The Kiss | Part 6

I owe you a week’s worth of apologies. I AM SO LATE on Part 6 that I could cry of shame.

(I thought about it. But actually decided that I could make up for it by, you know, ACTUALLY POSTING Part 6)

But before I can kick that off, I just want to STOP YOU.

HAVE YOU READ ALL THE PREVIOUS PARTS YET?

If you haven’t, catch up right now before we head into Part 6.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Now that’s that settled. Let’s talk about what we came here for…

PARTE. SEIS. (Yes, I like to show my Spanish skills from time to time)

We’re picking up where Kayla left off in the coffee shop, but this chapter, we’re heading back in time with Deacon.

To a surprising birthday.

With an even more surprising revelation.

READ PART 6 of THE KISS below:

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DEACON

Kayla’s birthday

Eleven years old

I was late. And she was going to be home any second.

Sweat dribbled down my neck in rivets, little rivers that pooled at the nape of my t-shirt. The picture of Ironman on my shirtfront was soaked through because of the hot June sun, and though the salty drops at my brows stung my eyes as they dripped, though my lungs ached from the long mile I was running down the paved street, I still didn’t stop.

Couldn’t.

Because if I did, I wouldn’t make it back in time before my Grandmama walked in that front door.

I counted the slaps of my footfalls against the pavement, my heart racing the entire time, my ankles stinging from the hardened impact.

I could barely breathe.

Twenty minutes before, I’d begged Grandmama to lend me her set of keys to the Jacksons house. Standing inside her paint-chipped kitchen walls, I’d watched her stern green eyes glaze over my pleas, her dark frizzy hair standing on end as she sat at the only table, flicking the ashes off a lone cigarette.

I squirmed on my feet.

“Grandmama, please,” I implored.

“Pumpernickel, no,” she repeated for the fourth time. “You know I wish I could. But I work for the Jacksons. They trust me. I’m only allowed to use this key for the days when I clean the house.”

I rolled my eyes. “You mean, mansion.”

She shot me a hardened look. “Mansion. Yes, the Jacksons do live in a mansion. And I don’t think they would like their house cleaner’s grandson running through their mansion all willy-nilly and what-not. Besides…” she motioned towards the heavily scratched walls. “We have our own palace here, don’t you think?”

I whined even more, walking to the fridge, which I knew was mostly empty. My grandmother barely made enough money from the Jacksons as it was. I often wondered what it would be like to live like a Jackson.

To not worry when and where next week’s meal would come from.

I’m still wondering when Grandmama called over my shoulder just before I can open the refrigerator door.

“By the way, your father called, ‘Nickel.”

I muttered under my breath. “Which one?”

I heard her sigh. “You know which one. My son. Your actual father. The one who used to wipe your little tushy when you…”

“Alright, alright, I got it!”

I covered my ears with the palms, trying to block out the sound of her hearty, smoky laugh as I thought of both of my fathers—the real one and the one who was pretending to be.

My ex-stepfather Stan said he wanted to help; I didn’t need his help.

 Besides, he had a kid of his own. And he’d made it very clear that the family he’d built with my mother was the one that mattered.

I’d take care of myself…and Grandmama. Especially now that Daddy had run off somewhere. I’d heard rumors around the neighborhood that he was in New York, running odd jobs. Gallivanting, as Grandmama liked to call it.

And Mama was…gone.

I opened the refrigerator, finding a lone red apple on a shelf. I snatched it, sinking my teeth into it as I thought of Mr. Jackson, the one father I wouldn’t mind having.

 Maybe I wouldn’t have had to sell so many lemonades at my makeshift stand to buy the present sitting on the kitchen counter.

I looked over at it.

Wrapped in rainbow-colored gift paper that was more wrinkled than Grandmama’s face, it laid there—a large pointy-edged square, hiding the Emily Bronte book beneath.

I’d heard Kayla mention the book too many times to count and when our local library had a book sale, I’d nearly peed my pants when I saw the title on the big book. I’d fished out half of my lemonade money from my pocket, handing it right over to place the book in my backpack.

And I didn’t even know what a “Wuthering” was.

Even looking at the book in Grandmama’s kitchen two days later brought a big smile to my face. The smile was quickly replaced by a frown as I wondered what I would do without those keys.

I set the apple down.

“But Grandmama, Mrs. Jackson has been at the spa all day today. And Mr. Jackson is in New York on business. Kayla comes home in a couple of hours!” I whined my case.

“Even more of a reason not to give you those keys, ’Nickel.” She gazed at me with a glint in her green eyes, her fleshy arms folding. Still sucking on that single white cigarette, she blew smoke in the air, the kitchen filling with a cloud of that sickly-smelling stuff. She snuffed out the rest, smashing the butt into a dark gray, ash tray and still I held my ground, keeping my chin high as she had always advised me. 

Always. 

She titled her head. “And pray tell, ‘Nickel: Who will bail you out once you’re arrested for breaking and entering into the Jacksons’ house?”

“Um, you?”

“Yeah, right,” she scoffed on a laugh, her pale jowls shaking just a bit. “I don’t think the Kansas City police department will take couch lint for payment.”

“But I promise I won’t be willy-billy or whatever in the house!”

She laughed even harder at that.

“I know you want to give Kayla your present. I know how much you love her.”

I scrunched my nose. “I don’t love her, Grandmama. She’s just my best friend.”

My grandmother picked up a stray tea cup on the table, pressing it to her lips. “You can love a best friend,” she said over the edge.

“Unh unh.” I shook my head, imagining Kayla’s face. “Kayla says you can’t. We even wrote rules about this stuff, Grandmama June. Or, well…Kayla wrote rules about it. Kayla says rules are important.”

I wasn’t sure I agreed, but Batman did have rules; so did Superman. And if rules were good enough for the Justice League, they might work for me.

And besides that, I couldn’t love Kayla. Who could love a girl? 

Her eyes were too wide, too blue—her dark hair too curly.

She looked a little like a doll, and sometimes she even smelled like one, her shampoo often stinking of oranges.

I liked playing with her, of course. Liked talking to her, especially about my dad, who was never around. But loving her?

Well, that was just silly.

 I shot Grandmama an annoyed look. “I like her all right. But I don’t love her. I don’t love any girl.”

Grandmama grinned. “Have you kissed her?”

“Are you crazy?!” I almost screamed, forgetting my manners. I lowered my voice as Grandmama stared to glare. “No way. Never,” I emphasized. “Not ever. Best friends aren’t supposed to kiss! That goes against rule number five!”

“My mistake,” she said, holding her reddened palms into the air. The smile never left her lips. “Tell you what…” She rocked slightly in her chair. “Since it’s your birthday, too, when I come back from the store, and when Kayla makes it back home, I’ll drive you right over there so you can give her her birthday present, okay?” 

She creaked her way to a stand. I could tell her back was hurting, the way it always did on hot days like this, but she managed to make it to her feet. I reached for her pills, but she already had them in her hand, popping one.

My eyes stung at the look of pain on her face, but she glanced at me and smiled. I smiled back.

“Oh, ‘Nickel,” she remarked, her voice lowering. “What am I going to do with you?”

She reached out for a one-armed hug and I fell into it. Her hand wrapped around me and I glanced up at her.

“Pass me your keys?” I responded, arching an eyebrow. Her smile widened and she leaned in, kissing my face, smelling a bit like moth balls and lavender. 

A smell distinct to only her. A smell that, though sometimes stung my nose hairs, still smelled like home.

I grinned.

And still five minutes later when Grandmama hopped behind the wheel of her beaten-up brown Toyota, I swiped the keys from dresser, heading to Kayla’s house, my precious copy of Wuthering Heights tucked under my arm.

And fifteen minutes later, I was running back, hot breath emitting in huffs as I sprinted back to Grandmama’s house. My plan hadn’t gone smoothly.

Not even a little bit. The book never made it to Kayla’s bedroom. 

It was dropped, left behind under the sanctity of Mr. Jackson’s office sofa where I’d had to hid when he’d stepped into the house with a woman who wasn’t Mrs. Jackson attached to his lips.

I’d ducked into his office, doing everything I could to avoid him.

Ten very loud minutes later, he and the woman were gone, and I was what Grandmama called “hauling tail” at the speed of light.

Grandmama was right and wrong about a couple of things.

I should have never gone to the Jacksons house. She was right about that. But she was wrong about Kayla and me. Best friends aren’t supposed to kiss.

But they also aren’t supposed to tell lies. And I wondered if this was the one time I could.

__________

We’re getting so far into The Kiss before its official release.

How are you liking it so far?

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And peek in NEXT WEDNESDAY in Part 7 after a close encounter in the back of a coffee shop changes everything between two friends.

Can’t wait to see you back here next week for more of THE KISS.

Hope you’re having the greatest Wednesday!