Chapter Nineteen

Are You In?

We arrive late, or early, if Libby's to be believed.

Apparently turning up before eleven is completely amateur, which Max and I both are and it makes me feel even more nervous about tonight.

Conning mine and Libby's parents into a sleepover switch-a-roo is one thing, but actually having to look and be cool at a stranger's party is something else entirely nerve-wracking.

Leading us along the pathway to an imposing house, set far back from the road, Libby moans at us for looking like we're about to enter a lion's den.

"It's a party guys, try and look like you're at least up for having some fun," she drawls, ringing the comically large bell next to a huge oak front door.

"Trying," Max says, fussing about with his shirt cuffs and then his hair, which is pushed back into a messy quiff. "Kind of hard when you're technically crashing it though."

"Maybe they're not in," I try and joke, when no one comes to the door.

To my side, Max sarcastically mumbles what a shame and Libby shoots him a withering look.

Our mutual apprehension and reluctance to be here builds when she rings the bell again, but it's soon squashed as the door swings open and we're greeted with drunken apathy. A guy with spiky blond hair smiles and turns to re-join the party.

As we slip in, I realise that everyone's past the point of caring because their far beyond the point of being sober enough too.

"Have fun then," Libby grins, pulling a bottle of peach schnapps from her backpack. "Enjoy."

I half nod as Max wedges himself against the hallway wall while a group of guys charge through, holding a crate of beer aloft and their t-shirts.

Before Libby can disappear into the living room to join them and others that filter in, I remind her to meet us in the garden in an hour or so. And as she giddily unscrews the cap from her schnapps I make her promise she won't drink too much.

"Yes mum," she snorts and then she's gone, leaving Max looking horribly awkward and me with the knowing feeling that she won't listen to a word I've said.

Bumping into his arm as the music pulses so loud it makes my skin tingle and chest swell, I point towards the kitchen and open doors for the garden. "Ready for the biggest party before prom?"

Max laughs at my impression of Libby and nods. "If I must." And he follows behind and cracks jokes over the roar of music about the state of the young high schoolers and sixth formers we pass.

It's a battle to reach the other side and we hover in the corner of the large kitchen for a while, trying to plan for our escape.

"We might be stuck here all night," Max groans when two girls climb on top of the breakfast table and start to kiss, egged on by drunk boys and girls who circle. Jokily, Max covers his eyes and lifts his hand over mine.

"You never let me have any fun," I giggle, feeling the warmth of his fingertips and palm over my face.

"Don't want you getting any ideas," he says, with what I've no doubt is a big grin. When he pulls away I want to poke the dimples, deep in his cheeks but I resist and busy myself and hands with finding something to drink that isn't 90% proof or made from paint stripper.

Max helps me locate an unopened beer and I water it down into a plastic cup with lemonade while he grabs a Coke from the unattended fridge full of expensive cheeses and posh wine that only parents drink.

"Dude, you in?" A guy shouts over, pouring out shots and spreading cards across the table for Ring of Fire.

"Not for that," Max replies.

The guy shrugs. "What about the girl?"

I shake my head hard and pray for him to turn his attentions back to the game. When he finally does, Max jokes about me having a new admirer.

"I don't think so."

"Well, I know that you're going to hate me for this, but you do look really great tonight," Max rests his elbows against the sink counter, eyeing up the side plait Libby helped me with and the ruby red gloss across my lips. "Not that you normally don't, I mean, you always look kick ass and pretty."

I blush from my head to my toes, and almost spit out a mouthful of beer. "Thanks."

"Only telling it like it is."

"You look nice," I offer back, though it sounds less genuine, like a semi-polite afterthought. "I like your shirt and your hair, it's a bit different tonight."

"Yeah, I brushed it." Max begins to yank at the collar of his shirt. "And I have this in a variety of colours if you hadn't already of noticed."

I laugh into the rim of the cup and take a long sip, so I don't have to look at his hair or eyes or any part of him that makes my legs tingle.

Raising his voice over the almost deafening music, Max says, "Don't tell Libby I said this, but I guess it's kind of cool to do something different for once, even if we are crashing a high school party."

"We're so old," I joke, clinking my beer against his can. "But you're right. If you block out the girls only kissing for attention and all the boys acting like cavemen and the smoke and the crappy music, it is kind of fun for a Saturday night out of the house."

"We're almost normal!" He toasts.

"Almost."

He smiles and reaches for my hand. "That's good enough for me."

My fingers weave through the gaps as he slowly pulls away from the kitchen counter and gestures at a clear pathway to the patio doors.

"Now's our chance," he laughs, not letting go.

And I go with the flow, all the while only wishing he meant something else.

* * *

Once upon a time, when I would come home and cry about not getting an invite to a classmates house party, I pictured them to be glamorous things with dancing and great music, and cute guys.

But this is hell.

For the fifth time in less than an hour, Max is down on his hands and knees, sweeping up broken glass with paper towels swiped from the kitchen. We make trips back and forth from the recycling bin, dodging sickly splatters and couples groping up against walls or in bushes.

No one is handling their drink that well, and though we've been having fun joking about what we're seeing all around us, it's obvious that at some point it'll all end badly.

Which isn't far from how it feels to still have questions about Sophia and last summer knocking round my head. Fodder for conversation or perhaps better not. Sitting this close to Max with the scent of his aftershave making me dizzy and feeling the warmth from his hand close to mine is about as much as I can take right now.

And it would be nice if I could stop picturing a different outcome from our last trip to the beach but I can't.

I think about kissing Max pretty much non-stop now. And it sucks.

"So, I just heard a kid say that a neighbour's called the police," Max sighs, interrupting my thoughts for a few seconds. "Maybe that's our cue to find Libby and get the hell out of here."

"Sounds like a plan." I sink the last of my beer and nestle the bottle between the shrubbery. "But maybe easier said then done."

We both glance up at the house with all it's lights on and the people spilling out and in, against a soundtrack of bass and dup-step. Max grimaces at the sound and I know he's itching to wrap his eardrums around some guitar driven rock.

"Do you think it's wise to go back in?"

Peeling my hair away from my face and the humid night air, I shrug. "Probably not, but she leaves us no other choice. I'd happily bet that she's totally forgotten we're even here."

"Yeah, a tenner says she's finished her schnapps and is comatose or up on the dining room table like everyone else is right now." He points ahead at a window offering a glimpse into another section of the party, as light fitting swings under the weight of girls and boys yanking at it for support.

"Oh god!"

With hands up to our mouths, just waiting for it to end badly, shrill laugher echoes up the pathway, past the pond and I jerk round.

Libby stumbles down, without shoes on. When she see's us she waves and slurs about thinking we'd left without her. She seems cross.

"Where did you go?" She accuses, swaying. Her eyes are all droopy.

Max rolls his and says with all the patience of a saint, "Nowhere. Josie and I have been here, in the garden, like we said, for the past two and a half hours."

"Well I didn't see you!"

I duck away from her flying limbs and pat the space next to me on the wall. "Just sit down before you fall over."

"I'm fine. I'm fine."

"And I'm Johnny Depp," Max mumbles, standing to offer help in case she really isn't.

Once Libby's less wobbly and less aggressive, she rests her head against my shoulder and hiccups. "So, what's you two been doing?" And then she smears her mouth to the back of her hand, over and over until it's covered in lipgloss.

"You're drunk."

"You're drunk," she accuses, giggling. Max only has to give a quick look for me to know it's time to leave the party and drag her back to the car.

When he gently lifts her arms, she apologises to me and winks. "This isn't what it looks like Josie. I have a boyfriend, you know."

As she continues to alternate between giggly hiccups and sweary slurs, I ignore her comments and take the other side and we slowly escape through the side door out onto the driveway.

In the car, all the way home she sings along to the radio, even when Max turns it off so we both don't return with a headache. And it takes all our strength to get her in the door of his house and into the kitchen for a big glass of water and some bread to soak up the peach schnapps.

"Shall we go practice then?" Libby says, laughing when Max guides her up to the spare bedroom and a freshly made bed. "Where's my drums?"

"At your house."

"Let's go there then!" She says loudly.

Max casually reminds her that if she continues to shout, her parents will realise she's not stayed over at mine and probably ground her for the rest of her life. It shuts her up.

Once we're happy she won't roll off and that she's sound asleep, we sneak out and breathe a deep sigh of relief not to be parenting a drunk sixteen year old any longer.

"Effort," Max groans, yanking a sleeping bag out of the airing cupboard. "Lucky mum and Mel are out, can you imagine if they weren't?"

"At least it would be Libby who'd be embarrassed, not us for once."

He quietly laughs and pushes his door open. The room is dark in the corners but his bed is bathed in moonlight, streaking through the gaps in his curtains.

"You take it, I'll sleep on the floor or on the sofa downstairs."

"Honestly I'm fine sleeping on the floor," I insist, circling the bed to find my backpack and my pyjamas.

Max holds the bundled sleeping bag in his arms, shakes his head. "You're a guest, I couldn't let that happen." He quickly unrolls it down beside the bed and tosses his shoes aside by the window.

After he unzips and wriggles in, he unbuttons his shirt and chucks it aside. I try not to peek but it's hard not to. His shoulders look tanned and freckled and broader than I'd been expecting. And all his muscles tense as I tell him I'm about to undress, that he might want to look away.

I slip off my jeans and t-shirt in record time, hoping he won't hear how fast my heart's beating or my breath. As I crawl onto his bed and under the covers that smell fresh, like summer flowers, I hear him shuffle too.

"Comfortable?" He asks, both arms over the sleeping bag.

"Yup."

He clears his throat. "Sorry if the damn thing creaks all night. One of the slates is loose."

I try to steady my nerves and act cool, like this isn't the first time being in a guys bed or sleeping over. "That's alright. So's mine at home."

Max's hushed laughter echoes round the room.

Tugging at my pyjama t-shirt, I realise I've put on yesterday's sweaty, stinky t-shirt. Without thinking, I spin my legs out from the covers and off the bed.

"Ouch!" His voice cuts through the silence as my feet collide with his head. His hands shoot up and catch my calves as I topple down, my balance lost to the dark.

"You okay?"

"Think so," I stutter. The fabric of his sleeping bag is slippery and I struggle to place my hands down.

Max rubs his head and then his laughter comes back and builds.

"You're going to wake Libby!" I hush, though I start to laugh too at how clumsy and tangled I am.

"Doubtful."

My chest continues to pound as Max's hands fall to my hips. His fingers are soft but hot, as if burnt.

Lowering his face to mine, I lean in, feeling his hot breath against my cheek and then, the tender brush of his lips.

Max says my name in a slow whisper, hanging off each letter and my heart flutters.

And though there's no turning back now, I'm surprised when his mouth finds mine and just how wonderfully warm it is. Sweet. Hot. Just right.

Soon, the realisation of Max wanting to kiss me and actually kissing me, obliterates every wayward thought and any doubt.

We kiss, just like this for a long time, on the sleeping bag, with our bodies pushed against each others. Warmth spreads it's self all over. From my cheeks to the tips of my toes, curling with every stolen breath and with the feel of his hands under my hair, and on my neck drawing me in deeper with every kiss.

Time must stop. Life stops. Everything but us stops.

And for once I don't care about anything that's come before tonight or what might come after.

This first kiss is the first kiss I've ever truly wanted.

For now, it's just Max and his mouth, and my arms, wrapped tight round his shoulders. The heat of the summer night on our skin and on the tips of our tongues, and nothing else matters, but us.