We chose a table in the shade, under a tree with purple flowers on it. It was late afternoon—after five o’clock—but still sunny and hot, and my bare arms and legs were sticky with sweat. I was staring down at the steak taco, garnished simply with chopped onion and a burst of cilantro, when he lifted my chin with his finger and kissed me square on the lips.
It wasn’t my first kiss. But it was by far the best. He tasted like lime, and I remembered him sucking on one while we waited for our order. He had offered me one, too, and I waved it away—too sour! But on his lips, it was sweet as candy.
It was a soft, open-mouth kiss. His tongue flicked gently under my upper lip, but not in an aggressive way. I’m pretty sure I kissed him back, at least enough so that he would know I didn’t mind. As he pulled away, he let his nose press against mine, lingering a few seconds like we were Lady and the Tramp. I had a good nose, strong and straight, same as my dad, and I often thanked him for passing that one perfect feature on to me.
“I wanted to do that since the first moment I saw you,” Logan said. It was a clichéd line, but I fell for it, because I’d felt the same way. “Thought I’d better do it before we both had taco breath.” I tried not to think about Dad in that moment—how he’d tell me to be careful, take it slow, don’t give too much away. I’d always rolled my eyes when he talked to me about boys, but I’d have given anything to hear another one of his dumb dad-talks, that day or any day.
Logan held up the plate to offer me a taco. I picked the steak—ombré pink-to-brown strips hugged by a misshapen corn tortilla. And, for reasons not related to the taste, it was the best taco I’d ever had.
Later, when he was driving me home, he reached for my hand and didn’t let go for the whole twenty minutes it took to get to my house. His hand was big and warm, and for the first time since Dad was gone I felt safe, like someone had my back again. When we pulled up to my house, we kissed again, taco breath and all.
“I’d better go,” I said when I came up for air. He made a frowny face, and I laughed. “Unlike you, I still have homework.”
“When can I see you again?” he asked, placing his hand softly on my thigh.
“Um . . . tomorrow at track practice?” I said. Duh!
“No, I mean . . . like this.” He skimmed my thigh with the back of his hand, and I got goose bumps all over.
“Whenever you want,” I said.
He kissed me again. “How about now?” he said, his mouth exploring the nape of my neck.
“Except for now,” I said, playfully squirming out of the reach of his lips.
“I want us to be a thing,” he said. “I’m really into you.” I didn’t say it, but I was really into him, too. But I was on the track team, and he was a coach. I was already lying about so many things, I didn’t want to have to lie about this, too.
“What about Coach Cooper?” I asked. “I don’t think he’d approve.” I loved being on the track team. It made me feel special, like I was part of something. Plus when I was counting steps, I didn’t have room to think about Dad, how he was gone forever, or how disappointed he’d be in me for what I’d done. I wanted to hang out with Logan, but not if it meant getting kicked off the team.
“I’ll quit coaching,” he said. I must have looked alarmed, because he added, “It’s not like they’re paying me. I just did it because my dad wanted me to take a gap year, and I had nothing else to do.” I couldn’t tell if he was serious. We’d had one date. Hardly enough to know if it would become anything more.
“Why’d he want you to take a gap year?” I asked. I’d heard of kids taking a year off to sock some money away, but Logan didn’t look and act like a guy who couldn’t afford to go to college. For one thing, he had a nice car—a newish Ford Expedition with all the bells and whistles. Plus he spent his afternoons volunteering. If he needed money, he’d be working at a real job. “You in AA or something?” I joked, then suddenly wished I hadn’t. Oh my God, what if he is?
But he didn’t take offense. “I skipped a grade,” he said, pointing to his noggin. Then in a forced, low-octave voice he added, “He wants me to mature a little. I’m only seventeen.”
This was startling to me. “You’re only seventeen?” I said, making no attempt to hide my shock.
“You’re only sixteen!” he shot back, then laughed. Maybe it should have struck me as weird that he knew how old I was, or that he was volunteer-coaching high school track instead of going to Harvard, but I wasn’t in a suspicious mood. Most juniors were sixteen, and plenty of kids volunteered in their gap year, especially if they didn’t need a paying job.