As I’m driving back to Lindsay’s, I think about something I learned years ago in science class, that even when birds have been separated from their flock they will still migrate instinctively. They know where to go without ever having been shown the way. Everyone was talking about how amazing that was, but now it doesn’t seem so strange. That’s how I feel right now: as though I am in the air, all alone, but somehow I know exactly what to do.
A few miles before Lindsay’s driveway, I pull out my phone and punch in Kent’s number. It occurs to me that he may have thought I was kidding earlier today. Maybe he won’t pick up when he doesn’t recognize the phone number, or maybe he’ll be so busy trying to keep people from puking on his parents’ Oriental carpets he won’t hear it. I count the rings, getting more and more nervous. One, two, three.
On the fourth ring there’s the sound of fumbling. Then Kent’s voice, warm and reassuring: “Hunky Heroes, rescuing distressed women, captive princesses, and girls without wheels since 1684. How can I help you?”
“How did you know it was me?” I say.
There’s a surge in the music and the swelling of voices. Then I hear Kent cup his hand over the phone and yell, “Out!” A door shuts and the background noise is suddenly muffled.
“Who else would it be?” he says, his voice sarcastic.
“Everyone else is here.” He readjusts something and his voice becomes louder. He must be pressing right up to the phone. The thought of his lips is distracting. “So what’s up?”
“I hope your car’s not blocked in,” I say. “Because I’m in desperate need of a ride.”
On the way back to Kent’s, we’re mostly quiet. He doesn’t ask me why I was standing in the middle of Lindsay’s driveway, and he doesn’t press the issue of why I’ve chosen him to be my ride. I’m grateful for that, and happy just to sit in silence next to him, watching the rain and the dark brushstrokes of the trees against the sky. As we turn into his driveway, which by this point is almost completely packed with cars, I’m trying to decide exactly what the rain dancing in the headlights looks like. Not glitter, exactly.
Kent puts the car in park but leaves the engine on. “I still haven’t forgotten that you promised me a secret, by the way.” He turns to look at me. “Don’t think you’re getting off so easy.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I unbuckle my seat belt and inch closer to him, still watching the rain out of the corner of my eye. Like dust, kind of, but only if dust were made of solid white light.
Kent folds his hands in his lap, staring at me expectantly, his mouth just curved into a smile. “So let’s hear it.”
I reach across Kent and pull the keys out of the ignition, cutting the lights. In the resulting darkness the sound of the rain seems much louder, washing all around us.
“Hey,” Kent says softly, his voice making my heart soar again, making my whole body light. “Now I can’t see you.”
His face and body are all shadow, darkness on darkness. I can just make out the lines of him, and, of course, feel the warmth from his skin. I lean forward, catching my chin on the roughness of his corduroy jacket, finding his ear, accidentally bumping it with my mouth. He inhales sharply and his whole body tenses. My heart is fluid, soaring. There’s no longer any space between heartbeats.
“The secret is,” I say, whispering right into his ear, “that yours was the best kiss I’ve ever had in my life.”
He pulls back a little so that he can look at me, but our lips are still just inches away. I can’t make out his expression in the dark, but I can tell that his eyes are searching my face again.
“But I’ve never kissed you,” he whispers back. Around us the rain sounds like falling glass. “Not since third grade, anyway.”
I smile, but I’m not sure if he can see it. “Better get started, then,” I say, “because I don’t have much time.”
He pauses for only a fraction of a second. Then he leans forward and presses his lips to mine, and the whole world powers off, the moon and the rain and the sky and the streets, and it’s just the two of us in the dark, alive, alive, alive.
I don’t know how long we’re kissing. It seems like hours, but somehow when he pulls away, breathing hard, both hands holding my face, the clock glowing dully on the dashboard has only inched forward a few minutes.
“Wow,” he says. I can feel his chest rising and falling quickly. We’re both out of breath. “What was that for?”
I force myself to pull away, find the handle in the dark and pop the door open. The cold air and the rain whooshes in, helping me think. I suck in a deep breath. “For the ride and everything.”
Even in the dark I can see his eyes sparkling like a cat’s. I can hardly bring myself to look away. “You really saved my life tonight,” I say, my little joke, and then before he can stop me, and even though he calls my name, I jump out of the car and jog along the driveway toward the house, for the very last party of my life.
“You made it!” Lindsay squeals when I find her in the back room. As always the music and heat and smoke is impassable, a wall of people, perfume, and sound. “I totally thought you would flake.”
“I knew you’d show,” Ally says, reaching out and squeezing one of my hands. She drops her voice, which at this volume means she screams a little quieter. “Did you see Rob?”
“I think he’s avoiding me,” I say, which is true. Thank God.