Always Forever Maybe Read online

  “I wouldn’t say no to sharing some of that blanket.”

  I lifted one end and Aiden scootched closer. My butt was numb and it was cold enough to see our breath, but I no longer felt the chill. There was only the buzzing awareness of his body so close to mine. I narrated the cheesy romance-novel version to Jo in my head: The winter’s cold melted away in the fire of her anticipation. His chest heaved with masculine tenderness and her bosom swelled to almost a real B-cup as her lips and loins tingled with the desire for his kiss. I stuffed more bread and cheese in my face to hide the grin. Elation was making me punchy.

  I looked up at the sky. “How’s your knowledge of constellations?”

  “Pretty weak. Yours?”

  I pointed at the blinking lights of an airplane. “I think that’s Halley’s Comet.”

  He squinted. “Nah. It’s a falling star.”

  “Oh. Better make a wish, then,” I said.

  He closed his eyes to play along with the joke and when he opened them, gave me that trademark slow smile. “There you are. My wish come true.”

  I grinned. It was corny but also perfect. I felt lucky to be with him, too.

  He bit into his cheese sandwich and helped himself to the thermos-top of coffee I’d been sipping from before. I turned to watch the creek. I’d lived in this city my entire life but somehow Aiden was showing me whole new sides of it. “It’s beautiful here.”

  He nodded. “I love this spot. There’s never anyone here, no matter how crowded the park is. It’s like my own secret world no one even knows exists.”

  “Except me. Now I’ve invaded.”

  “You’re not invading. I invited you in.”

  He passed me the coffee and I brought it to my lips, my mouth touching the spot where his had just been. The steam warmed my cheeks and the coffee slid down hot. Maybe I was starting to like it. “So you come here a lot?” I asked.

  “All the time. It’s a good place to think.” He took a handful of chips. “I found it a few years ago while my mom was getting treated over at Mercy Hospital. I was wandering around the park and I just felt drawn here. Kinda like how I was drawn to you.”

  I couldn’t get over how open and sincere he was. I was so used to guys who couched everything they said in posturing and sarcasm, lest anyone mistake them for vulnerable human beings with real emotions inside. I was so used to talking that way myself. But Aiden apparently didn’t feel the need to protect himself from me like that. He was so honest and trusting. It made me want to trust him with all of who I was, too.

  Probably it came from everything he had gone through with losing his mom so young. It made him so much more intense than anyone else I’d known. “How long was she in treatment?” I asked.

  “Two years.”

  “I can’t even imagine.”

  He grimaced and reached for the thermos. “It was hell. But better than what came after.”

  He refilled the coffee and I accepted the fresh cup. “I’ve never been close to anyone who died,” I admitted into the steam. “My dad’s father passed away before I was born and I still have my other three grandparents.”

  A funny look crossed his face. “She’s not dead,” he said. “My mom’s still alive. She lives in Arizona.”

  “She . . . what? I thought . . .” I didn’t finish the sentence. It was embarrassingly obvious what I’d thought.

  He made a bitter sound that almost resembled a laugh. “Though I guess you could say she’s dead to me.”

  I felt suddenly aware of the cold again.

  His shoulders fell. “I know I shouldn’t say this out loud, but sometimes I wish the cancer had killed her.” He looked down. “It would be easier than knowing she chose to leave.”

  They were the saddest words I’d ever heard. I didn’t know what to say, so I reached out to take his hand. His fingers tightened around mine, and in his grip, I felt the depth of his sorrow and need. When he glanced back up his expression was pained and urgent. “Promise you’ll never do that to me.”

  My pulse skipped with a kick of surprise, and my first instinct was to draw back, but I held steady, though my voice wavered. “I—I promise.” Leaving him was the opposite of what I wanted to do, and saying it out loud made that feeling even stronger.

  His fingers relaxed and the storm cleared out of his eyes. My heartbeat slowed to a normal rate. If this was a test, I was glad to have passed it. “Good,” he said. His face glowed pale in the moonlight but I still saw it flush. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to get weird and scare you off. I just . . . Bee—” He stopped talking and I stopped thinking, for the near-infinite moment before he kissed me. Soft. Sweet. Questioning. His lips pressed to mine for only a few seconds before he pulled back. “Okay?” he asked.

  His gaze was serious but I couldn’t help the smile that pushed at my cheeks as I nodded. It was more than okay. It was the best first kiss I’d ever had. I missed his lips already. “Yes.”

  He tugged at the blanket to pull me close, and tucked himself around me.

  Nine

  I WOKE UP SATURDAY MORNING, ALONE IN JO’S BED, to the scent of something delicious. Whatever Jo was baking us for breakfast, it seemed to involve nutmeg. I stretched out my legs into her side of the bed and looked at the clock: 10:13. Bless Jo’s parents for always letting us sleep in, rather than insisting everyone be up before eight like my parents did.

  I snuzzled deeper into the pillows and Jo’s fluffy comforter and let my body awaken slowly to the blissful reality of him: Aiden, Aiden, Aiden. It pulsed through me like a heartbeat. I wondered if he was thinking about me too as he changed people’s oil and tightened their gaskets, or whatever it was he did working the early shift at Percy’s Garage.

  I loved that Aiden had actual skills. Nobody else I knew could do anything useful. Jo could bake fancy treats and Eric could kick a ball into a net and my brother could do the kinds of things philosophy majors did—think?—and I could clean and organize and obsess, but none of that would get us through the zombie apocalypse, unless zombies could be stopped by croissants and Plato’s Allegory of the Cave. But Aiden could build and fix things, and his hands were skilled and useful. That was hot.

  I touched my chin, feeling the sting of where his stubble had sandpapered it raw as we’d kissed and kissed and kissed in the moonlight. It was probably red. I hoped so. I liked the idea that his kisses had marked me. Jo would be appalled, but it was sexy to me. I added it to the brand-new list of Things I Wouldn’t Tell Her.

  It had been strange, late last night, to find myself holding back with her. It felt like I was telling Jo everything, yet sharing nothing. There was so much about Aiden and me that couldn’t be described or explained. Like how with every kiss I had wanted to freeze time—to hold on to the moment and make it stretch forever, full of the promise of everything we might become. But I’d also wanted to fast-forward—to speed into our future and consume it all in one gulp. I was greedy for us. Eager and stingy and nostalgic, all at once.

  Suddenly there were parts of me only Aiden understood ways I just made more sense when I was near him, like I’d been a jumbled Rubik’s Cube he solved with one turn, or a puzzle missing the pieces he snapped into place. He saw the sexiest, most daring, best version of who I was, and brought out sides of me I hadn’t known were there. And he trusted me with parts of himself I knew no one else saw—how the sadness in his past made him both strong and vulnerable. How his toughness hid layers of anger and pain. That rawness at his center made me want—no, need—to wrap him in a love that would protect him from the entire world. To be, as I had promised, the person who would never hurt him.

  Even though usually I was the practical one and Jo was the romantic, I knew she wouldn’t get it. To her, Aiden was still some guy I had only just met—a fun rebound to help me fully move on from Tyson. But to me, we were already an us. I couldn’t explain that to Jo. I didn’t want to. Some things can only be felt.

  But that didn’t mean I couldn’t go eat whatever she was b
aking. I had to get up soon anyway or my bladder was going to explode.

  I climbed out of bed, straightened the comforter to make it look neat, and helped myself to Jo’s fleecy green robe. As I headed toward the bathroom, I checked my phone.

  Good morning ♥

  He was too good to be true.

  The air in the kitchen was warm and thick with butter and sweetness. I slid onto a stool and watched Jo pull a tray of mini muffins from the oven with pot-holdered hands. “Raspberry chocolate chunk,” she said. “And whole wheat, so they’re good for you.”

  “Chocolate is good for me too,” I said, and plucked an already cooled one from the basket on the counter.

  “Agreed.” She released the hot muffins from their tray, lined them up on the cooling rack, and snapped a photo to post. Hundreds of her followers were probably already drooling. Jo was food-blogger famous. I had no doubt her baking would make her real-world famous someday too. She’d already turned it into a brilliant college essay. My two essays—about my love of word games but not spelling bees, and the day we helped my father’s mom move into an assisted-living retirement home—were far less impressive or enviable, though apparently they had done the trick. I’d been accepted early decision at SUNY Geneseo, a really good school, but soon Jo would get into a great one. Her parents would pay for the whole thing, too. There were perks to being the daughter of two doctors.

  I polished off the muffin in three bites. “These are amazing. Seriously.”

  Jo beamed. “You think so?”

  I grabbed another one. “I want to marry them.” I split open the second muffin and shoved half in my mouth. Tart-sweet-chocolatey yum.

  Jo’s baking obsession had started on a family trip to Paris, where the Metmowlee-Rubens took a private lesson with a real French pastry chef. We were ten, and it seemed like the most exotic and sophisticated thing I had ever heard of anyone doing. Since then she and Eric had ridden horses in Argentina, walked through cloud forests in Costa Rica, and seen golden-roofed temples, giant Buddhas, and wild monkeys while visiting their relatives in Thailand. I had barely left New York State.

  “Mmph!” I swallowed. “I know what you should do. You should bake these for Sydney. One taste and she’ll be yours forever.”

  “Stop,” Jo said, but she was clearly pleased.

  It wasn’t a bad idea, though. “The way to a girl’s crotch is through her taste buds,” I advised.

  “You need to pay better attention in anatomy.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s Shakespeare.”

  We heard the front door open and close, and Eric walked into the kitchen, red-faced and glowing from his run. He gave a sharp nod. “Hello, beloved sister. Killer Bee.”

  “Hey.” I leaned away as he reached across me to grab a muffin off the rack. He smelled like cold air and cedar deodorant and boyness.

  “Please,” Jo said, “sweat all over my muffins. Who needs a shower among friends?”

  “I’m so glad you feel that way.” Eric popped an entire mini muffin into his mouth and reached for a second.

  I stood and got a clean mug from the dishwasher. Dr. Ruben had left half a pot of coffee warming in the sleek, curvy machine. Money maybe couldn’t buy happiness but it had bought Jo and Eric’s parents a really nice kitchen filled with tasteful chrome appliances. There was a many-spouted espresso maker right beside the drip machine, but I didn’t know how to use it and didn’t need anything that fancy. I poured myself a cup and inhaled the steam. Aiden.

  Jo stared as I carried the mug to my seat. “Coffee? Black? Who are you?”

  I shrugged and took a small sip. It was funny she found my coffee drinking outrageous when she’d been all for my getting on a motorcycle. But she would have gotten on the motorcycle, for sure. Maybe that was the difference. Jo would not drink her coffee black. “I’m developing a taste for it,” I said.

  “Since when?”

  “Since Monday,” I admitted.

  “Ah.” Jo’s lips twisted at the corners, and I wished I didn’t feel defensive. But this wasn’t about the coffee, it was about me falling in love. That wasn’t something to smirk at.

  “People were asking about you at the party last night,” Eric said with his mouth full.

  “Me?” I said.

  “Yeah. They wanted to know about you and Motorcycle Man.”

  “Who wanted to know?” Jo pressed.

  “Well, Tyson, for one.” I couldn’t help feeling triumphant about that. “Cicily. Fatima. Bunch of girls, I dunno.”

  “What did you tell them?” I asked. I hoped whatever it was had made Ty feel like shit.

  Eric shrugged and took what must have been his fourth or fifth muffin. That boy ate more than anyone else I knew and was approximately as wide as my pinkie. “Not much.”

  “Was Sydney MacKenna there?” Jo asked. I knew instantly from her casual tone and lack of eye contact that she hadn’t told Eric about her crush. Which, fair enough. I didn’t tell my brother about my crushes either.

  “Syd? Yeah, I saw her.” I waited for his twintuition to alert him there was something more to this question but, despite whatever superpowers they’d developed in the womb, I still was sometimes better at reading Jo than he was. “Hanging off Benji Watts,” he added.

  Jo turned toward the sink. She slammed the water on full-force and stuck the muffin tins under it. I stopped feeling slighted and just wished I could hug her.

  Eric looked at me. “What happened to your face?”

  “What? Oh.” I touched my chin. “I scraped it.”

  He squinted. “On what?”

  Jo turned back around. “On her new boyfriend’s tonsils.”

  Eric paused. “Oh.” He gestured with his three-hundredth muffin. “I thought maybe you’d hit the pavement. Did you know you’re thirty-five times more likely to die on a motorcycle than in a car crash?”

  “Me personally?” I asked.

  “Well now, yeah,” he said.

  I grinned. It was cute that he’d looked up statistics. I loved it when Eric tried to big-brother me. I loved any reminder that I was part of them. “Did you know that nosy friends are eighty-six percent more likely to get pelted with mini muffins, and forty-three percent more likely to die of a chocolate chunk overdose?”

  He laughed and held his hands up, backing away. “Okay, you can take care of yourself. Just don’t let your mom ever see you on that thing.”

  My smile dropped. “I know. She’s one hundred percent likely to kill me.” Though with luck she would never find out about that part. Aiden had agreed that when he met them, he would pick me up in his father’s sedan.

  Eric went up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and I wrinkled my nose at Jo. “Sorry about Sydney.”

  “Yeah.” Her nose wrinkled back and her freckles danced. “Bummer.”

  “At least now we have the info?” I said. But her downplaying the disappointment was worrisome. Jo tended toward the dramatic, so it wasn’t a great sign when she acted reserved.

  “Right. Success,” she said. She dried her hands on a dish towel and tossed it at my head. I swatted it away. “Don’t worry, I’m not crying. That’s just a sugar crystal on my face.”

  “Oh, from your not-crying pie,” I said, nodding.

  “Exactly.” But I hated the way her shoulders drooped. I wanted her beaming like in the first-day-of-kindergarten photo on the fridge, where she was clutching Eric’s hand and they were both wearing red for good luck, like on every first day of school since.

  “You wanna cuddle and drown your not-sorrows in a wildlife documentary?” I offered. Jo loved watching animals even more than she loved the Food Network.

  She perked up. “You don’t have to leave for work?”

  “Short shift today.”

  “Sweeeeeeeeet. Yes.” She scooped up Stella, who had jumped onto the granite countertop to meow in my face. I tried not to think about her litter-box paws getting near the food. “Baby pandas?” Jo asked.

  “Anyth
ing for you.”

  Ten

  EARLY MARCH WAS TURNING OUT TO BE SLOW SEASON at the Shack. The Valentine’s Day rush was over, and the sad, leftover sale candy had already been snatched up or tossed. It was still too cold for all but the most hard-core of ice cream eaters, Easter traffic hadn’t started yet, and nobody really wanted to buy St. Patrick’s Day candy, no matter how many shamrocks Mr. Sugarman painted on the windows. But judging from the jolly profusion of green that had exploded throughout the store, it seemed to be his favorite holiday. Maybe because he kind of looked like a leprechaun.

  “You’re terrible,” Lexa said, barely holding back a giggle, when I suggested as much. We had an hour left to go before close, but the dribble of customers had finally sputtered to a stop. Yesterday, post–panda videos, there had been enough lulls in my only-four-hour shift to allow me to text Aiden almost throughout. We’d made up rules for a game show called Wheel of Misfortune and debated how to spend the first billion it earned us. (Him: a round-the-world adventure featuring hot-air balloons, Jet Skis, parasailing, the motorcycle, and an auto-replenishing picnic basket. Me: a private tropical island replete with palm trees, coconuts, seashells, and sand, where we’d swim with dolphins and befriend a baby sloth.) But today’s eight hours of drudgery were slow enough to feel glacial, yet just busy enough to keep me from my phone and its respite. I was antsy and cranky and about ready to whip up a screw-all-this float. Even Lexa looked like she’d had enough.

  As I washed sticky residue from the Golly Gumdrops station off my hands, the door jingled and I stifled a groan. But when I turned around, my bad mood melted. It was Aiden.

  “Well, hello there,” Lexa singsonged as I practically cartwheeled toward him. I really couldn’t get over how pretty he was.

  “Hey.” I leaned in for a kiss but he turned and it landed on his jaw.

  “Where were you?” he asked.

  “Right here,” I said. “Working.” He knew that. We’d texted earlier, during my lunch break. My joy went murky with confusion, but then he reached out and took my hand.