Paige lay on the floral-print bedspread, her hands folded across her stomach, staring at the ceiling. The motel room smelled like bleach and old carpet and someone else's cigarettes, but underneath it all she could still smell him. That clean boy smell. The way his neck had tasted when she pressed her mouth there.
The ceiling had a water stain in the corner. She counted the rings in it. One. Two. Three. Four. Each number was another second she could feel his hands on her skin.
Marla had been quiet for a long time. Not the kind of quiet that meant she was asleep—the kind that meant she was thinking. Paige could hear her breathing from the other bed, slow and deliberate, like she was waiting for something.
"Paige."
Her voice wasn't accusing. It was soft. Curious, almost tender. Paige didn't answer. She didn't have to.
The bed creaked. Marla shifted, then scooted closer, until she was perched on the edge of Paige's mattress. Her blonde hair fell forward as she looked down at her.
"Was it good?"
Paige's face burned. The heat crawled up her neck, spread across her cheeks, settled in her ears. She nodded. Just once. Barely.
Marla let out a breath. "I thought so."
Paige sat up fast. The room spun for half a second. She stared at Marla, whose expression was soft and knowing and a little sad, like she'd been carrying this all evening and was finally putting it down.
"You two couldn't stop looking at each other," Marla said. "Everyone noticed. Jimmy knows. I think his mom knows too, even if she won't say it."
Paige's stomach dropped. The heat in her face turned cold. She pressed her hand to her mouth, the same hand that had touched him, had held him, and suddenly she felt like everyone in the whole world could see it on her skin.
"She doesn't know," Marla added quickly. "I mean—I don't think she knows what happened. But she saw you two in the van. She saw the way you looked at each other in the back seat. Mothers notice that stuff."
Paige's heart hammered. No. No, no, no. Mrs. McHale had been so normal. She'd handed them fries and asked about bowling and laughed at Marla's joke about bowling shoes. She hadn't seemed like she knew.
But what did knowing look like?
Marla reached out and took her hand. Her fingers were warm, steady. "I won't tell."
Paige blinked at her.
"I mean it," Marla said. "I won't tell anyone. Not Jimmy, not my mom, not anyone. But you need to be careful, Paige. He's your first everything. That matters."
Paige couldn't hold it in any longer. It was like a dam inside her chest had cracked, and everything she'd been carrying since that moment in the van came pouring out. The way he'd looked at her when she climbed in. The way his hands had trembled when they touched her skin. The way his voice had gone low and rough when he said her name like it meant something.
"It was amazing," she whispered. "I didn't know it would be like that. I thought it would hurt more, or be weird, or—but it wasn't. He was so careful. He kept asking if I was okay, kept checking, kept stopping to make sure. And when—"
She stopped. Her throat tightened.
"When what?" Marla asked quietly.
Paige looked down at their hands. Marla's thumb was making slow circles on her knuckles. "When he kissed me. After. It was different. Like the first kiss was testing, but the second one was—" She searched for the word. "Real. He kissed me like he meant it."
Marla was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "I've never even been kissed."
Paige looked up. Marla's face was open, unguarded in a way she'd never seen before. No teasing, no jokes. Just her best friend, sitting on a cheap motel bedspread, telling her something fragile.
"It'll happen," Paige said. "When it's right."
Marla smiled. It didn't quite reach her eyes. "You really like him, don't you?"
Paige nodded. "I think I've liked him since the bowling alley. When he took the blame for me. When he stood up to his dad." She paused. "He held my hand in the dark. In the van. After. He didn't let go until we had to get out."
Marla squeezed her hand. "That's really sweet."
"I know." Paige felt the smile tug at her mouth. "He's sweet. He's so sweet I can't stand it."
"Does he know? That you think that?"
"I don't know. I told him he was beautiful. In the van. He got all quiet."
Marla laughed, soft and warm. "You told a sixteen-year-old boy he was beautiful?"
"He is."
"I know. I've seen him."
They both laughed, then went quiet. The motel hummed around them—the ancient air conditioner wheezing, a truck rattling past on the highway, voices from another room muffled through the wall.
"What did it feel like?" Marla asked. "When he—you know. When you actually did it."
Paige lay back on the bed, staring at the water stain again. She thought about it. The weight of him. The way he'd fit against her. The moment when everything went still and she knew they were about to cross something she couldn't uncross.
"It hurt at first," she said. "Just for a second. But he stopped. He waited. And then it felt—" She closed her eyes. "Full. Like I was holding something I'd been missing my whole life. Like my body finally understood something my brain couldn't explain."
Marla was quiet.
"Is that stupid?" Paige asked.
"No." Marla's voice was soft. "That's not stupid."
Paige opened her eyes and looked at her. "He told me he'd been thinking about it for months. About me. He said he'd been dreaming about me."
"That's kind of hot."
"Marla!"
"What? It is."
Paige covered her face with her hands, but she was laughing. "You're impossible."
"I'm honest." Marla flopped down beside her on the bed. "So what happens now? Are you two like—together?"
Paige let her hands fall. "I don't know. We didn't talk about it. We just—we were in the van, and then we weren't, and then we were in the car with everyone, and I couldn't say anything."
"But you're going to talk about it?"
"I think so. I hope so."
"He's in room 112," Marla said. "Right next to Jimmy. You know Jimmy has that snoring thing."
Paige turned her head. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying if you wanted to—talk to him—I could make sure Jimmy doesn't wake up. Or I could just—not notice if you slipped out for a while."
Paige stared at her. "You'd do that?"
Marla shrugged. "You're my best friend. And he's really cute. And he held your hand in the dark. You don't just let that go."
Paige felt tears prick her eyes. She blinked them away. "I don't know if I can. What if his parents—"
"His parents are in 110. That's three doors down. And his dad sleeps like the dead. Mrs. McHale might check on Jimmy, but if you're back before—"
"Marla."
"What?"
"You've thought about this."
Marla grinned. "I have a talent for logistics."
Paige laughed, and it came out wet. She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. "I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"Of wanting it too much. Of him not wanting it as much as I do. Of his mom finding out. Of everything."
Marla rolled onto her side, facing her. "Did he seem like he didn't want it?"
"No."
"Did he seem like he was playing games?"
"No."
"Did his mom act like she knew anything?"
"She gave us fries."
"Exactly. You're safe. For now. And if you want to see him, you should see him."
Paige was quiet for a long time. The air conditioner clicked on, rattling the window frame. Somewhere outside, a dog barked twice, then stopped.
"I can still feel him," she said finally. "On my skin. Like he's still there."
Marla didn't say anything. She just reached over and took Paige's hand again.
They lay there for a while, the two of them, sharing the narrow mattress in the dim motel light. Paige's mind drifted back to the van—the dark, the heat, the way Johnny's breath had hitched when she touched him. The way he'd looked at her afterward, like she was something precious he was afraid to break.
"He called me beautiful," she said. "Before we did it. He said he'd been wanting to tell me for months."
"God," Marla said. "That's romantic."
"I know." Paige smiled. "I almost cried."
"Did you?"
"Almost."
Marla propped herself up on her elbow. "So what are you going to do?"
Paige looked at the door. Room 112 was somewhere on the other side of that wall. Johnny was somewhere on the other side of that wall. Maybe lying on his own bed, staring at his own ceiling, thinking about her.
"I don't know," she said. "Maybe I'll just—wait. See if he comes to me."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Then I'll go to him."
Marla smiled. "That's my girl."
Paige laughed, soft and surprised. She felt lighter than she had all night. The secret was still there, sitting heavy in her chest, but it was shared now. Marla knew. Marla understood. Marla would keep her safe.
"Thank you," Paige said. "For not judging me."
"Why would I judge you?"
"Because I'm thirteen. And he's sixteen. And we just—"
"Did something you both wanted," Marla finished. "That's not something to judge. That's something to be careful about. But not to judge."
Paige nodded, her throat tight again.
"He's lucky," Marla said. "You know that, right?"
"What do you mean?"
"He got to be your first. That's not nothing. That's everything."
Paige didn't know what to say to that. She just lay there, holding her best friend's hand, feeling the weight of the night settle around her like a blanket.
The air conditioner clicked off. The room went quiet. Somewhere down the hall, a door opened and closed, and footsteps padded past their room, then faded.
Paige closed her eyes. She could still taste him. Strawberry lip gloss she'd put on before the bowling alley. His mouth had tasted like soda and something else she couldn't name.
"Marla?"
"Yeah?"
"If I go see him—will you cover for me?"
Marla was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "Always."
Paige opened her eyes and sat up. The room swam, then steadied. She looked at the door. Then at Marla.
"Wait an hour," Marla said. "In case his parents are still up. Then go."
Paige nodded. Her heart was already racing.
Marla sat up too, scooted to the edge of the bed, and reached for her bag. "I brought cards. We can play gin rummy. It'll pass the time."
Paige laughed. "You brought cards?"
"I always bring cards. You never know when you'll need to win something."
They sat cross-legged on the bed, the floral bedspread wrinkled beneath them, and Marla dealt the deck with practiced hands. Paige picked up her cards, but she couldn't focus. Her mind was in room 112, with a boy who'd held her hand in the dark and kissed her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
One hour. She could wait one hour.
Then she would find out if he was waiting for her too.
Paige won the third hand of gin rummy without really seeing her cards. She kept looking at the door, then at the clock beside the bed, then back at her hand. Marla shuffled the deck slowly, watching her.
"You're not even trying."
"I'm trying."
"You just laid down a straight with a queen of hearts in it."
Paige looked at her cards. Marla was right. She dropped them on the bedspread. "Sorry."
"Don't be." Marla set the deck aside and checked her watch. "It's been forty minutes."
Paige's heart kicked. "That's not an hour yet."
"Close enough. His parents are probably asleep by now."
Paige didn't move. Her legs felt heavy, like they knew something she hadn't admitted yet. The fear sat low in her stomach, warm and tight. What if she went to his room and knocked and he didn't answer? What if he was already asleep? What if he didn't want her to come?
"You're overthinking," Marla said.
"I'm not."
"You're doing that thing with your lip."
Paige stopped biting her lip. She hadn't realized she was doing it.
Marla leaned forward, her voice softer now. "He wants you to come. You know that."
"How do you know?"
"Because I saw the way he looked at you in the van. And at the alley. And at the pool last month." She paused. "And basically every time you've been in the same room for the past year."
Paige felt heat rise to her cheeks. "That's not true."
"It's absolutely true." Marla smiled, but there was something careful in it. "You're the only thing he sees, Paige. Everyone knows it."
The words sat in the air between them. Paige wanted to believe them. She wanted to believe that Johnny was lying awake right now, thinking about her the same way she was thinking about him.
"What if someone sees me?" she asked.
"It's dark. The hallway's empty. His parents are three doors down and they're probably dead asleep after that drive." Marla reached over and squeezed her hand. "You go, you knock soft, you go inside. No one sees anything."
Paige nodded, but her chest was tight. "And if Jimmy's awake?"
"Jimmy's been asleep since we got here. I heard him snoring through the wall when we walked past."
Paige almost laughed. "You heard him snoring?"
"It's impressive, honestly. Kid's got lungs."
The laugh came out, quiet and surprised. It loosened something in her chest.
Marla stood up and walked to the door. She cracked it open, peered into the hallway, then looked back. "Clear. Go."
Paige stood. Her legs felt unsteady. She crossed to the door in three steps, then stopped, looking at Marla.
"Thank you."
"You already said that."
"I mean it."
Marla's expression softened. "I know you do. Now go. Before I change my mind and make you finish the gin game."
Paige stepped into the hallway. The carpet was rough under her bare feet. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, casting a pale glow on the numbered doors. Room 112 was six doors down. She counted them as she walked.
One. Two. Three.
Her heart was loud in her ears.
Four. Five.
She stopped in front of 112. The door was solid, painted a dull beige. A sliver of light showed under it. Someone was still awake.
She raised her hand. Knocked. Three soft taps.
Silence. Then footsteps.
The door opened. Johnny stood there, shirtless, his hair messy, his eyes wide. He looked at her like he'd been expecting her and hadn't believed she'd actually come.
"Paige."
Her name in his mouth. That was all it took.
"Can I come in?"
He stepped aside without a word. She slipped past him into the room. It was identical to hers—same floral bedspread, same thin carpet, same buzzing air conditioner. Jimmy was a lump under the blankets on the far bed, facing the wall, breathing slow and deep.
Johnny closed the door. The click of the lock was loud in the quiet room.
They stood there, three feet apart, neither of them speaking. Paige could smell him—soap and sweat and something underneath that was just him. His chest rose and fell, quick and shallow.
"I didn't think you'd come," he said, his voice low.
"I told you I would."
"I know. I just—" He ran a hand through his hair. "I didn't want to get my hopes up."
Paige stepped closer. Close enough to touch him. "Your hopes should be up."
His breath caught. She saw it—the way his chest stopped, then started again, faster.
"We can't talk here," he said. "Jimmy's a light sleeper."
"Where?"
He looked toward the bathroom. The door was open, a dim light inside. "There."
Paige followed him into the bathroom. It was small—a toilet, a sink, a shower with a plastic curtain. Johnny closed the door behind them, and suddenly the space felt even smaller. The walls were close. The air was warm. She could hear his breathing, feel the heat coming off his skin.
He turned to face her. His eyes were dark in the low light, his mouth slightly open.
"Hi," she said.
A laugh escaped him, soft and surprised. "Hi."
Then he kissed her.
It was different from the first time. Slower. Deeper. His hand found her cheek, his thumb tracing her jaw, tilting her head back. She opened her mouth and he made a sound—low, quiet, like he'd been holding it in all night.
She pressed into him. Her hands found his chest, the skin warm and smooth, and she felt his heartbeat under her palm, fast and strong.
"I've been thinking about you all night," he said against her mouth.
"Me too."
"All I could see was your face. In the van. In the alley. Every time I closed my eyes."
She kissed him again, harder this time. Her hands slid up his chest, around his neck, pulling him closer. His arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her slightly, and she gasped into his mouth.
The bathroom was small, but they made it work. He sat on the edge of the tub, pulling her onto his lap. She straddled him, her knees on either side of his hips, her hands in his hair. He kissed her neck, her collarbone, the space between her breasts where her shirt gaped open.
"I want to be with you," she whispered. "Tonight. Right now."
He looked up at her. His eyes were dark, his breathing ragged. "Are you sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything."
He kissed her again, slow and deep, and she felt his hands find the hem of her shirt. He pulled it up, and she raised her arms, letting him take it off. The air hit her skin, cool and electric.
He looked at her. Just looked. His hands hovered, trembling slightly, before he touched her—his palm flat against her stomach, then sliding up, tracing the curve of her ribs, the edge of her bra.
"You're so beautiful," he said.
She didn't know what to say to that. She kissed him instead, her hands finding the waistband of his shorts. He helped her push them down, his boxers following, and then he was bare beneath her, hard and warm against her thigh.
She felt her own body respond—a warmth spreading low in her belly, a dampness between her legs. She wanted him. Wanted to feel him inside her again, the way she had in the van.
"I don't have anything," he said, his voice strained. "I didn't think—"
"I don't care."
"Paige—"
"I don't care," she said again. "I trust you."
He closed his eyes. For a moment, he just held her, his forehead against hers, his breathing slow and shaky. Then he reached behind her and unclasped her bra. It fell away, and she felt his hands cup her breasts, his thumbs brushing her nipples, and she arched into him.
She reached down, her fingers closing around him. He was hot and smooth and hard, and he gasped when she touched him, his hands tightening on her hips.
"Careful," he breathed.
"I know." She guided him, slowly, feeling him press against her. She was wet, ready, and when he pushed inside her, she felt that same fullness she remembered from the van—that sense of being completely, perfectly filled.
He groaned, quiet and low, his forehead pressed to her shoulder. "God, Paige."
She moved. Slow at first, finding the rhythm. He moved with her, his hands on her hips, guiding her, and she felt the heat build between them, slow and steady, like a wave rising.
The bathroom was quiet except for their breathing, the soft sound of skin on skin, the occasional creak of the tub beneath them. Paige kept her eyes closed, focusing on the feeling of him inside her, the way his hands held her, the way he whispered her name like a prayer.
"I'm close," he said, his voice tight.
"Me too."
"Where do you want—"
"Inside," she said. "I want you inside."
He groaned, and she felt him pulse, felt the warmth spread through her, and it pushed her over the edge. She came with a soft cry, her body clenching around him, and he held her through it, his arms wrapped tight around her waist.
Afterward, they stayed like that, tangled together on the edge of the tub. Paige rested her head on his shoulder, her breathing slowly returning to normal. His hand traced lazy circles on her back.
"I love you," he said.
The words hung in the air, quiet and simple. Paige lifted her head and looked at him. His eyes were soft, open, vulnerable.
"I love you too," she said.
He kissed her forehead, then her nose, then her lips. "I've wanted to say that for a while."
"Why didn't you?"
"I didn't want to scare you off."
She laughed, quiet and warm. "You're not going to scare me off, Johnny."
"Good." He held her tighter. "Because I'm not going anywhere."
They stayed in the bathroom for a long time, talking in whispers, kissing between sentences. The tile was cold under her thighs, but she didn't care. She was exactly where she wanted to be.
At some point, she heard Jimmy shift in his sleep, and they went still, waiting. The snoring resumed, steady and loud.
"We should probably go back to our rooms," Johnny said, but he didn't let go of her.
"Probably."
Neither of them moved.
"Five more minutes," she said.
"Five more minutes."
He kissed her again, and the five minutes turned into ten, then twenty. When she finally slipped out of his room and padded back down the hallway, the sky outside the window was starting to lighten.
She opened the door to Room 114. Marla was asleep, curled on her side, the cards scattered across the bedspread.
Paige climbed into her own bed, the sheets cool against her warm skin. She could still feel him—the ghost of his hands, his mouth, his voice saying I love you.
She closed her eyes, smiling in the dark.
Paige slipped into the motel bed just as the first gray light crept through the curtains. Marla stirred, rolled over, and blinked at her with sleep-heavy eyes.
"You're back."
"Mm." Paige pulled the thin blanket up to her chin, her body still humming.
Marla was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Well?"
Paige pressed her smile into the pillow. "Good."
"Just good?"
"Really good."
Marla let out a soft laugh. "You're disgusting." But she said it like a compliment. She reached over in the dark and squeezed Paige's hand once, quick and warm. "I'm glad."
Paige held onto that small pressure even after Marla let go. She closed her eyes and felt Johnny's voice still in her chest—I love you—and she fell asleep holding it like a secret.
---
She woke to sunlight and the sound of Marla humming in the bathroom. The clock on the nightstand said 7:48. Paige sat up, her body stiff from the tub edge and the long night, but something warm and loose in her chest made it feel like she was floating.
"They're going to breakfast," Marla said, stepping out with her hair in a damp ponytail. "Your mom just knocked. Johnny's dad is taking everyone to Denny's."
Paige's stomach flipped. "Everyone?"
"Everyone." Marla met her eyes in the mirror. "You should probably come. Look normal."
Normal. Right. Paige swung her legs out of bed and pulled on the same jean shorts from yesterday. Nothing about this felt normal.
---
The Denny's booth was too small for eight people. Paige ended up squeezed between Marla and Jimmy, across from Johnny. Their knees touched under the table once, and she felt it all the way up her spine.
She ordered pancakes she didn't eat. She watched Johnny push his scrambled eggs around his plate, his jaw tight, his eyes drifting to her every few seconds. His dad said something about the tournament bracket and Johnny nodded without hearing it.
Under the table, Paige's hand found his. Their fingers laced together, hidden by the tablecloth, and neither of them said a word.
---
Back at the motel, everyone scattered to pack and shower. Paige caught Johnny's eye in the parking lot, and something passed between them—a question, an answer, a hunger that hadn't been satisfied yet.
She found him in her bathroom twenty minutes later. Marla was in 112 with Jimmy, supposedly helping him find his shoes. It was a thin excuse, but it was enough.
Johnny pressed her against the bathroom door, his mouth on hers, and the world went quiet. The tile was cold through her shirt. His hands found her waist, her hips, her skin. She pulled him closer, and they moved together in the narrow space between the sink and the tub, slow and desperate and full of everything they hadn't said.
Afterward, she rested her forehead against his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
"We should go," she whispered.
"I know."
Neither of them moved.
---
The tournament that Sunday was a disaster. Paige bowled a 78, then an 83. She couldn't focus on the pins—her eyes kept finding Johnny three lanes over, and every time she looked at him, she remembered how his hands felt on her skin.
He wasn't doing any better. She watched him leave a split, then another. His brother said something and Johnny shrugged, his ears red.
Their parents didn't notice. Or maybe they did. Paige's mom just patted her shoulder and said, "Long weekend, sweetheart."
Paige nodded and didn't correct her.
---
The van ride back to San Diego was six hours of summer heat and highway hum. Paige sat in the back row, and Johnny slid in next to her without a word. His dad was driving. His mom was in the passenger seat. Jimmy and Marla took the middle row.
For the first few miles, Paige kept her hands in her lap. Then Johnny's arm found its way around her shoulders, and she leaned into him, her head on his chest.
"You two cozy back there," Jimmy said, half-turning.
"Shut up," Johnny said. But his voice was soft, and he didn't move.
Paige felt his thumb trace a slow circle on her shoulder. She closed her eyes.
Nobody said anything else.
---
Somewhere past Temecula, Paige's hand found his. She threaded their fingers together on his thigh, and he squeezed once, tight, like he was afraid she'd disappear. She held on.
The sun was setting when they hit the outskirts of San Diego. Orange light poured through the windows, catching the dust in the air, making everything glow. Paige watched the highway unspool in front of them, and she thought about how far they'd come in two days. How different everything felt now.
She turned her head and looked at Johnny. His eyes were closed, his face peaceful. She watched his chest rise and fall, steady and warm against her cheek.
She didn't know what would happen when they got home. If they'd find ways to see each other. If the secret would hold. If this thing between them was real or just the heat of summer and a minivan.
But right now, in the back seat, with his arm around her and the sunset painting everything gold, she didn't care.
She pressed a kiss to his jaw, soft and quick.
His eyes opened. He looked at her, and something in his face softened—a quiet, private smile that was just for her.
"Hey," he said, his voice low.
"Hey."
He kissed her forehead. Then her nose. Then her lips, soft and slow, like they had all the time in the world.
In the front seat, his mom changed the radio station. The speakers crackled with static, then eased into something slow and twangy. Paige felt Johnny's arm tighten around her, and she let herself sink into him, into the rhythm of the highway, into the certainty that she would find a way back to this.
Outside, the sun bled orange and pink across the California sky.
Inside, she held his hand and didn't let go.
The van pulled up to Paige's house just as the last light bled out of the sky. The engine idled, rattling through the floorboards, and for a moment nobody moved.
"Alright, girls," Mr. McHale said, turning in his seat. His voice was tired, friendly. "Safe and sound."
Paige's chest tightened. She hadn't thought past this moment—the actual arrival, the having to get out, the having to say goodbye in front of everyone. Her hand was still in Johnny's, their fingers laced together on his thigh, and she could feel the heat of his palm against hers, real and solid and already starting to slip away.
"Thanks for having us, Mr. McHale," Marla said, her voice bright and easy. She was already unbuckling, gathering her bag, playing her part perfectly. "Come on, Paige."
Paige didn't move.
She felt Johnny's thumb press against her knuckles, once, soft. A question. Or maybe an answer.
"Paige," her mom called from the porch. The front door was open, light spilling out onto the lawn. "You coming in?"
"Yeah," Paige said. Her voice came out small. She cleared her throat. "Yeah, coming."
She let go of Johnny's hand. The absence hit her immediately—cold, wrong, like stepping out of a warm room into winter air. She grabbed her bag from the floor and slid across the seat toward the door.
Jimmy was already outside, stretching his arms over his head. Marla stood on the lawn, waiting, her bag slung over one shoulder. The van door was open, and the interior light was on, exposing everything.
Paige stepped out. The pavement felt hard under her feet. The night air smelled like cut grass and car exhaust and home.
She should just walk inside. That was the smart thing. That was the safe thing. Say goodnight, thank the McHales, disappear into her house and replay every second of the weekend in her head until she fell asleep.
She turned around.
Johnny was still in the back seat, half-leaning toward the open door, his hand resting on the edge of the seat. He wasn't looking at his brother or his parents. He was looking at her.
The porch light caught his face. His red hair was a mess, his eyes soft, his mouth slightly open like he was about to say something he hadn't figured out yet.
Paige's heart slammed against her ribs.
"Johnny," she said.
He blinked. "Yeah?"
She stepped back toward the van. One step. Two. She heard Marla say something behind her, low and surprised, but she couldn't make out the words. She heard Mr. McHale clear hef throat. She heard the radio playing something quiet from inside the van.
None of it mattered.
She leaned into the van, one hand on the door frame, and kissed him.
It wasn't deep. It wasn't long. It was quick—three seconds, maybe four—but she put everything into it. The pressure of her lips against his. The warmth of his mouth, soft and surprised. The way he inhaled through his nose, sharp, like she'd stolen his breath. She felt his hand find her wrist, fingers wrapping around her pulse point, and she thought she might die right there, in front of everyone, and it would be worth it.
Then she pulled back.
His eyes were wide. His lips were slightly parted. He looked like someone who'd just been struck by lightning and wasn't sure if he should be terrified or grateful.
"Goodnight, Johnny," she said.
His mouth moved, but no sound came out.
She stepped back. Closed the van door. The sound clicked shut, final and clean.
Behind her, she heard Jimmy let out a low whistle. She heard Mr. McHale say, "Alright, that's enough," in a voice that wasn't quite stern. She heard her mom call her name again, sharper this time, a question wrapped in a warning.
Paige walked up the front path. Her legs felt like they belonged to someone else. Her lips were tingling. Her whole body was buzzing, electric, alive in a way it had never been before.
She passed Marla, who was staring at her with wide eyes and a grin that was barely contained behind her hand.
"Paige," Marla whispered, falling into step beside her. "Oh my god."
"I know," Paige whispered back.
They reached the front door. Paige's mom was standing there, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. Behind her, the living room was warm and bright, the TV murmuring to itself.
"Inside," her mom said. "Both of you. We'll talk in the morning."
Paige stepped over the threshold. The door clicked shut behind her. She heard the van pull away, the engine fading down the street, and she felt a sharp ache open in her chest—loss and joy tangled together, impossible to separate.
She pressed her fingers to her lips.
She could still feel him.
---
In the van, Johnny sat in the back seat, staring at the door Paige had just closed.
Jimmy was turned around in his seat, grinning like an idiot. "Dude."
Johnny didn't answer. He couldn't. His heart was hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat, in his temples, in the tips of his fingers. He touched his mouth, barely, like he was checking if it was still there.
She kissed me, he thought. In front of everyone. She kissed me.
His dad glanced in the rearview mirror. His mom was quiet, her hands folded in her lap, staring out the windshield.
"Johnny," his dad said. "You want to tell me what that was?"
Johnny took a breath. Then another. He could still taste her—cherry lip gloss, warm and sweet.
"No, sir," he said. "I really don't."
His dad held his gaze for a long moment. Then he shook his head, almost imperceptibly, and pulled away from the curb.
Johnny leaned his head against the window and watched Paige's house shrink in the side mirror until it was just a speck of light, then nothing at all.
He smiled.
He couldn't help it.
The van turned onto Johnny's street. The streetlights flickered past, painting the inside of the car in alternating gold and shadow. Johnny's hand was still pressed to his mouth, the ghost of Paige's kiss burning on his lips like a brand he never wanted to lose.
Jimmy had stopped grinning. He was watching their dad's eyes in the rearview mirror now, reading the silence the same way Johnny was—carefully, the way you read a room before you know if you're in trouble.
Their mom hadn't said a word since they left Paige's house. She sat with her hands folded, staring straight ahead, her jaw set in something that could have been disappointment or could have been exhaustion. Johnny couldn't tell. He'd never been able to tell with her.
The garage door rattled open. The van pulled in. The engine cut off, and the sudden silence was louder than anything.
"Inside," their dad said. "Both of you. Bed."
Jimmy slid out first, shooting Johnny one last look—part sympathy, part curiosity—before disappearing through the side door. Their mom followed, her heels clicking on the concrete, not looking back.
Johnny stayed in his seat for a long moment. His hands were still shaking. Not from fear. From her. From the way she'd kissed him like she owned him, like she'd been saving it up for years and finally decided to spend it all at once.
He got out of the van.
His dad was waiting by the door to the house, one hand on the frame, his face unreadable in the dim light from the kitchen.
"Johnny," he said. "Come here a second."
Johnny's stomach dropped. He walked over, ready for the lecture. For the disappointment. For the words he'd been dreading since the moment Paige's lips touched his—you're too old for her, you should know better, what were you thinking.
His dad looked at him for a long time. Then he did something Johnny didn't expect.
He smiled.
"You know," his dad said, his voice low, almost conspiratorial, "I've been waiting for that to happen for about six months."
Johnny blinked. "What?"
His dad leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. His face softened into something Johnny rarely saw—not fatherly advice, not discipline, but something closer to recognition. Like he was remembering something from his own life.
"I've known Phil Moretti for fifteen years," his dad said. "We played on the same bowling team back when you were a baby. He's a good man. And his daughter—" He paused, shook his head. "That girl's been looking at you like you hung the moon since she was old enough to know what that look meant."
Johnny's throat tightened. "Dad, I—"
"I'm not finished." His dad held up a hand, but there was no edge to it. "I saw you two at the alley tonight. The way you kept finding each other. The way she looked at you when she thought no one was watching." He let out a quiet laugh. "I was your age once, Johnny. I remember what that feels like. The first girl who makes you feel like you're the only person in the world."
Johnny didn't know what to say. He'd braced for anger, for consequences. He hadn't braced for this.
"Her parents like you," his dad continued. "I know because Phil's told me. He's said more than once that he'd rather have you dating his daughter than any boy he's ever met." He scratched the back of his neck. "Your mom's going to need time. She's protective. She sees you as her baby boy, and she's not ready to share you with anyone. But she'll come around."
"How do you know?" Johnny asked. His voice cracked, just barely.
His dad smiled again, softer this time. "Because I'll talk to her. And because she loves you more than she loves being right." He reached out and put a hand on Johnny's shoulder, firm and warm. "You're a good kid, Johnny. You've got a good head on your shoulders. And that girl back there—" He nodded toward the street, toward the house they'd left behind. "She's special. I can tell."
Johnny's eyes burned. He blinked hard, looking down at his shoes.
"Thanks, Dad."
"Don't thank me yet. Your mom's going to give you the silent treatment for at least three days. Maybe four." His dad squeezed his shoulder once, then let go. "But when she's ready to talk, you tell her the truth. You tell her that girl matters to you. And you be patient."
"I will."
His dad nodded, satisfied. "Go get some sleep. You've got a big day tomorrow."
"What's tomorrow?"
"Nothing." His dad's grin turned sly. "I just wanted to see if you'd ask."
Johnny huffed a laugh, shaking his head, and stepped inside.
The house was quiet. Dark. Jimmy's door was closed. His parents' room was closed too. The hallway stretched ahead of him, familiar and strange all at once, like he was seeing it for the first time through new eyes.
He walked to his room. Closed the door. Sat on the edge of his bed.
The phone buzzed.
Johnny answered. It was her.
Then:
“I'm glad it was you”.
And she hung up. Johnny thought of her words five times. Then ten. Then he pressed the phone to his chest, closed his eyes, and let himself feel the full weight of what had just happened—what had been happening all night, all week, all month, ever since the first time she'd looked at him and he'd known, deep down, that he was never going to be the same.
Somewhere across town, in a house with a warm living room and a mother who had questions she wasn't ready to ask, Paige Moretti was lying in the dark thinking of him.
And for the first time in his life, Johnny McHale understood what it meant to be completely, utterly, irrevocably gone for someone.