When schoolboys used to razz us, Arie had made clear our relationship was “nothing like that.” And I’d agreed, at the time. Since then, flocks of pretty gals had fawned over him in high school, though he’d always been too focused on studies and work and his future to pay them much mind, and now I’d become one of those pitiable admirers.

“Fen…” He removed his cap. It was his first utterance since we’d left the theater.

“Thanks for the date,” I mumbled, then caught myself and stammered, “For the outing.” A fresh tide of embarrassment crested over me. Dropping my gaze, I headed for my bed, where I planned to remain until his departure for Grand Rapids. In fourteen hours roughly. A lifetime.

“Fen,” he repeated, insistent.

Nearly at my door, I slowed to a stop. The singular mercy of the evening was his parents’ absence for another full day, sparing me from putting on a front for them too.

Pinning on a pleasant expression, I turned around as he approached.

“At the show,” he said, “with what happened there, with us, I want to explain.”

I was about to feign ignorance when I recalled his overt rejection. All I could do now was patch the rip dividing us with rationale. “Really, there’s no need. You don’t see me that way, and that’s entirely fine. We’re fine.”

“Please. Just listen.”

“We’ll talk during your next visit, all right?” And by talk, of course, I meant sticking to any nonmortifying topic, further allayed by the passage of time. With a flash of a smile, I again tried to disappear into my room, but he halted me by grasping my hand. His tenacity was suddenly maddening.

I whipped toward him. “Arie, I already told you—”

All at once, his lips were on mine. I’d only just registered the kiss before it deepened. He tasted of lemon and sugar and smelled of the same, mixed faintly with summer sweat. Then his fingers were at the nape of my neck, in the thick of my hair. Heat roiled through my body. My arms responded by wrapping around him, drawing his chest to mine. I savored the muscles in his back, his shoulders. As if I were stricken by vertigo, the solidity of my world turned groundless and fluid. At the roving of his hands, down my sides and hips, a soft moan rose in my throat.

Given all our years as friends, having stirrings of doubt would have been natural. Even some level of awkwardness. But there was only escalated yearning, so strong it was palpable. As if something bound had been freed.