“And where will we live?” he asks amusedly.
I shrug. “How about by the ocean? We’ve never seen it before. It might be cool.”
“The ocean sounds nice.” He muses over something. “Sounds good to me. Leave, go to the ocean. You can become a famous artist, and I’ll become a musician.”
“And we’ll make sure we have better lives,” I add. “Ones we’re happy with.”
“Agreed,” he says and then we shake on it. “Although, I have to say that I’m not sad about everything in my life right now.”
Unlike me, Micha has a stable parent—his mother who I sometimes like to pretend is my own mother when I’m having a rough day. Still, things haven’t always been easy for him. His father walked out on Micha and his mom about eight years ago, and it was both financially and emotionally hard on them.
“I’m talking about you,” Micha adds, letting go of my hand.
I blink my attention back to him. “What?”
He winks at me before walking back with his fingers wrapped around the chains. “You, Ella May, are the creation of my happiness.” He lifts his legs and shoots forward.
I roll my eyes as I back up. “You are so stinking cheesy sometimes. No other fourteen-year-old boy talks the way you do.”
“How do you know that?” he questions as he swings back and forth. “Are their more fourteen-year-old guys in your life that I don’t know about?”
I shrug as I launch forward. “Ethan. And he doesn’t talk like that.”
“He might.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Hey, he’s my best friend,” he teases as we level out and swing harmoniously together. “For all you know, he could talk like that when you’re not around.”
I jut out my lip, pouting. “Hey, I thought I was your best friend.”
“No way,” he says in all seriousness. “You’re way more than that.”
I flop my head back, gagging. “God, stop with the cheesy pickup lines. It’s making me nauseous.”
“Fine, but only if you play truth with me.”
“Fine, but only if I get to ask the first question.”
He smiles. “Be my guest.”
I contemplate. “So, Micha Scott, just how many girls have you kissed now?”
He suspiciously glances at me from the corner of his eye. “You already know the answer to that since you asked me the same question the last time we played this.”
“Yeah, but it’s been a few weeks since then.” I lift my shoulder and give a half shrug. “And I heard a rumor yesterday.”
“About what?”
“That you and Kessa kissed behind the school during third period.”
He shoots me a dirty look. “Fuck no. I would never kiss Kessa Finlany. Who told you that?”
“Kessa.”
He frowns, staring ahead at the playground. “Well, that never happened. And it will never happen.”
“Noted.” I swing higher, and he matches my move, stretching his legs toward the sky. “So the number is still three?”
“Yep, still three.” He grows silent, his face contorting in deep thought as he debates his question for me. When he arrives at his conclusion, a slow grin expands across his face, and I know I’m in big trouble. “So, Ella May, just how many boys have you kissed?”
The chilly breeze stings at my warm cheeks. “That’s not a fair question.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because you already know the answer to that.”
“And how do you figure that? I mean, for all I know, something could have changed since the last time I asked you.”
“You know it hasn’t,” I say, feeling stupid. “I pretty much don’t hang out with anyone but you.”
His brow cocks and amusement dances in his eyes. “So the number’s still zero?”
I grip the chains, annoyed. “See, you already knew the answer, so that wasn’t a fair question.”
“Why? It’s my wasted turn.” He sticks his feet to the ground again and this time grinds to a slow halt. Then he just sits there motionlessly as he watches me swing back and forth.
“What are you doing?” I wonder as I kick my feet higher. Strands of my auburn hair slip lose from my ponytail and surround my face. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
He muses over something, rubbing his jawline. “I have a proposition for you.”
“No way,” I instantly respond. “I know better than to agree to your propositions.”
“Just hear me out first,” he says, using the voice again. “Then you can make your decision.”
Sighing, I plant my feet in the dirt to stop beside him, knowing he won’t give up until I at least agree to hear whatever it is he’s thinking. “Fine, what’s your proposition?”
“I propose,” he starts, seeming the slightest bit uneasy, which is weird for him, “that I be your first kiss.”
I snort a big, old, pig laugh. “Ha, very funny. For a moment, I thought you were going to be serious.”
“I am being serious.” His expression matches his words.
And my expression plummets. “W-what? Why would you ever ask me that? Or want to do that?”
He shrugs. “You have to get your first kiss over sometime, so why not do it with me?”
I scrunch up my nose. “Because you’re … you.” I don’t mean for it to come out so rude. Luckily, Micha knows me well enough not to take it personally.
His lips quirk. “And what’s wrong with me? Am I too hideous for you?”
“No,” I sputter quickly, and he laughs. “That’s not it at all. I’m just …”
“You’re just what, waiting around for the perfect guy to show up? Like Grantford Davis?”
“Ew.” I swat his arm, and his laughter increases. “No way. I would never, ever use my first kiss on him. He’s so weird and gross.”
“A lot of the guys our age are weird and gross. Except me.”
“That’s not entirely true,” I say then pause. “But I guess, out of all the guys at our school, you are the least gross.”
“Okay, then,” he states like this solves the problem. “Let’s do this.”
Do what?
Kiss Micha?
God, I’ve barely even hugged anyone, let alone kissed anyone.
I should protest more—I know I should—but a part of me is curious as to why the hell kissing is such a big deal.