Smoke & Gravel

You're the last person I expect to see in my spot under the bleachers, sitting on the gravel, your perfect, golden hair gleaming in the small sliver of sunlight piercing through the risers above us. You pull the cigarette from your mouth and exhale a puff of sweet-smelling smoke. The cough you unsuccessfully attempt to conceal exposes your fraud. You don't smoke.

"Want a drag?"

Your voice is the same smooth baritone I've grown accustomed to, but there's an edge present that hasn't been there before.

I clumsily accept the cigarette from your graceful fingers, trying to appear unaffected. But you affect everything. Always have.

The rocks bite into my flesh as I sit next to you and take a drag, just enough to make it look real. I don't smoke, either. I can't tell you that, of course. It would ruin my bad girl reputation. Plus, I'd probably have to explain why I spend my lunch period alone under the bleachers if it's not to smoke. Screw that.

"So what's a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?" You chuckle at my corny line and my chest squeezes at the deep, warm sound.

"I'm waiting for you."

"Why?" I'm genuinely perplexed. I don't understand what you could possibly want from me now, the very last day of our high school experience.

"I'm running out of time." Your explanation is no explanation at all, just an invitation for more questions I can't ask, because you raise your hand to my cheek, the contact creating a spark that ignites the words in my head, turning them to ash. You gaze down at me with an expression I don't recognize. It's disconcerting; I thought I had your facial expressions memorized.

Your eyes darken. My pulse quickens. Even the atmosphere changes. The thick air buzzes around us as if it's charged with electricity. The moment feels ... significant. I take care to commit the details to memory.

You lower your face and rest your forehead against mine before you speak.

"I want to kiss you." Those are now my five favorite words.

You stare, eyes wide and hands trembling. You seem nervous, like I might reject you.

"Okay." My shaky voice exposes my emotion. Traitor.

Your lips brush mine, tentatively at first. When I feel your tongue at the seam of my lips, I gasp, welcoming the taste of cinnamon and tobacco.

I circle my arms around your neck and entangle my fingers in your soft curls, a dream I've had since spending most of freshman biology staring at the back of your head.

When you pull away and graze your thumb across my still-tingling bottom lip, I sigh, my mouth mourning the loss of yours, my heart recognizing the imminent danger. I'm teetering on the edge of a precipice, admonishing myself.

You don't even know this boy.

He's probably using you.

Guard your heart.

It's no use. I look into your eyes and fall anyway.