I lean close enough that every inhale bombards my senses with the scent of her hair. “You like it, don’t you?”
“What?” her voice is a whisper.
“Kissing me,” I say, dipping close enough to brush the tip of my nose across her cheek.
“I hate you,” she breathes, but she’s almost there, her eyelids nearly dropping. “I pity you.”
“Yes.” I run my palm down the hot length of her neck, feeling the crazy flutter of her pulse, and then down her collarbone, over the side of her breast, until I rest it on her waist. Her nipples peak, confirming that at the very least, her body doesn’t hate me. Not in the least. “You do hate me. Maybe even you even pity me. But you want something else.” My mouth hovers on the precipice of meeting hers, not kissing her but close enough that it’d take almost no effort at all, just a small push, to take it if she wants. The air gets thicker and thicker with the energy between us, our breaths coming faster, louder. Her eyes flick down to my mouth. That’s not what really seals it, though. I know I win when her hips shift under my grip in a squirm that she tries—and utterly fails—to suppress.
Gwendolyn Adams wants more than a kiss from me.
So much more.
I brush my lips against hers then—gentle at first, little more than a whisper—and then pressing forward harder, coaxing her lips to part for me. I can taste the tremor that runs down her spine, the soft sound she makes, just as clearly as I can the mint on her tongue. I deepen the kiss, licking into her mouth, but as soon as it retreats, her teeth close on my bottom lip in a shock of sting and bitterness. I jerk back with a wounded sound that I won’t admit to making tomorrow, but I’m greeted only with her roguish smirk. Her fingers wind themselves into my hair and, for a long moment, we just stare at one another.
Enemies. Opposites. Forbidden.
This is wrong, so wrong. But every nerve in my body is sparking and pushing, begging me to go in for another kiss, an impulse so strong that I can barely hide how I’m shaking with the liquid hot need for it. One thing is decidedly clear.
I can’t stop.
I don’t want to stop.
Which is exactly why I jolt away from Gwendolyn and shove her roughly aside. Praying that no one sees me exiting the room, I flee, and don’t look back. I don’t dare, because if I do, there’s no telling what will happen.
9
Gwen
Usually, going home is a bit of a respite. I can take off the mask and just be Gwen for a day. That’s a big part of the reason why I don’t do it as often as I could.
Taking the mask off is difficult, sure. There’s always a period where I feel more shut down than I should, like I’m just waking up and still trying to adjust my eyes. Sometimes, I feel my family’s awareness of it, their furtive looks when a joke whizzes by me, or my dragging smile, lagging just a bit behind where it should be. It doesn’t take long, not with Michaela’s hugs, or Brayden’s playful teasing, or the way my mom runs her fingers through the length of my hair. It just slides off like a muck.
But putting the mask back on after a day of feeling comfortable in my own skin—slipping into my carefully controlled state of nothingness—is almost torture.
It’s Sunday and I’d agreed to come home for the day. From the instant I walk in the door, giving Michaela a hug, hip checking Brayden by the refrigerator, and fielding a dozen questions by my mother, what happened the night before looms heavily at the forefront of my mind. Those stiff moments between my state of nothingness and getting back into my own skin are filled with a muted panic that, when the mask comes off, they’ll be able to tell. Do I look like a girl who’s kissed Hamilton Bates, my sworn enemy, twice?
More than once I’ve stopped in front of a reflective surface, searching for the answer. I don’t look any different, and I don’t know how. How can the utter tangle of my insides not be visible in any way? It doesn’t seem right.
Mail from colleges all over the country waits for me on the table by the front door. A new pair of shoes sits next to them, the result of a sale that Debbie couldn’t pass up. Fried chicken crackles in a frying pan in the kitchen—my favorite dinner—one my mother is trying to painstakingly recreate since Debbie’s visiting her own kids today.
Everything is just horrifically normal.
I always feel wistful and guilty when the family goes all out for me like this. It’s not uncommon for me to feel antsy to get out of here, but tonight seems worse than normal. I don’t discount the weird week I’ve had to be part of the reason.
“Gwen, Gwen.” Michaela taps my arm to get my attention. “After dinner, you should come see my new bedspread, okay?”
I raise an eyebrow at my younger sister. “A new bedspread, huh?”
“Yep.” She gives me a sly grin. “It’s purple with white checks. Mama let me pick it out.”
For a moment, I’m achingly grateful that Michaela’s whole ‘reverse psychology’ schtick is so artless and obvious. The second she’s refined it into something effective, we’re all doomed.
I meet her cunning smile with my own. “Can’t wait.”
What Michaela doesn’t get is that I’m already planning to leave for college next year. That room is already as good as hers.
“We’re home,” Dad calls from the entry by the garage. Micha walks in first, dance bag over his shoulder, the sparkly cape tied around his neck fluttering in his wake.