Read Online 3 Willows: The Sisterhood Grows by Ann Brashares - Free Book Online Page B

said, a little more timidly than she’d intended.
    To her surprise he reached down and picked up her hand. Her eyes widened and her breath stopped as he held it up and compared it in size to his own. “You have nice hands,” he said. “Long fingers.”
    He continued to hold it as though it was a fascinating possession, and she was happy to give it to him. She forgot it was even hers anymore.
    When he put it back on her lap, she wished he would take it again. To the rest of her body, her hand was suddenly like a stranger, a prodigal, gone off to have adventures in the big world. But maybe it was like a baby bird that had been held by a human, so it couldn’t come home again.
    He turned in his seat to face her. His knee touched her knee. He studied her. “You play … soccer.”
    She was surprised yet again. “How did you know?”
    He laughed off the mystery. “I can tell you play something. Soccer-was the easiest guess.”
    She nodded, feeling in every way like the easiest guess.
    “You swim,” she hazarded.
    “How did you know?”
    She pointed to his head. “The green hair.”
    She worried for a moment that she’d insulted him, but he erupted into a huge laugh, and she knew she hadn’t. She might also have told him she knew he was a swimmer by his broad shoulders, but she didn’t think his self-confidence needed any help.
    “I use a special product for that. Clairol makes the color. I think it’s called fungus. Or seaweed. Or phlegm. Do you like it?”
    She laughed. She did like it.
    “So, Goldie,” he said, tugging on her sleeve. “You come here often?”
    “Twice today,” she said.
    “Really.”
    “Yes.” Barging into her mind were abrupt and disconnected images of her dinner -with her dad, the things he’d told her. That was a million miles away from her right now, and it seemed like the right distance.
    She didn’t want him to ask her more about that, and he didn’t. He was looking at her -with great intensity, his eyes intimate and conspiratorial. “You’re cute as hell,” he said.
    “You’re cute as hell,” she said back, admiring her own nerve.
    She felt the warmth of him as he came closer.
    Was he going to try to kiss her, just like that? Was she going to let him?
    She didn’t feel like herself. She felt like she was playing herself in a movie. Except in the movie, she was the kind of person -who would flirt with a very gorgeous stranger on a bus and even kiss him. It was a pretty good movie, she thought, as she felt his cheek against hers, briefly, and then his lips on hers.
    The first kiss was soft, like a question, and when he saw that she was neither shocked nor unwilling, he put a hand on either side of her face and kissed her more deeply. The back of her head pressed against the seat. Boldly she put her palm against his warm neck. She felt his hair tickle the back of her hand and felt his pulse in her fingertips. Or maybe it was her pulse. His breath -was like steam. Or maybe that was her breath. With her other hand she felt the softness of his shirt, sort of a knit sweatshirt-type thing with a string at the neck and a wooden toggle, the kind that skaters, swimmers, and stoners wore.
    He kissed her chin and under her chin and along her neck. She thought she would surely die or explode. Explode and then die. I can’t believe what is happening in this movie, she thought distantly.
    She was just a bunch of nerve cells, living on the very surface of herself. His lips were warm and confident and made hers that way too. She’d often -worried about being an incompetent kisser if it ever came to it, but her mouth seemed to know what to do. His mouth had enough confidence for both of theirs.
    She was faintly aware of the bus swerving off Highway 1, making the exit to Rehoboth. When the bus stopped, they broke apart. He gave her a sly look and one last hard kiss.
    “This is Rehoboth Beach,” the driver bellowed.
    The front door of the bus swung open. He helped her get her bag and