It is nighttime. We're alone in a park or somewhere, running from the cops. Lost them at least a mile back. I put my hands on my knees, panting, my blond hair falling in my face, the way it does when I'm careless. I take one last deep breath and push it out of the way, back behind my ears. Wipe the sweat from my brow and my upper lip.
He stands up, too. Pushes pack his white-blond hair and stretches his arms up to the sky. He's got these great arms, strong and powerful. They're on the long side for his height, but he's got broad shoulders for his height, too, and he's narrow-hipped and long-legged and so, so tough-looking.
He looks at me. And that face, oh, that face. Beautiful. Perfect. Finely-drawn. Not meant for this world. His tough, menacing look almost daring me.
He's caught me at a weak moment, I suppose. Not so long after Sandy let me know exactly what kind of girl she is.
And I think, in a split second, of all the girls I turned down because of her. Girls who came to see me every day. Girls who complimented me and teased me often. Girls who hung around pretending to like cars, girls who made my little brother think I was a god or something, girls I didn't even bother to entertain because of Sandy. That bitch.
And then, in a split second, I can't even bring myself to think that about her. Or anything.
All I think about is his hand cupping the back of my arm, his breath on my forehead, his shoulders in front of me, his beautiful mouth, and that face, oh, that face.
It happened before. The first kiss. The way he looked at me one night, while I was with Sandy still. It scared the shit out of me, but then in the end I just looked back, and everything was right. We kissed just once then, and it left me feeling confused as hell for the next week or so, until I convinced myself that it was a dream or something. Or he was high. Or drunk.
But first kisses are not the same as second kisses. First kisses are awkward and unexpected, and somebody says something wrong or does something wrong, and both people are left wondering if the other really meant it. Second kisses, though-- those are magic. You make a choice to kiss somebody again because you care or because you like them or because you're lonely, or for whatever reason. You choose them AGAIN. On purpose.
"Dallas," I whisper, and I am gone. Lost in his eyes, his mouth. On purpose. His tongue moving slowly against mine, his hands sliding down to the small of my back, then under just the waist of my pants, just far enough in to make me gasp. He smiles; I am trembling.
"Sodapop?" he says finally.
"Yeah?"
"Love you."