Wicked Restless

Come on, Emma. Look out your goddamned window.

I look for another rock, but hear the sound of her window sliding open.

“Andrew?” she says in a loud whisper. “What the hell are you doing?”

I smile and let the small stones I’ve just found fall from my fingers. I stretch my arms to either side of me and almost laugh.

“I have no idea,” I grin. “Come down.”

She pauses and looks at me for a few seconds, her hair blowing along either side of her face as she leans out the window. I am kissing this girl tonight. I am kissing her, and I don’t care if she hits me because of it. I’m tasting those lips, and I will savor every second I get of it before she smacks me across the face.

“Hang on,” she says, pulling her window shut again. Her light stays on, so I’m not sure whether to look at her window or wait for her at the front door. Finally, I hear the sound of her door opening, so I jog over to her the porch. She locks the door behind her and ushers me to follow her closer to my car along the street.

“Oh my god, what are you doing here?” she asks, her eyes lit up, glowing silver. She’s smiling. She’s smiling because she’s happy to see me.

I…make her happy.

“I missed you,” I admit. Those words hit my chest the second they leave my lips, and I feel both free and terrified at the same time. My hands go deep into my pockets on instinct, and my legs feel numb.

And then her lip ticks up on one side.

“I missed you, too,” she says, her voice soft, not wanting to wake anyone. “Let’s get out of here.”

I don’t hesitate, running to the passenger door and working it open so she can get inside. The sight of her actually in my passenger seat is so much better than the version I had going on in my head. I close the door and run to my side, getting in quickly and shutting the door carefully. I know the engine is going to make a loud sound, so I wince when I crank it, but pull away slowly, hoping I didn’t disturb her parents.

“I hope I don’t get you in any trouble,” I say, looking in the rearview mirror, as if I could tell by looking in the one-inch reflection if her parents were awake and catching her escape.

“Me too,” she giggles.

She’s wearing this plaid shirt with long sleeves, and it’s big on her, like it’s her father’s. Her legs are in a pair of tight black jeans, her feet wearing the pink Converse that I use to track her in PE. She’s holding her hands over the vent in front of her, warming them, and I wish I didn’t have to drive this car so I could reach over and warm them within my own.

I drive until we get to a forest preserve, pulling off into the parking lot, not really knowing what I’m doing. I have no plan. I just had to see her. And when she told me to go, I went.

“So…” I say, then let my breath fall into a nervous laugh. I’m gripping the steering wheel for strength, knowing I can’t just kiss her now, but god do I want to.

“So,” she says, pulling her seatbelt off and turning sideways in her seat. She pulls her knees up into her body, her feet flat along the center console. She looks cramped and uncomfortable.

I stare at her shoes for a few seconds, thinking of my life a few hours ago, when an older girl wanted to hook up with me and draped her legs over my lap without invitation. This scene—it’s a million times sexier, maybe because I have to work for it.

With timid hands, I reach to the heel of one shoe, my eyes moving to hers briefly before coming back to her foot. She’s watching me, but she isn’t stopping me. I cup the back of one shoe in my hand and lift her foot from the console and pull it toward me. I let my hand move from her shoe to the back of her leg, my fingers shaking nervously, as if I could break her leg if I were to drop it.

Emma gives in easily, giving me complete control, her muscles relaxing, and I move first one leg then the other to my lap. She eases into the side of her door slowly, her hands clinging to one another in her own lap. I let out a short breath when the weight of her sinks into me, and I rest my hands along the soft denim over her legs, sliding them up and stopping at her knee. That knee. I squeeze it once, and she twitches with a giggle.

“Ticklish,” she smirks.

“Good to know,” I say, my head tilted to the side, my eyes unable to look away from her.

There are so many things I want to know, so many little facts I need to memorize about this girl. But I can’t take my eyes from her lips; I know I can’t kiss them yet, so I look back down at my hands, letting them run down the length of her leg to her ankles. Her ankles to her knees—that’s my line.