Revelation by Katie Klein Page A

he insists, hand grazing my cheek, turning me back to him.
    "So?"
    "So," he continues, "part of this agreement was that you would do your share to convince people we really are in love."
    "And kissing you goodbye will accomplish this?"
    His head tips lower, gray eyes smoldering. "There was a time I didn't have to ask you twice to kiss me."
    My cheeks warm. I force myself to look away. "Things are . . . they're different now."
    "I know. I told you it wouldn't be like that, Gee, and I'm keeping that promise."
    I inch backward, distancing myself. "It's just that . . ."
    "Will you stop thinking so much?" he interrupts, fingers clasping the nape of my neck, pulling until we crash together. Our lips meet, and at first this kiss is soft and sweet, so much like the last one—that stormy night in darkened churches. But then his lips part and he exhales, breath mingling with mine. Suddenly he's kissing harder, hungry and reckless. And in this moment of weakness my eyes close, a thousand tingles paralyzing my spine as I kiss him back.
    Guilt jams my throat when he finally breaks away, heart racing.
    There are no words for mistakes like this. And inside I want to cry.
    "See? That wasn't so bad, was it?"
    I blink fiercely as the fog in my head settles, clearing. "People don't kiss like that and say they're 'just friends,' Carter."
    He opens the door, climbs inside the SUV. "Yeah, well, I might be your best friend, but you're my everything," he admits, voice raw.
    "Please don't say that," I whisper.
    "I just don't want you to forget."
    And I swear pain radiates so deep behind his eyes it's like I'm looking straight into his soul. Part of me feels wretched for not loving him the way he loves me—for not loving him like I should. The other part knows that lapses of judgment like these will ruin everything I've ever had in a second.
    Carter swallows hard, the muscles in his jaw twitching, head turning from mine as the door closes, dividing us.
    The engine growls to life, shuddering. And I watch the car swing around the driveway, Carter's hand lifting, reflecting in the rearview mirror, waving as he pulls into the street and out of sight, taillights disappearing.
     
    *          *          *
     
    The driveway is packed with cars. They spill into the street, these luxury vehicles with their sparkling exteriors and vanity plates—a hundred Selenas . Syrupy red punch sloshes against glass as I bring it to my lips, taking a quick sip.
    "Genesis!" Kitty Fleming calls from across the room, motioning for me. I turn from the window, mustering a smile, and follow her, weaving through the crowd. This is more than just a few friends . I could kill Carter for leaving me here. For being late.
    "These are two of my very best friends, Gretchen and Regina." I smile, unsure if Gretchen is the brunette with wavy hair or the blonde, highlighted hair pulled into a tight ponytail.
    "It's nice to meet you," I tell them. They mirror Carter's mother in many ways. It's easy to tell the haves from the have nots . Perfectly coiffed hair. Designer handbags. The jewelry—they're all dripping with it.
    Kitty launches into the story of how the three became friends while I zone in and out, smiling, nodding, sipping my punch.
    ". . . your ring?" Gretchen or Regina says.
    "Oh, sorry." I lift my hand. Gretchen or Regina cradles it gently in her palm. Her hand is soft, the product of a thousand manicures.
    "Isn't it gorgeous ?" Kitty asks, admiring it as if it were her own.
    "It's beautiful."
    The other nods. "And so unique."
    A polite laugh. "We're not the most traditional couple in the world," I explain.
    "Well, I hope you're starting a new trend. The Flemings are known for making statements. Blue diamonds should be all the rage by this time next year."
    "Oh, it's not a diamond. It's a topaz."
    Both Gretchen and Regina laugh. "That is not a topaz," one says.
    "Is that what Carter told you?" Kitty asks, eyebrows knitting in confusion.
    "N—no," I stammer.