Beneath

7 ANOTHER KISS (BARELY)

C A M I L A

Billy Idol's Eyes Without a Face filters through the walls, the old stereo in the kitchen offering a soundtrack to my internal meltdown.

Hidden in my room, I pace barefoot in baggy sweatpants and an equally loose hoodie. My hair is pulled back, clean from the shower, and I've brushed my teeth three times. My skin smells like the coconut cream I slathered on in an attempt to calm down, but it has not worked.

The music shifts, the next song coming through, sensual and soul-pounding guitar. Wicked Game by Chris Isaak.

With a deep breath, I venture out.

Stepping into the hallway, I creep around and see Noah at the sink, damp purple sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He hums along, off-key but endearing. His hair is pushed back, a few strands falling over his forehead. There's another small scar on his neck, and a dark beauty mark next to it. It's the little things that get me. I'm drunk on the urge to touch him. Drunk on the urge to let him touch me. 

I lean against the door frame, arms crossed, then uncrossed, then crossed again. "I'm so sorry you got stuck with this."

Noah dries his hands on a dish towel. "Hey, Rocky." He turns fully to me, gesturing for me to come closer with a finger.

My body just... listens.

I stop about a foot away.

He nods to the counter behind me. "Hop up."

"Um, okay," I murmur, shuffling back until my lower back hits the edge. Jumping up, I shift a bit, my legs hanging.

Am I in a time-out?

Noah leans back against the sink. "You have good taste in music."

"Most of it was my dad's stuff." I pick up my heavy textbook so my hands have something to do. "He died when I was eight. Sometimes I can't listen to his music. Other times, I can't stop."

"I understand." Noah's gaze is fixed on me. "My dad died in a helicopter crash. We were up north, looking at grizzlies, part of his job. I'd been begging to go, so he took me up in the air. Then the pilot had a stroke." His eyes shut briefly. "I was in the woods, half-conscious, for two days before they found me." He touches the scar lightly, an unconscious gesture. "Glass. A lot of glass."

I allow myself to stare for the first time. It looks painful. I hope it's not.

"Anyway, Dad was a cook at heart. Nigerian dishes—spiced, colourful, fantastic. For the first few years after he was gone, I refused to eat anything remotely like it. Now, I can't stop." Noah's eyes meet mine, hardened on the surface, pained beneath. "Do you have a boyfriend, Camila?" 

I swallow hard, shaking my head. 

"If someone were interested in you," he says, pushing off the sink to step closer, "would you be open to it?"

My heart races, the book slipping through my sweating palms. "I don't think about that kind of thing."

"I'm asking you to think about it."

Noah steps in and takes the book from my hands, setting it carefully beside me. Then he grabs the counter on either side, putting himself between my legs—legs that shift just enough to let him.

He's so close, half his face lit gently by the kitchen light on the right, the other half shadowed.

"What are you afraid of? Is it me?"

"The apocalypse," I say. "And Jed."

"The latter is scarier."

"I'm... not experienced. You came out of left field."