should keep talking. When I go home,” he says, spoiling the mood. My body tenses underneath him, and he reaches up to splay his hand across my heart. “You don’t agree? ”

We haven’t talked about our conversation the other night, but my thoughts haven’t stopped going round and round in circles. In the hundreds, if not thousands, of hours I’ve spent thinking of him when we’ve been apart, I’ve run every possible scenario.

He moves closer to me, or I move closer to him, or we both move somewhere else entirely. Every option leads to the same conclusion: one or both of us would be miserable. Sticking it out as friends is the least miserable option.

Being together and not being able to see him, touch him, fuck him, would absolutely suck. I’m not the sort of person who could do long distance. The mere thought of it makes me feel ill.

“I think it would be too painful,” I tell him quietly.

His eyebrows knit together, and his hand slides up to flex his fingers over my heart. “I won’t hurt you.”

“I know you won’t, but it already hurts, and we’re not a couple. So no, I don’t think it would be a good idea to keep talking.”

“Not even as friends? I don't want to live a life where you're not in it anymore.”

“You're only saying that because your hand is on my boob.”

His thumb rolls over my nipple while his other hand strokes up the inside of my thigh. It’s tempting to let him keep going, but this conversation has me feeling unsettled.

The more he pushes me on the subject of us, the more I want to push him away. And that’s not really what I want at all, I don’t see a way through. He shifts to hover over me, but I roll out from underneath his arms and head for the bathroom.

“Where are you going?” he whines, like he didn’t already get to come in my mouth fifteen minutes ago.

“We should get dressed. I’m not explaining this when my mum calls to ask why neither of us are at dinner. ”

Later, we stomp halfway up the pitch black slope behind our houses, to the special spot we always watch the fireworks from. Ryan and I sit back from our families, cold bottoms in the snow, our hands linked behind our backs.

Everyone knows, but nobody ever acknowledges us. They probably don’t know how to label it, and why would they? We make enough of a mess of it ourselves.

The display is as glorious as ever. Bright golds and shimmering silvers lighting up the sky above the valley. A chorus of oohs and ahhs come in all directions, and when I sneak glances in Ryan’s direction, his smile is wide and boyish. I rest my head on his shoulder and he wraps his arm around my back. Who cares if we have an audience?

“What did you wish for?” he asks when it’s all over.

“Same thing I wish for every year.”

“And it still hasn’t come true? You must have been a very naughty girl indeed.”

“Wishes aren’t like Santa, Ryan. It’s not something you can ask for. It’s something you hope will come true.”

“Fair enough,” he teases. “You were pretty naughty riding my face earlier, though.”

“ Shhh! ” I hiss, balling up a sneaky handful of snow in my other fist.

“You shush.”

Further down the hill, Hannah crouches beside Cameron, pretending to tie her shoelace. My lips pinch together and I hold Ryan close.

I’ve never known if the men simply forget, or if they let us have the win, but I wait for my mum’s signal and then it’s war. My fist flies up, fresh powder shoved deep into the collar of Ryan’s jacket. Mum’s snowball goes down the back of Dad’s trousers, and Cameron’s shriek is louder than anyone’s. It almost stops me in my tracks, but I’m up and bolting for the treeline before Ryan can get his revenge.

He’s quick, grabbing the tail end of my scarf to pull me backwards. I slip it over my head and keep going, leaving our families to battle it out behind us. I’m barely into the woods when I trip, and I squeeze my eyes shut, certain I’m about to eat dirt. When I open them, I’m hovering inches from the ground, the back of my jacket caught in Ryan’s fist.

He hauls me up and marches me over to a nearby trunk, spinning me to face him. His other hand is full of snow, primed and ready to attack.

“You’re getting spanked for that later.”

Heat floods south, and I dart my tongue out to lick his lips. “So you keep threatening, but I don’t see any handprints.”

He growls, and I remember how much a little bratty attitude turns him on. As if I could forget. If I’m going to pay for it, I’ll gladly be on my worst behaviour.

“Tell me what you wished for,” he says, holding the snow closer.

“Never!”

“Well, whatever it is, I hope you get it.”

Not once have I asked him what he wishes for. Partly because I always believed my grandma's warning that if you tell someone your wish, then it won’t come true. Mostly out of fear he wishes for something that has nothing to do with me.

I take the deepest breath I can before he smashes his snowball in my face, then I get my own back by gripping the front of his jacket and burying my frozen cheek against his neck. It’s the perfect mix of hot and cold, the scent of fresh snow mixing with the scent of his skin.

Then his tongue is in my mouth, my head tipped back against the tree trunk, his knee between my thighs.

If we never have another winter together, at least we had this.