Birthday Flowers | The Kissing Booth

8. Muscle Memory

(Elle)

I realize as Noah pulls out of the driveway and the roar of the engine halts conversation that the motorcycle ride has bought us both time to think. Of course, my attempts at rational thought are made challenging by the blessedly limited insulation Noah's jacket provides from the warmth of his skin and the rhythmic rise of his breathing. Surely letting myself enjoy this doesn't count as rushing into anything? But of course I press myself against the broad planes of Noah's back more tightly than safety could possibly require, and I let my hands wander under the lapels of his jacket. I chase the past two years from my mind and pretend this ride is entirely ordinary again. It is my junior year and we are dashing from the Flynn house to escape Lee's notice. It is my senior year and Noah has surprised me with a weekend visit. It is my first summer home from college and we are revisiting all our favorite hideaways. It is my twentieth birthday, the last ride I can remember, and we are celebrating three years together.

I've spent a lot of energy in the past two years avoiding memories like these. When I couldn't manage to avoid thoughts of Noah entirely, I made myself focus on the squabbles, the tensions, the painful final blowout. Now the pleasant memories I'd shoved away are rushing back, and I let myself linger in their warmth. My hands have drifted ever lower down Noah's torso, my fingertips tracing and recognizing every contour, and my resolve to talk before we leap is disappearing fast. I tell myself the physical side of our relationship always preceded the emotional, usually to our benefit. Would we have ever dared that first step without the pretext of the kissing booth? Would we have spent as many hours discovering and building our bond in those early months, if we hadn't also physically craved each other? We need to talk, and we will—once we've connected again. Once we've rekindled that fire that's always driven us together. I lose myself so deeply into these thoughts and our most pleasant memories that I hardly notice when we arrive at the Pier.

Noah makes a show of cringing at my cotton candy selection, and I smile as we slip into familiar banter. It's strange and wonderful being here again, together. I am tempted to take Noah's hand, to loop my arm around his waist, to pull him down for a kiss, and yet I do none of those. I stifle those yearning aches so I can pause at the precipice and let myself enjoy the view, enjoy the thrill, before we surrender to the inevitable. And when we do tip over that edge, when we literally go tumbling into the surf and find ourselves tangled and tantalizingly close, the resulting kiss is no less thrilling for having been expected.

Now we sit side-by-side on the beach, Noah's arm wrapped around me, my head tucked under his chin, and I could happily stay in this moment forever. I haven't forgotten Lee's warning, but I'm starting to believe we can manage both at once, that we can acknowledge our history while enjoying the moment. Let our attraction smooth the way, as it always has.

"I missed this. I missed you," I whisper as I twist to snuggle closer into Noah's chest. The bright sun is almost enough to distract from the chill of our wave-drenched outfits, so long as I stay tucked tight against his side.

"What made you come down this weekend?" I finally feel brave enough to ask.

"I told you. To see you." Noah had looked hesitant admitting that earlier today. Now he says it with a relaxed smile.

"But why this weekend? Why now?"

"I've been thinking about it for a while. Seeing you, I mean. And then you were going to be alone for your mom's birthday. I just... didn't want that."

I don't really have an answer to that other than to snuggle deeper into Noah. Except —

"Wait, how did you know? That I'd be alone?" I wonder briefly if Dad told June, and June told Noah.