26 Kisses (32 page)

I put together a playlist of all Killian’s favorite upbeat songs the night before the race, and good thing I did. I’m going to need it. Ryan’s heat was earlier than mine, and I must have missed him in the crowd before he took off.

I stretch, concentrating on keeping my muscles warm and my breathing even. Concentrating on not obsessing over the fact that all of Butterfield has turned up to watch the half marathon and that hundreds of eyes are going to be following me mile after mile, some of them almost certainly believing I’m the world’s biggest slut. Double-concentrating on not searching the crowd of runners for Mark’s face, or thinking about how I wish with my entire heart that Seth and Mel were going to be here today.

I need to run.

The whistle sending my heat off onto the course is like a get-out-of-jail-free card. I launch forward, not caring about pacing or endurance or stamina—just running as fast as I can, leaving everything behind. The course winds through downtown and out onto the country roads before looping around and leading back toward town, the flagpole at the high school the official ending point. I’m four miles outside of Butterfield before the adrenaline rush starts to wear off, and I back off the pace a little bit.

People are camped out on lawn chairs, coolers at their sides, all along the route, holding up signs and screaming as their friends and family run past. The course passes directly in front of Mel’s house, at 11.3 miles, where my family (including Dad, Lila, and Kaylee) will be hanging out with Mel’s parents, oblivious to the fact that Mel and I haven’t spoken in two weeks. I told them not to bother trying to catch me at an earlier point in the race. I’m not here to smile and have my picture taken. I’m here to run until I can’t feel my feet anymore.

Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off” blasts through my earbuds, and I match my steps along with the beat, smiling as I remember Killian laying out his list of facts about how humans are hardwired to enjoy pop music.

Mile six. Nearly halfway, and I’m feeling good.

I see someone coming up beside me out of the corner of my eye and veer toward the middle of the road to give them some more room. But the lanky frame and bobbing gate register deep in my gut before my mind quite catches up, and my lungs seem to tighten. I start to cough, cupping my hands over my face even as I keep running.

“Hey.” I can see Mark’s mouth moving, but I can’t hear him over the music.

“Hang on.” I turn down the volume, immediately missing the steady rock beat.

“How’re you doing?” Thin trails of sweat snake down from his temples. His skin is flushed from the sun and the exercise, but he looks totally at ease, like running is his natural state of existence.

“Okay.” My voice is strained, and not just because I’m in the middle of a thirteen-mile race.

“Look, Vee, can we talk?”

I nearly stop dead. “What do you mean, can we talk? Mark, I’m trying to run right now.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, I know, but we used to talk while we were running before.”

“Well, things are different now. And this is a race.” I would try to sprint ahead and lose him, but it would just tire me out and give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s still faster than I am.

“I just want to say sorry again—”

I hold up my hand. “It’s fine, Mark. I’m fine. You’re fine. Let’s just run.”

“Vee . . .”

I shake my head and turn up the music, drowning out Mark’s voice even as his mouth keeps moving. If there’s one thing the kissing challenge has taught me, it’s that I don’t need him anymore. I don’t need anyone.

All I need is to run.

I pass fields of cherry trees heavy with the last fruit of the season, neat white farmhouses with blue shutters, roadside vegetable stands, and entrepreneurial kids who have set up lemonade stands along the race route. Volunteers at mile eight hold out Dixie cups of water for the runners to grab as they pass, and I take one to drink and one to toss over my head. I pass some slower runners, but many more people pass me.

At mile ten I realize my sweat-soaked sock is rubbing against my heel, the beginnings of a blister shooting painful warning signals up through my leg. The playlist has started over, but I’m tired of synthetic beats and synthesizers, and I turn the music off. I wish I had thought to upload Seth and Mel’s album to my iPod. I could use the comfort of their voices right now.

As the course meanders back into town, I focus on putting one step in front of the other. My pace has totally bottomed out—I’m barely jogging—but I don’t let myself drop all the way down to a walk. Like so many things—school, friendships, kissing challenges—the hardest part is just not letting yourself give up.

As I round the corner onto Mel’s street, the sounds of guitar and piano hit me right in the heart. I wipe the sweat out of my eyes and blink, not quite believing the scene in front of me. Mel and Seth are set up on her front lawn, complete with amps and microphones, playing to the crowd that has gathered on the sidewalk in front of them. Mel glances up as I sprint down the street, and she screams into the mic. “Here she comes! Go, Vee!”

She locks eyes with me. “I’m sorry!” I call, using previous air to lift my voice above the noise of the crowd.

It’s okay,
she mouths back.

My lips are dry and cracked, and the smile that spreads across my face is painful but unstoppable. My family is sitting in chairs on the lawn, and Jeffrey holds Kaylee up so she can wave at me. Even Brianna and Landon are there, splayed out on a plaid blanket.

Mel strums the opening chords to her new song, the song she didn’t want to play for Seth. But he’s playing along with her, his fingers flying over the keyboard, and they’re singing a harmony so beautiful, it breaks my heart.

I want to stop so badly, to join them on the grass, drink a gallon of water, and let the music take me away, but I wave and keep running, wondering what Seth said to finally make Mel forgive me. The music fades and is replaced by the sound of my breathing and the screams of the crowd as they urge us on to the final couple of miles.

“Vee!” Ryan leaps over the curb and matches his step to mine. His sweat-soaked shirt is stuck to his back, and a shiny medal bangs against his chest with every step. He takes it off and shoves it into his pocket. “You’re doing great!”

“What are you doing?” I gasp. “You already finished.”

“I was just hanging out with my parents. I’ll run with you—you just have a mile and a half left. Come on!” Ryan sprints ahead, his lean brown legs seeming to move twice as fast as mine.

“Wait!” I call, but my voice comes out as a soft croak. I force myself to run faster, my eyes on the back of Ryan’s shirt as he passes another group of runners. “Ryan!”

He’s baiting me, giving me a target to chase after, trying to get me to pick up my pace. I know it’s a trick, but I can’t help falling for it. The blister on my heel burns, and my knees are screaming in protest at each jarring step I take over the blacktop, but I can see the finish line now. Ryan has crossed it for the second time today and spins around, holding his arms out to me.

“Come on!” he yells. “If you hurry, you can make it in under two and a half!”

The best half marathon time I’ve ever run was two hours and thirty-three minutes. Sweat is pouring down my face, and my heart is racing so hard, I might throw up the second I start to slow down. I’m less than a block away. Half a block. Fifty feet. Ryan is waiting just beyond the finish line, his dark eyes locked on mine, his arms reaching to pull me in.

Two hours, twenty-nine minutes, and fourteen seconds. Ryan’s holding my shoulders, screaming Gatorade breath into my face. “You did it, Vee! You did it!”

“I know!” I’m grinning so hard, my face hurts, and my chest heaves with every breath. “I did it!” He holds up his hand for a high five. “Thank you for running with me.”

“No problem.” Ryan looks up as a shadow falls over me.

Killian’s standing there, a giant
GO, VEE
sign dangling from one hand, his chest bare and painted with green and blue stripes.

“Oh my god,” I say. “You’re here. You came!”

Killian rolls his eyes. “Of course I came,” he said. “This is how real life works, right? The guy is an asshole and then has to make it up to the girl through some kind of extravagant public gesture.” He gestures to his chest. “Voilà.”

I laugh, relief flooding my body. I bend over, a little light-headed. “Well, I don’t see how I can argue with that logic. Consider me flattered.” I wish I could erase everything I said to him the other night. It’s true—I didn’t expect, or even really want, to end up in a relationship at the end of the summer. But whatever this thing between Killian and me is . . . I can’t blame him for wanting to see where it will go.

“You’re amazing,” he says, shaking his head. “Just when I think you can’t possibly be any cooler, you turn around and prove me wrong.”

“I just do it to annoy you.” I pause, then step closer and stand on tiptoe, my hands on his ridiculous painted chest. All he has to do is tip his head forward and I’ll give up the Twenty-Six Kisses Challenge for good. The roar of the crowd cheering the runners on at the finish line recedes into the background as my eyes lock on Killian’s.

He pulls me even closer, one hand tangled in the sweat-soaked hair at the base of my ponytail, the other looped around my waist. “Are you sure?” he whispers, his lips tantalizingly close to mine. “Do you want me to?”

I close my eyes and nod, tilting my chin up just a bit. “Yes,” I say.

The kiss never comes. I open my eyes to find Killian staring at me with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Too bad,” he says, and steps away. “Because unless you’ve been really busy over the past couple of weeks, you are not done with the alphabet.”

Fifteen minutes later we’re standing on the library steps, overlooking the main hub of the Labor Day festival. Food tents line the street, and the stairs are packed with people chowing down on hot dogs and popcorn. The sound of guitars from a bluegrass band a few blocks away floats through the air, and couples and families walk up and down the street, waving to one another and stopping to talk with friends, celebrating the fact that tourist season is almost over and Butterfield is returning to normal.

“Okay, put this on.” Killian drops a giant cardboard sign over my head. Painted on it are the words
FREE KISSES FOR ANYONE WHOSE NAME STARTS WITH THE LETTER ___
. A square of Velcro marks the spot where the letter should go. “If anyone can finish out an alphabetical summer kissing challenge with a bang, it’s Team Us.”

“Team Us.” I grin up at him. “I’m glad that’s still a thing.”

“So, what do you have left?” Killian asks, pulling a large manila envelope out of a canvas shopping bag and fishing through it.

“Let me think.” I look around at the crowd, incredulous. “You’re really okay with watching me kiss a bunch of random strangers?”

“No funny business,” Killian says, waving a finger at me. “On the cheek only.”

“Got it. You know, this probably isn’t going to be as easy as you think. I pretty much only have the weird letters left.”

Killian pumps his fist. “Awesome. If you can’t find anyone, then you won’t have to kiss them, and maybe this won’t be so infuriating for me.”

“All right, all right. Give me”—I run through the list in my head, not totally sure if I have the letters and kisses straight (they’re all blending together)— “
Q
.” I adjust the sign so it’s hanging straight. “I don’t know if anyone is going to take me up on my very generous free kisses offer, though.”

Killian laughs. “Give it about three minutes,” he says, and slaps a large paper
Q
on top of the Velcro. “There’s going to be a line out to the street.”

I put my hands on my hips and look around, wondering if there’s even anyone in Butterfield today whose name begins with
Q
. No one walking past or sitting on the steps seems to even notice I’m wearing a giant sign advertising free kisses, and the ones who do just give me weird looks and move on.

After a minute or so Killian sighs. “Guess I’m going to have to do some advertising,” he says.

“What?” I grab his arm. “Don’t you dare.”

Killian cups his hands around his mouth and yells at the top of his lungs, “Free kisses! Limited time only! World’s most beautiful girl! Come and get ’em!”

The noise of the festival dims for a second as people turn to stare at us.

“Oh my God,” I say, pressing my face into Killian’s arm. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

“Free kisses!” he yells again. “What is wrong with you people? Do you not see how gorgeous she is? Are there any red-blooded males out there whose names begin with
Q
?”

A group of guys I recognize from Jeffrey’s class walk up to us, snickering and punching each other. “His name is Quinn,” one of them says, pointing to a short kid with spiky hair. “Will you kiss him?”

“Shut up,” Quinn says, kicking his friend in the shin.

“Do you want a kiss?” I ask, putting my hands on my hips. “Just on the cheek. It’s for a good cause.”

“Uh.” Poor Quinn stares at the ground, his face bright red. “Sure. I guess.”