The timbre of his voice saying those words is almost too good.

I exhale. “Keep going,” I say quietly.

When he looks at me curiously, I add, “Please?”

“But I don't want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin.”

The look on his face is nearly indescribable, but I somehow recognize it in myself.

He’s feeling the emotion of those words because they reflect something hidden away inside him that’s too personal to bring to the surface through his own voice.

It’s what good writing does to you.

But it’s not just that. I’m well aware of those words in the context of Dylan and me.

The sun is just now getting around to setting, creating a mid-spring orange hue. The sky’s so far away, but somehow it surrounds us. It’s too early for the summer bugs or flowers to bloom, which means it’s just us out here, claiming the wet green grass and crisp air for ourselves.

Dylan’s fingers trace the words before he says them, but finally, he whispers, “I want to know what passion is. I want to feel something strongly.”

I watch the words come out of his mouth and the way he swallows after he finishes.

He slowly closes the book and drops it back into my bag, as if he needs to distance himself from those revelations that he brought between us.

“Harper,” he sighs, as if that word is actually a little painful to vocalize.

He closes the distance between us, pulling me to my feet and crushing me to his chest before I can tease him for saying my first name.

His eyes are wild, like he’s not totally in control of his reaction at the moment but he so desperately wants to give in.

With shaky fingers, I touch his chest, then his neck, and finally, his cheek. I caress the line of his cheekbone, then his jaw. Just like I did last time, but now, there’s something even deeper in the movement. I’m not proving a point; I’m memorizing him.

I stand on my tiptoes, trying to reach him, but I fall short.

He closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them again, I see the same look on his face as I do when he’s on the track.

It’s the stillness before the start.

The one final breath before the jump.

The serenity before the chaos.

But he’s not about to burst off the starting block. He’s in my arms, and he’s on the brink of something that’s going to require much more of him than any sprint would.

The silence is loud, but his decision is clear.

His lips meet mine.

I’m expecting the dominant version of him, the one that crushed his lips against mine to prove a point, but he’s careful. He's using his mouth to ask permission to break down whatever barrier still exists between us.

Dylan’s hands move from my hips up to wind in my hair. I put my hands on his wrists, holding him to me as his tongue parts my lips.

It should be terrifying to open myself up to him, to give into the feelings between us and what that means, but it’s effortless.

I no longer acknowledge the passing of time or the complications this is going to cause in my life plan because I’m just going to give in to him and the faint taste of chocolate on his lips.

17

I give myself permission to revel in the newness.

As humans, we experience it all the time on our own, but for me, the new experiences of being with Dylan Archer are all-consuming. Every single moment with him feels like something I shouldn’t be indulging in, but I can’t help myself.

The kisses in the stairwells between classes are brief but fiery.

The way Dylan runs his fingers over my palms and wrists while he drives is divine.

The looks I get across the cafeteria are equal parts promising and irritating.

It takes me ten days after our first real kiss to resurface.

“Where are you, H?” James says, waving his hand in front of my face.

I blink to see that James and my parents are staring me down like they’re waiting for me to faint or explode or do something other than pick at my dinner.

“What?” I ask, touching my face to make sure there’s no drool or blood or something on it.

“You just willingly let me have the best piece of garlic bread,” James says, taking a massive bite of the perfectly done middle bite.

Thinking about kissing Dylan Archer is actually better than crispy brown crust, warm center, and gooey cheese topped with garlic and basil.

Of course, I don’t say that out loud.

“Sorry,” I say lamely. “I’m just lost in thought.”

This dinner is supposed to be a celebration of my winning the writing contest. My parents insisted on doing something to recognize my achievements, but somehow instead of going out to the restaurant of my choice, we ended up at home eating James’s favorite meal.

Not that I’m complaining—it was nice of them to be proud of me, but it wasn’t my first or second choice of ways to commemorate a success. For college, I had to eat Audrey’s pizza, and for the internship, it’s James’s lasagna.

Plus, James and I hardly spend any time together these days. He’s gearing up for the big invitational that marks the end of the season and his high school track career, and I’m busy with my school work, yearbook duties, and Dylan Archer.

In theory, it was nice to be around him, but in practice, I would have rather had a quick meal with my parents, then headed up to my room to stare at the final yearbook proofs that we’re sending to the printer tomorrow.

“So, I have good news,” James says, reigniting the stalled conversation.

“Oh?” I say before I shove a big bite in my mouth, deciding I’m going to actively participate in moving this meal forward to its end.

“Cornell officially accepted me! I just found out this afternoon.”

“That’s great,” I say, and I try to mean it.

We all offer him congratulations and hugs around the dinner table.

It’s not hard to fake my enthusiasm for him.

I know how much it means to him to go to the same school his dad did, even if he’s usually at odds with his parents. There’s practically a sweatshirt with fraternity letters waiting for him the moment he shows up to campus, a place he loved from the first minute we toured it.

My parents ask him all sorts of questions about declaring a major and trying out for the track team through the rest of dinner, sparing my contribution from the conversation.

After slices of chocolate cake, now dug into with dual purposes of celebrating, and a final round of congratulatory hugs and pats on the back, James heads home.

I’m up to my elbows in bubbles at the sink, scrubbing the dishes that are too big to go into the dishwasher.

My dad turns on the television in the other room, trying to catch the end of some baseball game, and my mom takes his usual spot beside me to dry after I wash.

“I was thinking tomorrow we could go to that store where Audrey got her dress? And then get lunch after? Make a little girl’s day out of it.”

“What?” I ask, snapping to attention.

“For prom,” she clarifies. “James was dropping hints throughout dinner while you were being a space cadet.”

“He’s dating Lyla, Mom,” I say automatically. “Or talking to her. Or whatever.”