EXCEPT SOMEONE COMPLETELY unexpected tapped on my shoulder.

      I was outside now. In the backyard, a few seniors giggled and attempted to light fireworks. Sparks sizzled in the air, and I backed away. This was probably a fireman's nightmare.

     "Talia,"  someone slurred. I turned, and there stood Brady Williams, all six feet and six inches of him—which I knew because Aaron had mentioned it once or twice or ten times. "What's up?"

      "Just looking for someone," I said vaguely.

      "I heard you broke up with Aaron."

      Brady had to be drunk. His brown skin was slick with sweat, and his curly hair was shiny in the light of the sparks behind us. He was wearing a letterman jacket with his last name on the pocket: WILLIAMS. 

       "Yeah," I said, trying to sidestep him.

       "Why'd you do that?"

       "Break up with him?"

       "Yeah," Brady said, latching onto my shoulder. It wasn't friendly, but it wasn't forceful either. I just slipped away from him and reached for the screen door.

       "It didn't work out. Things happen. I . . . I don't think I loved him the way I was supposed to."

       Why was I confessing this to Brady Williams? Maybe because he was drunk, because he wouldn't remember.

       But if I expected Brady to understand, I was wrong. His jaw only tightened. "You're stupid."

      "What?"

      "You were stupid for that. To break up with him. He's the greatest fucking guy I know. You—" He leaned in closer to me, and his breath reeked of expensive bourbon. "You are so fucking stupid."

       I opened my mouth to protest, but from inside the house, I heard a voice ring out. 

      Monroe.

      She opened the screen door and stepped outside. In the cold night air, I was freezing—but in her leather jacket, she looked calm. Collected. Completely unbothered.

      "What," she said, "did you just call her?"

      Brady laughed, and laughed, and laughed. He really was drunk, I knew. "She's a fucking idiot! She let him go! She—she—if that was my boyfriend, I'd never—never—"

      Monroe punched him.

      Whatever he had been feeling, the delirium or the laughter or the tears—it vanished in a heartbeat. Raw anger flooded his face, as he touched his fingers to his jaw.

     "That was for calling her stupid."

      "You hit me," he said, almost in wonder.

      It didn't look like it had even hurt him. Oh, fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

      I trusted Monroe to handle Aaron. To handle four or five men at a time.

      Except . . . this was Aaron's star player. The quarterback of the football team. And he was massive. 

      But he was also drunk.

      Monroe punched him again. "That was for calling her stupid the second time," she added.

      "A girl just hit me," Brady said in amazement. For a moment, I hoped maybe he wouldn't fight her back. That maybe he'd been taught to just ignore a lady.

       Apparently not.

       He lunged for Monroe and he was fast—just not fast enough. He aimed for the wrong spot, too—almost as if he was seeing doubles.

       Monroe cracked her fist against his nose. He let out a scream that drew the attention of the seniors behind us, who were trying to get a firework up into the air. 

      "That was for calling her stupid the third time."

      "Monroe." I tugged on the sleeve of her jacket. "Let's go. Come on."

      Brady was shaking, almost like some kind of grizzly bear who had scented fresh meat. "You crazy b—"

      Monroe hit him again, and now I was frantic, pulling at her sleeve like some kid, trying to get her to back off—

      "I'll get you for that," Brady roared.

      But Monroe just smirked. She shook out her fist, unfurled her fingers. "That was for calling her a fucking idiot."

      Brady lurched towards us.

      There was no panic on Monroe's face. She just smiled at me, grabbed my hand, and whispered, "Run."

       WE WERE LAUGHING, BREATHLESS, when we finally settled somewhere in a clearing. Surrounded by a forest—still Skylar's property—and hidden by bushes, I laid flat on my back in the grass.

       "I can't believe you did that," I wheezed.

       "He was being a prick. He shouldn't have called you those things."

       She was laying down, too. Side by side, we faced the sky above. Shards of night between the trees, fragments of stars. It was another perfect moment.

       "I think it's almost the New Year," I said, acutely aware that her hand was just inches from mine.

       The grass prickled my palm, and the urge to kiss her was overwhelming as she asked, "What's your resolution?"

       "Um." I blinked up at the starry sky. A mosquito buzzed near my elbow. "To be honest, I think."

       Now, I felt her roll on her side towards me. I turned, too, so we were facing each other. The sounds of the party in the distance faded to a hum, and it was just us. The last two people on earth.

      "You want to be honest?"

      "I never hated you," I told her. "I just hated what you make me feel."

      "And how," she breathed, her hand brushing mine, "do I make you feel?"

      I was on fire everywhere. 

      "Special," I said at last. "And . . . like you think I'm so beautiful you can't look away."

      "Talia," said Monroe, "I've been falling for you since the moment you called my bluff and rode my motorcycle around the school like you'd been born doing it."

      I blushed, and I hoped it was too dark to see. "What's your resolution?"

     "I want to finally call you my girl."

     "Oh, really?" I teased. "Think you'll be able to keep that? I hear most people break their resolutions after only a month."

      "Most people," she said, "aren't me and you."

      Something had occurred to me, though. "Monroe?"

      "Yes?"

      "When you told me about your parents . . . you told me it was because you'd won a creative writing piece. For English class. So how . . . how could you be failing now?"

       "At the beginning of the year, I didn't see the point," she whispered. The green of her eyes was almost indistinguishable, but I liked the way the shadows danced over her face. The way she seemed more human in this moment, more vulnerable. "All those stories . . . all that Shakespearean bullshit . . . why it so important, when it cost my parents their lives? It just feels useless. That, and . . . I wanted to spend time with you."

      "You wanted me to tutor you?"

      "Of course I did," she said. "You're beautiful and smart and so damn bold. I like arguing you with you—I like hearing what you have to say. I like it when your face gets red, and you're so passionate you start using hand gestures. I like riling you up, and I like that sometimes I can make you speechless."

      "I always thought you were infuriating, you know." I chuckled. "I still do."

      Her hand closed around mine, and my heart nearly burst out of my chest.

      Stay cool. Stay calm. Come on. You got this. 

      I was holding hands with Monroe Kingston. I was holding hands with Monroe fucking Kingston.

     "Good," she whispered. "You know, you scared me earlier."

     "I doubt that," I teased. "You don't seem like you're scared of anything."

      "Olivia thought you were dead, you know. She told me you weren't moving—that you were lifeless."

      "She exaggerated," I said, trying to think properly when her fingers were squeezing mine. "Obviously, I mean. Since I'm here. And very much alive."

      "Still . . . for a moment there . . . I really thought that you . . ."

      "Were dead?" I laughed softly. "I'm not. I promise."

      "Still." She looked at me fiercely, and I could see a hint of that raw jade in her gaze. "Don't scare me like that again."

       Warmth bloomed in my blood. "I'll try not to."

       What would it be like, to crush her lips against mine? To pull her close to me and taste the sea salt of her skin? To kiss her as fireworks exploded in the distance?

       I didn't know how much time had passed, but I heard the sound of a spark, whistling high up into the air. A shower of red light burst up against the sky.

      "Looks like they actually lit the fireworks," I said, laughing. I didn't plan on moving, didn't plan on getting up ever again, not so long as Monroe was holding my hand—but she sprung to her feet, pulling me with her.

      "Come on," she said, eyes bright.

      "Where are we going?"

      "It's almost midnight. Let's celebrate closer to the fireworks."

      It sounded like a fire hazard, with the way those seniors had set it up, but I couldn't care less. Monroe and I were running through the woods again, and I felt giddy and breathless and so, so alive. Her skin against mine, her fingers warm against my own.

       Kiss her, kiss her, kiss her, urged every bone in my body, every spark in my veins.

      At the edge of the forest, still hidden by the shadows of a few trees, Monroe paused.

      I stumbled into her chest, and then I was looking up at her—my eyes catching on her lips, so soft, so pink. For once, I didn't care that I was staring.

      "I think the countdown is starting," she said, her breath warm against my mouth. Sea salt. Lemon.

      Hadn't I sworn to myself I would never kiss her?

      "Hold my hand," I said, and I had no idea where it had come from, but God, I was impressed with myself.

       She curled her fingers overtop mine and pressed our joined hands to her chest. I could feel her heart beating, twin to mine.

       "Ten."

       "Ready to ring in the New Year?" she asked.

       "Nine." 

        "I think so," I whispered. "What about your resolution?"

        I want to finally call you my girl.

       "Eight." 

        "What about it?"

       "Seven."

        Make me your girl, I thought. And let me make you mine.

        Laughter and shouts and people roaring the countdown sounded like music in the dark backyard. Through the glass windows, I saw people crowding up against each other in the kitchen, champagne spraying and confetti erupting.

        "Six." 

        Somewhere close by, the seniors giggled drunkenly to themselves, gathered around the barrage of fireworks. With shaking hands, one of them lit a match against the black powder.

        "Five."

        "Well," I said, "are you going to keep your resolution? I think you should start right from midnight."

        "Four."

        "Right from midnight?"

       "Three."

        In that moment, I forgot about Aaron. About the breakup. About being straight and gay. About the stars and the wind and the New Year. I forgot about the whole fucking world, because it was just me and her—me and Monroe Kingston, and we were unstoppable.

        "Two." 

        "Yes," I breathed. "Right from midnight."

        "One."

         The world exploded into cheers and shouts and golden fireworks, sizzling high up into the night above us. Jets of champagne soared into the air, pink and bubbly, spraying against the grass and the windows and the sky itself. 

      Kiss her, kiss her, kiss her, hummed every pulse of my stupid, raging heartbeat.

       "Happy New Year," Monroe whispered against my neck, and we were hugging, so tightly that I felt every inch of her body against mine. Every curve and hollow and edge of her. It wasn't enough.

      "Happy New Year," I whispered back. All around us, I noticed other couples kissing. But I didn't care about any of them, didn't care about anything at all—except her. Always her. "I—"

      She raised an eyebrow. In this light, with the golden light from the kitchen and the fireworks that blossomed high in the air, I could see every swirl in her deep green eyes.

      I took a deep breath and said, "It probably felt like I was leading you on this whole time, but I swear I never meant to be a tease, and I especially never wanted to be a bitch to you. But I thought maybe if I hated you, it would be easier to just pretend I didn't have feelings for you. And at first, I wanted to fuck you, like really badly, and it was just that, so maybe I could outlast that—but then I got to know you, and yeah, you were infuriating, but you were so fucking smart, too. And funny and clever and confident and I just—you couldn't be real. So I—I'm sorry I kept pushing you away. I didn't want it to be true, but then you were worth it to me, and isn't it stupid, how some people spend their whole lives pretending? Pretending to know everything or like someone they don't or be happy? I don't want that to be me, you know? I wanted to be honest about my feelings, I swear I did. But I was scared, and now I'm not, and—"

      "Talia?" Her eyes were so green, glinting.

       I waited—for rejection, for her to push me away, for her to tell me I had imagined this whole damn thing. 

      None of that came. Instead, she whispered, "Shut up and kiss me."

      And then her lips were on mine, and we were kissing, and nothing in the universe had mattered or would ever matter again, not as long as it was me and Monroe, together against the world.

      Until Aaron's shocked voice filled the backyard.

      "Talia?"

***

THE KISS.

From the moon and back,
Sarai