Make the Fireflies Dance, page 7
He shuts the door, and I smile inwardly as he crosses to his own side. It’s not only me; he was absolutely affected by that moment. He’s cute when he’s flustered.
“What now?” I ask once he’s buckled in. I’m afraid things will get weird between us now, and I don’t want that to happen. If we jump right into the next thing without dwelling on this, we’ll be fine.
“Um…” He twists in his seat and backs out of our spot. “This was all I had planned.”
Inside, the excitement that’s started to build deflates. I try not to show my disappointment, but I can feel it taking over my features. I’m not ready for this night to end.
“But”—hope blooms back in my chest at his word—“maybe we could… you wanna go get some ice cream?”
“Yes,” I say immediately. “Ice cream. I approve.”
chapter Eleven
“ANY PREFERENCES?” KENYON ASKS AS HE PULLS UP TO A red light at the edge of the parking lot.
I shake my head. “Nope. Any ice cream is good in my book.”
The light changes, and he eases the Jeep onto the road, heading east. “You good on time?”
“Totally fine.” I didn’t tell Dad when I’d be home, but as far as he’s concerned, I’m out with my friends. He won’t expect me back anytime soon.
“Okay, great.” He switches lanes, twisting in his seat to check behind us as he does. “Donovan took me to this amazing place last month out in Carolina Beach. I can’t remember the name. Sweet—Sweet… something.”
“Sweet Aggie’s,” I say softly, a lifetime of memories rushing over me.
“Yes!” Kenyon drums a little victory cadence out on the steering wheel. “You know the place, then. Isn’t it great?”
“I used to go with my mom,” I say, the memory bittersweet. It was her favorite ice cream, and Mom didn’t care how far away it was, so we drove down there whenever either of us wanted a cone, even though there were a half dozen closer scoop shops along the way. Sometimes we’d bring Clark and Dad with us, but it was mostly our thing. Just us girls.
“Used to?” Kenyon asks, and I startle with the realization that he doesn’t know about my mom. Why would he? He’s not from Wilmington, and he didn’t go to school here when it happened. And it’s not like I advertise about her accident.
“Yeah.” It takes me a couple breaths to detach myself enough to talk about it without crying, but when I feel like I can, I say, “She died four years ago.” Four years next week, actually.
“I’m sorry, Quin.”
I shrug. “Thanks, but it was a long time ago.”
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Try to dismiss something that’s obviously important to you?”
I look out the window so he can’t see my face. My mom’s death has been this heavy weight on me for the past four years, and I hate to bring people down with my own sadness. It has been a long time, but sometimes it feels like it happened yesterday, the pain is still so raw. And it’s not that I’m dismissing what happened—I could never do that—but it’s easier to deflect than to face my own emotions.
I wipe a stray tear from my eyelashes before it has a chance to escape, and I say, “My mom was Desiree Hunt.”
It takes a moment for my words to register, but it’s clear when they do. Kenyon’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and he glances at me for a second before returning his attention to the road. “Like, the Desiree Hunt?”
My mom wasn’t the biggest movie star, but she was a working actor since she was in her late teens. Her death was national news; of course he’d heard about it. I bite the inside of my cheek, hard, and inhale long and slow through my nose. I will not cry on this date.
“Yeah,” I say, vocalizing the nod he didn’t see. “So you know what happened.”
Kenyon makes a small grunt of acknowledgment as we cross the bridge over the ICW and enter Carolina Beach. Already, my chest is bubbling with a strange mix of anticipation and dread.
“What was she like?” Kenyon asks, clearing his throat. “I mean, if you want to talk about her.”
“You know,” I say to the window, “she was a great actor. Her range was incredible. People always said that if she really put herself into her work, she could be the next—”
“That’s not what I mean,” Kenyon interrupts. “I can read her IMDb page if I want to know that stuff.”
I pull in a sharp breath and hold it until I’m reasonably sure I’m able to control my emotions. Turning in my seat, I watch Kenyon as he pulls to the curb a block from the ice cream shop. He cuts the engine then unbuckles his seatbelt and turns to face me, his expression unguarded, making it clear that not only is he willing to talk about my mom, but he wants to hear about her.
“My mom was my best friend,” I start, hesitant at first, but it’s as if saying the words aloud shifts something in me. I’m not sad to talk about her. Instead, I’m filled with this incredible warmth at the idea of sharing the best parts of my mother with someone who wants to know about Mom, not just Desiree Hunt, the movie star.
“She was goofy and unpredictable. Sometimes she’d wake me in the middle of the night to make cookies and watch old movies together.” Tears push at the back of my eyes, and I don’t bother trying to stop them. Not anymore. “She loved Lucille Ball almost as much as Nana and I do. She made me and my brother special pancakes every year for our birthdays, but other than that, she couldn’t cook to save her life. My mom burned more dinners than I can even count.”
Suddenly, I’m laughing, remembering all the times Mom tried to surprise Dad by making dinner while he was teaching. She was hopeless in the kitchen; even when we made our middle-of-the-night cookies, I was the one in charge of getting them out of the oven before they burned. She always had good intentions, but she never quite got down the follow-through part of cooking. She’d put dinner on the stove, and the next thing you’d know, she’d be at the table pouring over a script, pen in her mouth and a highlighter stuck securely in her messy bun—all while pots boiled over and the smoke detector blared.
“When she went to work, she was Desiree Hunt, but as soon as she walked through our front door, she was simply Mom. We played Farkle a lot. She liked to eat edamame with parmesan cheese while we watched movies. And no matter how busy she was or how badly she needed to study her lines, whenever I needed her, she’d drop everything and take me to Sweet Aggie’s for ice cream and girl talk.” I swallow against the hard lump that’s forming in my throat. “Tomorrow’s the four-year anniversary of the accident,” I whisper.
He doesn’t respond, instead sitting in silence as the weight of my words settles around us. I’m grateful for his stillness. It’s exactly what I need. Maybe I should feel weird about dumping that much information on Kenyon, but I don’t. Instead, I feel lighter than I have in a long time.
Finally, Kenyon says, “My dad’s in Afghanistan.” His voice is so quiet I almost don’t hear him.
It takes me a moment to shift gears. “Military?” I ask.
He nods, and I can see his Adam’s apple bob with a slow swallow. “He got deployed right after school started. That’s why I moved here, to stay with my mom and stepdad.”
“I didn’t know that,” I say, unsure how else to respond.
“It’s not even like he’s in real danger, you know? He’s in a relatively safe area, and he’s well protected. But still”—he shrugs—“it scares me. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost my dad.”
Silence falls over the Jeep. I don’t know how to respond to his revelation, so I say nothing. It seems to be the right choice. Maybe, like me, he doesn’t need a response. He needs someone to listen.
“Okay, enough of that,” he says suddenly, and he flashes a quick smile. My stomach dips and flips. “I’m ready for some mint chip.”
After we get our ice cream, we walk to the beach rather than stay at Sweet Aggie’s. It’s a beautiful evening—warm, with a light breeze coming off the ocean keeping the air fresh. The sun has already set behind us, and as we walk toward the ocean, the last lingering glimmers of twilight play across the surface of the waves. After a couple minutes, we step off the paved street and into soft sand.
We walk in silence, and I let the evening play back in my head. When I got to the restaurant, my only goal was to make it to the end of the night. Get through this date; find out if Kenyon was my mystery kisser. That’s all. I didn’t expect to have as much fun as I’m having. This has been one of the best nights I’ve had in a long time, and I’m surprised by how much I’ve enjoyed spending it with Kenyon.
His hand brushes across the back of my own, and my heart leaps into my throat. It was so subtle, so soft, that I can’t tell if it was intentional or not. I glance at him to see if he’s giving any indication, but his gaze is focused on the beach ahead of us. I watch as he takes a bite from his waffle cone. A piece breaks off and sticks to the light stubble on his chin. Without a thought, I reach up and brush it away.
Kenyon startles when I touch him, turning to face me with surprise in his eyes. And, holy cow, I didn’t notice how close together we were walking until this very moment. His gaze burns into me, and my finger still lingers on his face.
Why is my finger still on his face?
I jerk my whole hand back, wrapping my fingers tightly around the paper cup that holds my ice cream.
“Sorry,” I say, “there was—you had a bit of cone…”
Kenyon’s mouth quirks into a half-smile. “Well, thanks then.”
Turning from him, I focus on my ice cream and finally ask, “How long is your dad, um, deployed for?”
He’s silent for a beat, and I start to wonder if the topic’s closed for the night. I get it. As much as I love and miss my mom, I don’t always want to talk about her. It was nice tonight, though, telling Kenyon about her, and I hoped I could give him the same opportunity. But maybe that was the wrong thing to ask.
Finally, he sighs and says, “I don’t really know. They said a year, but I don’t trust the timeline they give.”
“Has he gone before?”
“Yeah.” He takes another bite of his cone, and I follow suit, scooping the last spoonful of my ice cream from my cup. “He went out twice when I was little. I wasn’t old enough to remember the first time, but the second felt like he was gone forever. They told him he wouldn’t deploy again after the last time, but…”
“They made him go anyway?”
“Yeah.” His voice is so soft now that I find myself leaning closer to him, trying to catch his words before they’re snatched away by the ocean breeze. “You’re never really done. So long as you’re in, they can deploy you. It doesn’t matter what they’ve said in the past.”
“Wow.” I can’t imagine growing up with my dad gone like that for long stretches of my life. So much of who I am is because of my time spent with him that I don’t know what life would even look like if he weren’t around. Who would I be? These past four years, I’ve been so wrapped up in my mom’s death that I forgot how incredibly lucky I am to have my dad.
Kenyon’s fingers brush the back of mine again, the gentlest touch across my knuckles. This time, I don’t let myself overthink things; I push my own hand lightly against his, just enough to let him know I’m interested. Smoothly, he runs his fingers down the side of my hand and then slides them around mine so our hands are palm to palm. My heart thrums in my throat, my whole body warming with his touch as we intertwine our fingers.
We walk for nearly an hour, falling into easy conversation. I learn that his parents divorced when he was ten and he’s lived with his dad ever since. Now that his dad’s deployed, he’s back with his mom.
I tell him more about my mom—about growing up with her and Dad and Clark, how close we all used to be. My chest aches with the memories, but I find that talking to him helps take away some of the intensity of the pain. He laughs when I tell him about Sunday breakfasts with Nana until he sees I’m being serious about how much I enjoy spending time with her.
When the conversation shifts to my friends, he interrupts: “Why does everyone call Naoise and Shyla twins?” He looks down at me, twisting his mouth to one side in a puzzled expression. “They’re not really twins, right? Like, there’s no way.”
I laugh, picturing Naoise’s clear, pale skin and light hazel eyes alongside Shyla’s deep Indian complexion, her eyes so dark brown that the pupils disappear. “No, they’re not actually twins. They do have the same birthday, though. Shyla’s dad and Naoise’s mom met when they were in preschool together.”
“Wow,” he says. “What are the odds?”
“They actually met because they both brought birthday treats to their school that day.” I shrug. “So odds were pretty good, I think.”
We’re nearing the public access point to the beach, almost ready to step back onto pavement and head toward the car, and a wave of disappointment washes over me. I don’t want the night to be over. But even as I think it, a giant yawn overcomes me. I turn my head, trying to hide my face in my shoulder, but it’s no use. Kenyon sees.
“All right,” he says, squeezing my fingers between his. “Let’s get you home.”
chapter Twelve
“GIVE IT TO ME STRAIGHT. HOW WAS THE DATE?” KENYON cuts the engine and turns to face me. We’re back at the restaurant, and he’s pulled his car into a spot next to mine.
“It was great,” I say. “I had so much fun. Thank you.”
“I’m glad,” he says. “I would hate for your first date to have been boring.”
My cheeks heat up. I cannot believe I told him I’d never been on a date before. I mean, it’s the truth, but I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to lead with something like that.
“Definitely not boring.” I unbuckle and match his pose, turning toward him so our knees nearly touch between the seats.
“So,” he says.
“So,” I reply. “I guess, um, good night?” For most of the date, I successfully managed to ignore the end-of-date kiss hanging over my head, but now that we’re back in the parking lot, it’s nagging at me. I can’t know if it was Kenyon that night without kissing him per Naoise’s deal. This needs to happen.
I have only one problem: I have no idea how to get him to kiss me.
“Hold on, I’ll get that,” Kenyon says when I reach for the door handle. He hops out of the driver’s side and jogs around the front of the Jeep to open my door. He offers his hand and helps me from my seat.
We walk the few steps to my car together. Kenyon chuckles and runs a hand through his wild hair. “Since I can’t exactly walk you to your door, I guess this will have to do.”
“Thanks,” I say, looking down at the ground between our feet then back up at him. I have no idea what I’m doing, but I’ve seen this same move enough times in films that I figure there must be something to it. “I had a really fun time tonight.”
I try to lean against my car casually, but it’s farther back than I thought, and before I know it, I’m falling backward. A shriek escapes my lips, and I scramble to right myself, eventually grabbing the front of Kenyon’s shirt to stop my fall.
Once I’m stable, I pry my fingers away from the fabric. It’s bunched up and wrinkled where I was holding on, so I smooth it down with my palm. I’m basically petting his chest. Could I possibly make this more awkward?
“Sorry,” I mutter. I stare at the ground behind him, my face burning. The whole ordeal took less than five seconds, but it feels like the longest part of the night. “I should probably go.”
“Don’t.” Kenyon grabs my hand to stop me from turning away. I can’t look at him, so I fix my gaze on the back tire of his Jeep. His other hand reaches for my jaw, and he gently tilts my face toward his. “Hi,” he says when I finally look at him.
“Hi,” I say back, and suddenly I’m overcome with laughter. When I calm myself down, I say, “Wow. That was super slick, huh?”
“If you wanted to touch my chest, you could’ve said so.” Kenyon smirks and takes a step closer. I tilt my head back so I can still see his face.
“Well, if I’d known that…” I say in an attempt at flirtation. Maybe I can still pull this off. I stretch my hand forward like I’m going to touch his chest again, looking at him with what I hope is a flirty-slash-teasing expression.
Kenyon catches my hand in his, then presses it flat to his chest, holding it there with his fingers curled around the edge of mine, squeezing them gently. Under my open palm, his heart beats hard and fast, matching the wild thrumming of my own.
“This was really great,” I say, my voice soft in my throat.
“A worthy first date?” Is he even closer now? Suddenly, his knuckles are a breath away from me, our hands sandwiched between our bodies. When did that happen?
“Definitely,” I breathe, my voice barely more than a whisper.
He leans down, and holy cow this is really happening, isn’t it? I tilt my head back, and my eyes drift closed. My heart stutters, excitement mixed with nervousness climbing into my throat. My hand on Kenyon’s chest anchors me as I push up onto my toes, helping to close the gap between us.
Kenyon’s lips are warm and soft as they press—to my cheek? My eyes fly open in surprise. How did I read this so wrong? I was certain he was going to kiss me for real. Now his lips linger on the skin just to the right of my mouth. Which, I’m rapidly realizing, is kind of hot. My breath hitches in my throat, and I let my eyes close again.
He pulls back, and my cheek is suddenly cold in the absence of his touch. That was… wow. Heat sparks in my chest and rushes to my face. I can feel a goofy grin overtake me. I had no idea something so simple could be so incredible.
“Have a good weekend, Quincy,” he whispers, his breath warm on my skin.
“Yeah,” I say with a sigh. “Um, you too. Thanks for tonight.” My cheeks flush when I remember I said this same thing less than a minute ago.
Kenyon doesn’t notice. He squeezes my hand, still held against his chest. “Anytime,” he says. He takes a step back but doesn’t drop my hand yet. Instead, he holds it a beat longer, giving it one more gentle squeeze before finally letting go.
