Kiss Crush Collide by Christina Meredith

total is two. Right?
    Porter flips the SUV key over and over in the palm of his hand. His leg still dangles from the open door.
    “I don’t know,” I say, unsure.
    “Okay.” He nods and pulls the door shut with a deliberate and expensive-sounding thump.
    I take a few steps toward the car, slowly and cautiously. He puts the key in the ignition and starts it up.
    Resting his arm along the edge of the open window, he looks out at the pool, then past the fence to the dark, deserted park. His green eyes are questioning and unsure when they settle on mine.
    “You sure?” he asks.
    I shrug and look down, twisting my toe into the thick grass, as I wait for him to ask again, expecting him to talk me into it the way Shane or any other boy would. Instead he drops the car into reverse, slides his arm along the back of the passenger seat as he twists to check behind him, and leaves me just standing there with my mouth open while he rolls away.
    In that small second between reverse and drive— you know, that little lull after you stop backing up but before the car actually starts moving forward, while the machinery is working and the gears are turning or whatever—in that second he turns and looks over at me standing alone on the grassy rise, gaping. He waves, rests his hand on the wheel, and guns it.
    My bag slips from my shoulder, and I wave back five seconds too late. I thought he would beg a little bit. I curl my toes tight into my flip-flops and bounce down the hill, not breathing, not thinking, gripping against the dewy grass and hoping I am not too late.
    “Porter!” I yell into the spray of gravel landing at my feet as the wheels hit the edge of the road. I jog a couple of steps into the middle of the street and stop to shout at the back of the SUV again. “Porter!”
    The silvery rims spin backward as he slows to a stop. He adjusts the rearview mirror and looks back at me like, what the hell? But at least he stops.
    I take the few strides between me and the SUV at a clumsy tear and tap on the tinted glass of the passenger door, out of breath and full of embarrassment. Porter leans across the seat and opens the door with a wry smile.
    I smooth my ponytail back with buzzing hands and a pumping pulse, because I don’t want him to think I am hard up or anything, and try to compose myself as I climb in.

    Warm lake air spills in through the open windows, mixing into a sweaty storm of lips and breath, stirring the interior of the parked SUV as I curse the inventor of the one-piece swimsuit. Porter’s hands are sliding up the slippery Lycra fabric of my regulation lifeguard suit while I straddle him in the front seat.
    Cottages dot the shore on the far side of the lake; the yellow glow of porch lights and the stars sprinkling the sky illuminate his quick, skillful movements.
    “What the hell,” Porter says as he snaps a thick red strap. “How do I get into this thing?” He slides his hands up my back. “It’s like a chastity suit.”
    I laugh as I lean forward to kiss him. “My father would be so proud.”
    “Mine, too,” he says.
    I lean back with the realization that other than this sudden mention of family, I know absolutely nothing about this guy. Except that he is a very fast driver, always wears boots, smells like beach and forest somehow mixed together with mint, and has the most dangerous green eyes.
    I know he can drive and kiss at the same time (but we only did that for a little while), can get my shirt off in five seconds flat, yet is confounded by a tight red bathing suit.
    He doesn’t talk a lot. Will leave a girl screaming in the street. Doesn’t push me farther than I want to go but takes me right to the edge and somehow makes me want more. But how does he know what I want? How does he know me at all?
    “Why am I here right now?” I ask abruptly, feeling the steering wheel against my back as I lean away from him.
    He returns my look directly as his thumbs circle lightly on my bare shoulders.