The doorbell rang twenty minutes later.

        I had already gathered every ounce of courage in my blood, and once I had sprinted downstairs, flushed with all the confidence I'd gotten from looking in the mirror and calling myself a bad bitch, I threw open the door.

         But it wasn't Aaron standing there.

         Monroe Kingston held a lasagna on my front porch, her green eyes dimmed in the golden light. Evening shadow danced over the hollows of her face.

         Well, this was fucking perfect. This was the last person I wanted to see.

         "Stop smiling," I hissed, before my mother came up from behind me. "Why are you here?"

         "To bring you a lasagna, obviously," she said through her teeth.

         "Oh, sweetheart," Mom said, lifting the lasagna out of Monroe's hands and ushering her inside. "You must be Aaron's cousin! We've heard so much about you. Your uncle thinks you're a sweetheart."

          Then her uncle must have been lying.

          "I invited Aaron, not you," I whispered once my mom was out of earshot. Was I being rude? Yes. Did Monroe make me question my sexuality? Also yes. Did I want to experience this mysterious sexual tension between us at the dinner table? No. No. No.

         "Aaron is coming in five minutes, he told me to just bring the lasagna over while it's still warm."

         "Only Aaron. Not you," I hissed.

          She lifted a shoulder, as though whatever I said didn't matter. As though she couldn't care less.

          Anger boiled in my blood. I was two seconds away from grabbing her by the throat and—fuck, was that supposed to turn me on?

         As my mom reached into the oven, Monroe trailed her fingers over the collar of my shirt. My breath quickened.

         "I can see right through you," she whispered.

         I swallowed. "Bullshit."

         She only smiled in response, and my mother called out, "Dinner's ready!"

          There was no way in hell I was going to sit at the dinner table with Monroe, burning with inappropriate feelings about her mouth between my legs, while my mother, father, sister, and future boyfriend were two feet away. No fucking way in hell.

          Five minutes later, I was sitting across from Monroe, watching her with narrowed eyes and barely concealed rage as she cut into a slice of lasagna.

          Beside me, Aaron raised his eyebrows and said under his breath, "Talia, you're acting weird right now. Is this because of what I said earlier? Because I promise we can just forget about—"

         "No!" I put down my fork a little too hard. With alarmed eyes, Claudia glanced over. "No," I continued sweetly, making sure to lean in extra close to Aaron. "I wanted to talk to you about that, later, actually."

          Monroe smirked, as if to say, Who are you trying to convince? 

          I couldn't stand that look. Impulsively, I grabbed onto Aaron's hand. For a second, all thoughts of fucking Monroe vanished from my head.

          Then I realized everyone at the dinner table was staring at me.

         "Oh, um, sorry, Aaron," I said, dropping his hand. "I thought that was the—uh—napkin."

          Claudia mumbled, "Yeah, right."

          Oh, great. That was just what I needed. Monroe and my little sister to team up.

          By the time dessert had rolled around—strawberry pie—I couldn't take it. Monroe's eyes were lingering on my mouth, and sweat was prickling the back of my neck. Any more of this, and I would be peeling off my clothes then and there.

          "May I excuse myself?" I asked.

          Mom glanced at Aaron, as if this had something to do with him. "Sure, honey. Just take your plate to the sink."

          I couldn't get away from the table fast enough. Once I had reached down to leave my plate in the sink, I felt a presence behind me. Fuck. 

         "Why have you been staring at my mouth all night?" I hissed.

         I turned. She was so close to me I nearly gasped. Her green eyes were hypnotizing in the light of the kitchen, but it was her pink, strawberry-kissed lips that I was drawn to. 

         Fuck. I'd just gotten mad at her for staring.

         "You have a little something," she murmured, leaning down, "right here." And the pad of her thumb traced the corner of my mouth. 

         My lips were on fire. My skin was on fire. I was on fire. When she pulled back, I could see the hint of glistening, sugar-coated red on her fingertip.

         "Oh," was all I could manage.

         Then I think I really, truly, did it. I spontaneously combusted. Because she licked her lips with a dark smile—and I swear to God, if I was mind-reader I probably would have hauled my ass to church.

         "I—have to—um, go," I said quickly, and before she could say another word, I pushed myself back against the counter and stumbled away.

        Up in the solitary space of my bedroom, I had no choice but to let out a shaking breath. 

        Monroe fucking Kingston was going to be the death of me.

        "Talia?" said Claudia. A knock on the door.

        "Come in," I moaned.

        The first thing Claudia did, upon entering my bedroom, was to flop onto the bed.

        "What are you doing?"

        "That girl can run me over with her motorcycle any day."

        "That girl—can—what?"

        "Monroe," said Claudia dreamily. "I don't even care what it is. She can run me over me with anything she wants. A bulldozer, a tricycle, Donald Trump's golf cart. Anything." 

         I was too speechless to say anything.

         "Do you think she does that? Do you think she runs over thirteen-year-old girls?"

         "If you don't stop talking about her, I'll run you over."

         "Whatever you say, Sex Eyes."

         "What did you just call me?" I was going to kill my sister. Actually kill her.

          "You were making Sex Eyes at Monroe all night."

          "You—you're—"

          Claudia narrowed her eyes a little, batting her lashes dramatically. "See? Sex Eyes. Those are yours."

          "You were hallucinating. Definitely."

          "Oh, Monroe,"  she imitated. "Please, fuck me. I need you so badly. I'm going to shrivel up with lust, just like the Sahara desert, if I don't get some of that wet—" 

          Before I could tackle her, there was another knock on the door.

          If Monroe had heard that, I was going to throw myself off the roof.

          But when I swung open the door, it was only Aaron. I nearly breathed a sigh of relief before realizing exactly what it was I was going to do.

          "Aaron," I said, and my voice broke on that one word.

          I didn't even notice Claudia leaving, but once we were alone, Aaron sat next to me on the bed.

         "About what I told you earlier . . ."

         "I want to try," I told him.

         His hazel eyes brightened with a small, hopeful flame. "You mean . . ."

         "I'm sorry for, um, going off on you like that. It was a little extreme. No, it was really extreme. I'm sorry. But I thought about it, and I think . . . we'd make a really good couple."

         "You do?"

         "Yeah." I finally got the strength to look him in the eye. "I really do."

          Aaron might not have been perfect, but he was my perfect boy. If this didn't work . . . if this didn't work . . . I knew what that meant.

         Then Aaron leaned down. His fingers slid through my hair, so gentle it was feather-light. 

          Well, fuck. 

          My heartbeat started to rise, but not for the reason he thought. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

          And as if God himself had heard, my phone began to vibrate against my thigh.

         "Oh," I gasped, pulling out of his grip. "It's Skylar. See? Skylar." 

         The name had been changed to My Bootylicious Secret Lover. 

         "Hey," I said into the phone.

         "Tals! Did he ask? Did you—" She hesitated. "I know we were talking about you being"—I muffled the phone—"and then I felt so bad about dropping you off, but I think he had to get it off his chest. So . . . what'd you say?"

         "I said yes," I whispered, glancing up at Aaron.

         He grinned, just a little. "Wow, asshole. Glowing appraisal."

         "Fuck you," I mouthed, unable to stop the laugh as Skylar continued talking.

         Finally, Aaron interrupted. "Hey, Sky."

        "He's there?"  Skylar shrieked. 

        "Oh, yeah," I said. "Forgot to, um, mention that. I've gotta go, though."

         "Don't you dare hang up! I have one more thing to say. This calls for a night out, don't you think? After Homecoming this Friday, what do you say we go downtown?"

         "Deal," I said. I could really use another marriage proposal.

         "Fuck it," Aaron said.

         "Fuck me," Skylar said.

         Our motto. "Fuck that," I agreed. "But Cody—"

         "Oh, I also forgot to mention . . . Cody's with me," Skylar added.

         And from the phone, Cody piped up, "Fuck this!"

        After hanging up, I stood from the bed. Aaron and I were just about the same height now, because him sitting was level to me standing.

        "Does this make you my girlfriend?"

        "You are such a jackass," I said, smiling. "But yes."

        "So . . . I guess that means no kissing strangers for either of us?"

         "Speaking of, wasn't that girl supposed to come over? Weren't you going to kiss Lucy Windfield?"

        "No, that was Skylar's idea to tell you. She wanted to see if you'd get jealous. And—"

         Shit. "I did," I finished in a mumble.

         But not because I was scared of him kissing her. Because I was territorial of our group dynamic.

         Well, fuck me. 

        "Anyways," Aaron said, rising to his feet. "Pops wants me to teach Monroe about the great literature classics tonight. Apparently, she's failing English."

        He was now towering above me. His height had been annoying since his growth spurt in tenth grade, but now I tried to think of it differently. Aaron was strong, safe. Wasn't that what girls liked in a man?

        "I can tutor her," I blurted out before I could think better of it.

        "You can? I thought you didn't like—"

        What are you saying? Stop talking.

        "No, um." Shut up. "It's fine." Shut up. "She's your cousin." Shut up. "I want to get to know her better." Shut up.

        "Tal, it's fine if you don't, but—" But I could see it in his face: me tutoring Monroe was a weight off his shoulders. He had to focus on his own schoolwork, or else he'd lose his ten-thousand-dollar football scholarship. 

        "No, really, it's fine," I said.

        "You know, since she's a senior, it's grade twelve English. Are you sure about this?"

        "I already took that," I said, rolling my eyes. "I'm not Valedictorian for nothing, am I?"

        He touched my shoulder lightly. "Yeah, you've always been smart as fuck."

        Of course Aaron had touched me before. But I'd never felt every single nerve in my body on end when he'd done it. 

        Maybe this was chemistry.

        Maybe I really did like him.

        The thought filled me with too much excitement. I had probably just been having a temporary breakdown. Those wet dreams were just a fluke.

        "So this goes without saying, but we're going to Homecoming on Friday, aren't we?"

        That was less than three days away. 

        "Yeah," I said, forcing out a bright nod. "Yeah, that's . . ."

        "What would you prefer, if I asked you using an airplane and smoke writing, or if I performed a jazz routine before fourth period?"

        I froze, but he only laughed.

        "I'm kidding, you loser. Obviously I'll go with the jazz routine."

        "Aaron," I scowled.

        "Kidding. I'll blast Taylor Swift from the speakers and buy a couple confetti machines."

        "Aaron!"

        "What? Who doesn't love Taylor Swift?"

        "I don't love her. She's just okay."

        "That's because you haven't been enlightened yet."

        "Oh, please, like you're the Dalai Lama. Taylor Swift isn't a holy awakening. And you've been obsessed with her music since seventh grade." I'd even heard Aaron singing Love Story in the shower. "It's probably healthy."

        "Probably. Hey, but think about it. If I had to date a celebrity, it'd be Taylor Swift. You know why?"

        "Because the haters gonna hate, hate, hate?" 

        "Is that the only Taylor Swift lyric you know?"

        "Maybe."

        "Well, I'd date Taylor Swift so she could fall in love with me, and once I break up with her, she'll write an album about me."

        "That's a little overconfident. Who says she'd write an album? Maybe you'd just get a two-minute song, like Tom Hiddleston."

        "I'd like to think I'm a better catch than Tom Hiddleston."

        "Sure, sure, whatever you say."

        "Come on, who would you date? Your choice definitely won't be as good as mine."

        "Yeah, no kidding. You have this whole evil plan mapped out."

        "Breaking up with Taylor Swift is not an evil plan." 

        "Whatever keeps your boat afloat," I said. "And I'd pick Keira Knightley."

        "But that's a—"

        "Girl? You're so observant, Aaron. Have you ever seen her in Pirates of the Caribbean?  God, it makes me want to be a woman pirate sailing the seven seas and feeding men to sirens."

        "I don't think that's the plot of—"

        "Yes, it is," I argued. "And if you think it's not, you need to rewatch the movies."

        "Only if you watch them with me."

        Fuck, this was flirting, wasn't it? "How about this—you watch the Pirates of the Caribbean movies and I'll listen to all of Taylor Swift's music."

        Aaron's smile was pierced with both dimples. "I'll take it."

       "Good." My smile faded; he seemed expectant somehow. "So tutoring Monroe . . . does that start tonight?"

       "No, no," he said. "I'll give her your number. Maybe you can tutor her during lunch or before school or something?"

        I nodded. How hard could tutoring someone in English really be? It was just analyzing classical literature. She was probably even reading something like 1984. 

       Aaron paused at the doorframe.

       "Oh, come on," I said with false bravado. "You better not make this awkward."

       It took me too long to realize he probably wanted a kiss goodbye. But I didn't have it in me—not tonight, at least. So I just hugged him tightly, hoping maybe it would be enough to make him forget about it.

        I was dating my best friend. I was Aaron's girlfriend. 

        The door closed behind him, and I sank down onto the carpet to reevaluate my life's decisions.

        AFTER FINISHING MY math homework—fucking vectors—I leaned out of the window. Across the street, I saw a light click on in Aaron's house, directly across from me. The guest bedroom, I knew.

        I didn't have time to wonder whether it was Monroe's silhouette before a text message vibrated my phone.

        Library tomorrow?

        Yeah, I texted. It could only be Monroe. 7:30 a.m?

        See you there. Need a ride?

        I hesitated. I'd been planning on taking the bus, since Aaron usually drove me to school and I knew he wouldn't be ready that early.

        OK. Thanks. 

        My eyes drifted down Aaron's driveway, where the shadowed outline of a sleek motorcycle rested. Too late, I realized something.

        Monroe didn't have a goddamn car.

>>>

No, indeed she does not.

From the moon and back,
Sarai