Copyright © 2016. All Rights Reserved.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: SOPHOMORE YEAR

D A T E : December 2012

✖ chicago (is so two years ago) ✖

Baggage claim.

I never anticipated anything as much as I did seeing Fynn again. I was more jittery than I was standing in line at Best Buy to purchase the camera I used for anything picture or video related. In fact, that same camera was in my hands at that very moment, awaiting the severely delayed reunion of the Waltons and the Hemmings.

"I'm half-expecting her to keel over with a heart attack," Mom mused aloud to Lucas, who chuckled in response as he navigated his arm through hers. I shot a glare over my shoulder at them, but quickly returned to my post. I stepped up to a pillar with a surrounding platform and stood up on it just as the unsteady stream of people coming down the escalator abruptly became a crowd.

"You paid the meter right? Please tell me you paid the meter," Mom fretted to Lucas the longer we stood waiting.

"I did. Well..." he dragged out with mock uncertainty. She slapped him across the arm just as I gasped and promptly hit the record button on my camera as I leapt from the platform, weaving my way around people waiting around the baggage claim belts. All that could really be seen from the footage I took at the airport was just a shaky beeline through a crowd. Neither of their faces could be seen clearly until later, when our lenses came face-to-face as we filmed each other smiling like idiots and laughing over the mirrored action.

As I approached them, I took them completely off guard because it was like I leapt from the crowd out of nowhere. I tried to skid to a halt, but ended up slamming straight into Fynn with my arms thrown around his neck. He was wearing a backpack with all his camera equipment, and in his hand was a small duffle that instantly dropped so he could hug me right back.

"Good God, Skye!" he laughed, muffling his voice in my shoulder and I did the same. I couldn't stop laughing no matter how hard I tried, and it got to the point where I wasn't sure if I was actually crying.

In that moment I got a good whiff of the aroma of his leather Harrington jacket, and how it smelled of crisp rain and freshly trimmed grass. And also the uncanny stuffiness of a plane cabin in which he spent upwards of ten hours. Eventually I unpinned myself from him and moved on to his mother, who was practically sobbing when she came up to me and said, "Oh dear, Skye, you look so lovely! I've missed you!"

She had such a tight hold on me that she didn't let go until Fynn had gone through and hugged both Mom and Lucas. At that point, I took advantage of her distraction to raise up my camera at the same exact moment Fynn did—our cameras nearly alike in every possible way except for the fact that his was a slight stage up from mine.

We laughed at our simultaneous photo-op and spoke at the same time, only for him to gesture for my commentary to come first. "It is currently six in the morning and I'm both dead and alive at the same time," I blurted out, and he snorted a laugh. "Fynn, say hi to the camera!"

He ducked down and nestled in close to the lens to say, "Hello, friends."

Before I even had the chance to recover, he held his camera up to my face and demanded I introduce myself. I had to bite my tongue for a second to calm down before pushing my hair back and saying, "Hey, I'm Skye. We're sort of in Chicago right now, so..."

After a bit of bantering on camera, I powered mine down and slung the strap over one shoulder only to have Mom nag me to let her take a picture of Fynn and I. In the midst of striking a pose, Mrs. Walton's suitcase strolled by on the belt and she frantically raced to catch up with it. Fynn was the one to snag it and haul it off the belt, struggling under the weight of it. It was massive and bursting at the seams—I could have fit in it had it been empty.

Fynn tugged up the handle and dragged his mom's suitcase behind us as we followed our parents out the baggage claim door and across the street where taxis pulled up and carried visitors into the city. On the way out of the airport, I asked Fynn all about his flight, the projects he was working on, and even the sports he played in school.

As we arrived at the car, Lucas popped the trunk open and helped Fynn lift the suitcase inside, along with his duffle and Mrs. Walton's carryon. I watched from the sidewalk, dizzy with irrational adrenaline. Once his hands were free and the trunk was closed, he approached me for a less enthusiastic hug, but one that seemed less surreal than the first.

"I've so much to tell you about. But right now I'm cold so I can't think straight," he stammered, and I could tell from the pink hue in his cheeks and the purple on his lips. It ended up that I had to climb over Fynn to claim the middle seat, since he wanted to see all there was to see in Chicago, so his mom claimed my other side and together we forged enough body heat to warm up the car before it was even set into drive.

It was like we were children all over again. Fynn had his nose pressed up against the window, trying desperately to see the tops of the skyscrapers, but we only got as far as the holiday decorations allowed. There were Christmas lights strung up everywhere, and big red bows tied on trees, and holiday advertisements on the windows of shops and restaurants.

The sun was barely even up by the time we reached the hotel, at which point we were all a little exhausted—Mom, Lucas and I got on the road at four so we could meet up with the Waltons at the airport, and I think we were all regretting the early plane arrival. It still gave us an entire days' worth of activities, even with jet lag.

The hotel was classy and intimidating, and I felt that with mine and Fynn's reputation as being completely idiotic doofuses, I feared we might club one of the vases or something. It was one of those types of hotels with elevators that had mirrors all the way around it so it looked like you were in a portal as soon as you entered. Fynn and I got a peak at the pool and nearly peed ourselves—it was massive, and it had a windowed ceiling so we could see the snow gathering. They even had a workout room, which I wouldn't even touch with a ten foot pole, but Fynn and his mom both seemed interested to inspect the facilities.

In the hallways, the floors were carpeted maroon with intricate gold embroidery. I stayed on the far right, my boots walking over the thicker lines in the pattern while Lucas counted off the numbers on the doors. We were on the fifth floor, looking for room 523 and 524. Conjoined rooms.

"Ah, here it is. Would you do the honors?" he said, holding the key out to Fynn, who flashed him a goofy grin and said, "Hells yeah."

"Language..." Mrs. Walton crooned from behind me, as if she'd had to remind him a dozen times before. I giggled and covered my mouth up with the back of my hand when Fynn bumped the door open with his hip and entered the room. Mom took the other key to the second room, so I followed her. It was obvious that we'd be dividing the rooms based on family rather than age.

It was a relatively standard hotel room—two full beds with smooth wooden headboards, lamps attached to the walls, and a dresser with a television to top it off on the opposite wall of the beds. At the foyer, the bathroom was a direct right.

I claimed the bed nearest the bathroom and door so Mom and Lucas got the one closest to the air-conditioner-slash-heater. After I plopped my duffle bag on the bed, I jumped at the sound of a knock on our door, and it wasn't the usual one with the peephole. It was the one that connected our room with the Waltons'.

Abandoning my bag, I unlocked the door and pulled it open, coming face-to-face with Fynn and his camera. Of course, I should have expected it, and yet I couldn't help from laughing as he strolled in like a tour guide, providing a sweep of our room before confronting me with, "So Skye, any plans?"

Taken off guard, I fumbled for a minute before blurting out the first thing to come to mind, "I heard there's a pool...?"

Not even bothering to agree, he just laughed and shut his camera off. After such a long plane ride, he hadn't bothered keeping his contacts in. As of right now, we were both mimicking the nerdy-glasses look and didn't care at all. "Really? You want to go swimming?"

"Did you bring a suit?" I inquired, and he rolled his eyes.

"'Did I bring a suit,' she says. Of course I brought a suit! Suit up, c'mon, let's go!" If I hadn't known any better, I would have thought he had taken two espresso shots on the plane. In the end when he spun back to the door, his attention on the screen of his camera, I felt overwhelmed with not only joy, but the fear of being unable to keep up.

"We have lunch plans at noon, all right? So don't wear yourselves out too much," Mom warned from across the room, giving me a pointed look as she jabbed her brush in my direction. I wanted to roll my eyes, but I figured I had plenty of time to adapt Fynn's quirky habits.

"We won't stay out too long," I promised as I picked out my suit and towel from my duffle and headed to the bathroom to change.

When I came out, Fynn was already sitting on my bed, legs crossed like he was about to do some serious yoga, shuffling through my camera rather than his. He pointed to the screen, noticing my return. "What setting do you use for your photos?"

"Um... Aperture priority, why?"

"They're cool. I've been too lazy to figure out the programed settings," he admitted, passing me my camera as I came to stuff my clothes into my duffle. I folded the strap of my camera and packed it with my clothes. "You aren't taking your camera?"

"It's not exactly waterproof," I reminded him, and he only rolled his eyes and muttered, "That's what the manual says..."

After coaxing him to leave his camera behind, we took one of the spare keys and headed off down the hall, our parents settling in for a big discussion about life and all the questions it exhibited. As soon as we left, Fynn let out a sigh and admitted he hated being apart of those conversations. "Good thing we got out of there while we did," he told me with a nudge to my ribcage. I nudged him right back before punching the down arrow on the elevator.

We stepped in and I regretted not bringing a cover up of some kind. A t-shirt would have been better to stare at in the elevator mirrors than a belly covered in goosebumps. It was almost as if the elevator turned the switch to stiff and awkward, like we suddenly realized that, "Hey! Finn isn't exactly an innocent little kid anymore!" and "Newsflash! Skye's actually a girl! Whoa, who knew?!"

More had changed than I anticipated. Given the fact that Fynn had pursed his lips and was looking up at the ceiling, I bet he realized it too.

I'd never had a more awkward elevator incident in my life. I mean, there weren't many elevators in Port Bergen to begin with, but still. By the time we reached the first floor, I practically ran out, and skipped ahead in the direction of the pool. I tossed my towel around my neck and whisked my hair up to tie on top of my head. He still wasn't saying anything, so when a topic came to mind, I jumped on it.

"So... I wish Parker was here. I haven't heard from him in a while," I commented, turning slightly to get a look at him. He seemed to have just come out of a dazed state and managed a simple, "Mmhm."

I clicked the roof of my mouth, searching for something else to say on the matter when he came to my rescue. "Yeah, he was really bummed when he found out where we were going on holiday."

"No doubt. I'd be bummed too. Well, I mean, I wouldn't say California, but maybe something like France."

"France is nice. We went there last month."

He hadn't meant to rub it in my face, but it felt like a kick to the gut. Going to France wasn't like going to Minnesota or Illinois. This trip didn't feel like going to France at all, but it was probably the same distance it took for Fynn to get there from his house. As I scanned the card and gained entrance into the pool area, I said, "Ya'll're so lucky. I wish I could go to France and Germany, Italy and Spain."

"Belgium and Norway," he added, holding the second door open for me and letting in the waft of chlorine and humid pool air.

"Exactly!"

"Amo i tuoi capelli," he spouted off abruptly, and I stumbled for a second before turning to him in confusion. "If you're gonna go somewhere, learn the language first."

"Right, because I totally know Italian. What did you say?" I asked, but he brushed it off and I had a feeling that it would be a normal thing for the rest of our stay in Chicago.

We picked a random table because, seeing as it was winter, the entire room was free for our use. I dropped my towel off there as well as our key to the room. We folded up our glasses and became momentarily blind in comparison to the clarity before.

I stepped towards the ledge of the pool and started to dip my foot into the water, testing out the temperature, but I'd barely gotten my big toe in when I was startled by two arms grabbing me around the waist and hauling me off the ground. I shrieked and started kicking, knowing exactly what he was planning on doing.

All there was to do was close my eyes and hold my breath.

He took the two of us down under the surface of the water, and once we hit, he let go of me so I could resurface and gasp for air. "Fynn!" I cried out, sweeping the water out of my eyes so I could see him pop back up, the water slicking his hair down over his forehead. He pushed it back, blinking out the water from his eyes, and caught a glimpse of me giving him a disapproving glare. "Don't you know not to push people into the water?"

He paused for a second before abruptly throwing his head back and laughing. It echoed around the empty room and resounded in my ears—just the sound of it made me giggle, too. I reached over and shoved him back, and when he went to regain his footing, he fell onto the decline and nearly went under.

"Oh c'mon, you have to admit it's kinda funny," he insisted, casually swimming ahead of me, rolling onto his back, and drifting until his outstretched hands touched the wall of the pool. He ducked back and spun so when his feet connected with the wall; he kicked off.

I lowered myself into the water so it went up to my nose—it was warmer in the water than it was in the air. Fynn emerged on the other side of the pool, proclaiming that he wished he had goggles so he wouldn't get chlorine in his eyes. I scoffed and told him that was his own fault for not packing them.

"Packing light means sacrificing things like goggles," he reminded me, sliding past me as he frowned and added, "and a towel."

"Well, I'm not lending you mine," I said with a mocking, boastful tone that made him break out into a wild grin.

"Same old, same old," he declared. With a dramatic spin, he was practically nose-to-nose with me. In a split second, he was in a whirlwind of water droplets, spraying everywhere when he started shaking his head like a wet dog. The entire time I wailed, laughing, "Fynn! Stop it!"

I wound up shoving him away, my hand flat against his chest until he caught my wrist and held it up. It suddenly felt like a handcuff instead of Fynn's hand, and the battle was to free myself. The competition was written on his face, as was the declaration of an all-out pool war.

As hard as I could manage, I yanked him towards me. The surprise took him off guard, and he fell entirely on top of me trying to catch his balance, which turned into a tackle, which turned into burning eyes trying to see under water. It was one thing after the next until I planted my feet onto his shoulder, and kicked off-

-And rammed my head into the wall.

"Ow! Shit, that hurt!" I cried out, using my free hand to nervously feel around my hair.

Fynn resurfaced, still clamped on tight to my wrist. It took a moment for him to clear his vision while I wailed, "Am I bleeding? Fynn, Fynn, am I bleeding? Is there blood?"

"I don't know, I can't fucking see—pardon my French," he said, squinting and moving up to check. "Where'd you bump it?"

"Right here- ouch! You don't need to prod it or anything," I complained. He suggested we get out of the pool, in the case that I was actually bleeding, because he "wasn't sure."

"How can't you be sure? Is it red or isn't it?" He ignored my comment as he realized that he was still holding my wrist in a death-grip, and decided to loosen up and guide me up the steps of the pool instead. He went to fetch our glasses while I gently felt around my head and discovered a sizable bump not quite on my hair part, but fairly close.

Once his glasses were applied, he pouted his lips and hurried to get a towel. "What is it?" I demanded.

"It's fine, it's fine. Don't worry about it. Let's just head back to the room and let your parents know what happened," he said, and he was so casual about it that I knew he was lying. He must've pulled that stunt on his parents a thousand times, but I wouldn't fall for it so easily because I was friends with Kole.

Still, I went along with it and let him drape the towel around my shoulders and, as I suspected, applied one to the bump on my head. My hands fell down damp, pruney, and red.

"Well that sure says it," I muttered. "'Oh, everything's fine, don't worry about it.'"

"Worrying makes people stressed, rises blood pressure, you get the gist," he said. "Now scoot, let's get up to the room."

What conspired after that goes as follows: The second Mom saw the towel on my head, we were off to the nearest hospital. Of course, there was some debate going around, and considering that Mrs. Walton's husband was a doctor, and she had plenty of experience with head wounds (lacrosse was a violent sport apparently), she was sure she could patch me up. But Mom spared no expense, so she charged Lucas with the task of driving, and to drive as fast and as safe as possible. I was starting to get dizzy, but maybe that was because of the commotion.

I didn't need any stitches or anything, but that was one of the few times I'd ever gone to the hospital. The other time was when Ryan sliced his arm open, so after seeing that conspire, I was glad I didn't have to be sewn up. But I did have to have my head wrapped up, which was humiliating. Fynn took plenty of footage of me waddling around with my head bandaged up.

"I'm real sorry about your head. I shouldn't've been horsing around like that," he apologized the second he saw the bandage. I fiddled around with the side of it as I thought of what to say, but Mom was on top of that.

"Oh it's fine, sweetie. No concussion, nothing too severe. There's no need to worry," she told him. "Head wounds always bleed like that." She coddled him for a few moments until she became wrapped up in a conversation with Mrs. Walton. Lucas clapped his hand on my shoulder and asked if I was still up for the lunch plans.

"Only if everyone else is," I admitted. Fynn blinked at me, and then past me to Lucas, as if wondering if that would be such a grand idea. "What about the Christkindlmarket? Or the Museum?"

"We'll go to the Market tomorrow—first thing's first," Mom said, checking her watch. We had twenty minutes to get to the restaurant. We were gathered just inside the hospital while Lucas fetched the car, so Mom suggested I take a seat on one of the benches. Fynn sat beside me, fiddling with the strap of his camera and looking periodically at his phone. He ignored the notifications springing up in succession—messages from Facebook, Tumblr notes, that sort of thing.

Lucas pulled up at the curb, so we all went to the car. Fynn held the door open for me so I could claim the middle seat, and after I was in, he settled down and locked the door. Mrs. Walton took shotgun this time, and Mom sat on my other side. She tapped at the unwounded side of my head and cooed, "My poor baby." I whined for her to stop, which elicited giggles from around the car.

The restaurant was a cute pizzeria with walls absolutely "lousy" with photographs, as Fynn put it. We sat in one of those half-circle booths, and after determining that I couldn't stand sitting in the middle, Fynn's mom took it, and in between the two of us sat her son.

He leaned close to show me photos he took in London. They spent a night there prior to catching their flight to New York, and boasted that the two of them visited the Queen's Theatre to go to a musical. They also went to a musical on Broadway during their time in NYC. I had a feeling that the British folk went to musicals and plays like us Americans went to the movies.

"When you come visit us, I'll take you all over London, alright?" He said 'alright' like 'ool-roight'.

I laughed and gave him a nudge. "Yeah, more like if, not when."

"Oh come on, don't be like that," he told me, smiling wider as I rolled my eyes. When I looked back at him, he was staring at me. More specifically, he was staring just above my eyes where I felt the firm hold of my head wrap. "Good gosh, I can't believe I bashed your head into the swimming hole wall."

"You did not!"

"It's my fault you look like the south end of a northbound horse. All my fault." I was too shocked by his phrase that I could only gawk at him, so he continued, "All my fault. For all you know, you lost your memory of the incident. It was just too tragic for you to recall."

"Hold up, what did you just call me? I don't know if that was an insult or not," I said.

"What? I just said ya look like the south end of a northbound horse."

"Are you calling me an ass?" I exclaimed, louder than intended. Mom nearly spat her drink out across the table. I scrambled to repeat what he called me, and his mom laughed so loud I was certain the waiter thought she was crazy.

"She does, doesn't she?" Fynn said to his mom.

"Oh hush up—you can't go telling girls they look bad."

"I didn't say she looked bad—I just said—"

"It's basically the same thing. I'm glad my self-confidence is diminished to the size of a sand grain," I told him. He whined for me to stop with that, but that just gave me power to hold this over him for the rest of the day. In the end, it didn't excuse the fact that he'd post this all over YouTube, and the one second before swimming I was perfectly fine, and the next we'd be in the hospital, a bandage wrap over my noggin. Years later we'd watch this video again and remember than beyond the clips from the restaurant there was endless bickering over Fynn inadvertently calling me an ass.

With our bellies full, and a food baby on the way, we checked the time and took for the museum. To make up for calling me an ass and bashing my head into the side of the pool, Fynn guided me up the stairs like I was some elderly woman without limited function of my joints. His mom took a picture of us with her phone, and probably sent it to her husband and Parker to show them "what they were missing out on."

"They aren't missing anything—believe me," I retorted, shaking a finger at them. I imagined if Parker was here, he'd be chastising Fynn and claiming he shouldn't be allowed to hold my arm when no more than three hours ago he went and wounded my skull.

If Parker was there, it would also mean Fynn and I wouldn't be on our own in the middle of a museum, our parents ages behind us the second we got our tickets. They wandered towards the modern art section, and Fynn and I took our leave to the sculptures and elaborate oil paintings from the 1600s. Fynn still had his arm looped through mine, so he'd have access to both of his hands when checking his photographs on his camera. Mine was back at the hotel, unfortunately.

I felt itchy without my camera with me, like I was missing out on something extraordinary. To capture memories in hardcopies—it was what I was now coached to do. After a while, I gave up feeling miserable about not being able to take pictures, and just wandered with Fynn linked to me, and stared at portraits twice the size of me. And it wasn't like I was all that short, either.

"As much as I love art," Fynn suddenly said after we'd been staring at Georges Seurat's masterpiece for a solid five minutes, "I don't understand why it happens."

"That's an odd thing to say."

"No—I mean, what made people think they had to do anything beyond survival? Like, we could just be like all the other animals out there, surviving in the wild. What made us want to build houses and manufacture chairs and electronics and record memories?" I realized then that we were on the same wavelength. It occurred to me after so many rooms of magnificent paintings that I wasn't required to take pictures. I wasn't required to do anything but survive.

"Well," I started, still thinking on it. The words just started flying out of my mouth in a jumble of nonsense: "We're here now, and surviving now means getting along with society instead of man-versus-nature. You learned about man-versus-nature, man-versus-man, right?"

"Yeah, but it doesn't mean I remember anything about it," he snorted, shuffling his feet as he turned off his camera. "But if we could go back in time—before we evolved from man-versus-nature to man-versus-man—would you make the transition?"

"I honestly think we wouldn't have as many problems as we do now. We probably wouldn't have overpopulated the planet, but that doesn't mean we'd be any better off. There might be more people starving."

"You're making it too logical, Skye."

"That's what happens when you try to make sense of shit like that," I said, whispering towards the swear word. He laughed, and I was sure my cursing had something to do with it. His feet were still antsy, and I realized he was waiting for me to move onward. We left the Sunday afternoon masterpiece behind our backs.

My arm felt sweaty after a while so I awkwardly slipped my hand away and had to shake it a few times to free it because Fynn wasn't helping. He harrumphed, still tuned in to the screen of his camera. He asked if I could stand in front of the painting so he could get a picture. "Well, you won't be getting any Tumblr aesthetic from me today," I snapped, pointing to the wrap on my head, but I was already halfway to standing in front of the painting for him.

"Good God, I've missed your sass," he laughed. "I have to say though, you were never this salty in elementary school."

I turned around and frowned at him. He was still taking pictures.

"I was a pushover and I just did whatever you told me to do," I argued, "because you're such a bossy snot-face." He lowered his camera and frowned at me, but it quickly dissolved into a grin.

"Like what you just did there?" he pointed out, and I wanted to make a snarky comment but one of the museum guards told us to "Please lower your voices."

We left that section of the museum behind and wound up at an open staircase with marble floors and walls and railings. Fynn was giggling the whole way there, regardless of what the guard chastised us for. It wasn't until he showed me his camera that I realized he recorded that whole interaction. It wasn't just a picture.

"You imbecile!" I hissed, shoving him in the shoulder. "You incredible imbecile!" He laughed even harder, earning annoyed glances from the art-gurus on the other side of the staircase. I shushed him and started marching off down the staircase. He followed suit, and quickly looped his arm through mine.

"Careful, or else you'll trip an' get a real concussion," he warned, and that almost made me want to smack him and tear my arm away, but I didn't. Because I was a pushover.

We found ourselves a while later in the McKinlock Court, surrounded by half-naked bodies of Greek and Roman sculptures. Fynn told me about the Greece, and the Roman art he saw back at home. "These were all painted at one time. Real bright and vibrant colors, too."

"No kidding," I murmured. I quite liked them plain and monochromatic. I couldn't visualize them with color, and told him as such.

My feet were starting to ache, and soon it felt like my bones were replaced with metal sticks. It certainly didn't help the state of my throbbing head, so we sat for a while. The number of people diminished, and I realized that we were almost entirely alone. "We have half an hour until close," he told me, checking his phone. He had an insane list of notifications that he ignored. It bothered me. There was probably a message from our parents somewhere hidden among them.

I pulled out my phone and sure enough, Mom texted me fifteen minutes ago wondering where we were. I answered back with the Roman sculptures exhibit. Fynn and I were both quiet, mainly because we were both exhausted and burnt out for the day. It was pitch black outside, except for the lamps in the courtyard down below.

"Skye?" Fynn's voice startled me, and it didn't register to answer until I realized that he had actually spoken, and was waiting for a response.

"Yeah?"

"Do you like anyone?" he asked, and after a moment of silence he continued, "As in, romantic interest."

"No."

"Have you ever?"

"I don't think so. Not purposefully."

The answer didn't seem to help him, and when I glanced at him, he had his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. His eyes were turned slightly away, as if he was trying to ignore the fact that even facing forward, I was still in the corner of his eyes. "Have you?" I decided to ask.

"Yes, plenty of times. What else do you expect from a teenager?" His response made me uncomfortable, maybe because I didn't relate. I wasn't head-over-heels for anyone, and falling romantically in love with someone just seemed like a waste of time. "Have you kissed anyone then?"

I thought of Ryan.

"Yeah, plenty of times," I mimicked his voice, nudging him in the shoulder. He didn't find it amusing. I changed my answer. "Not on purpose. Have you?"

"Yes, but I don't think any of them meant anything," he said, fiddling with the strap of his camera.

"Why'd you bring this up?" I asked, because my brain wanted to know.

He continued twisting his fingers through the loops of his camera strap. He twisted his lips together, as if answering would cost something. Eventually, he twisted a hand through his hair and looked at me. "I don't know. I feel like if I kissed you, it'd mean something."

I stared at him, not understanding. "Why?"

He sighed and said, "Do you have to have an answer to everything?" After saying all that shit, the fact that he leant towards me didn't feel like a surprise. What surprised me the most was the fact that I didn't move away. I didn't shove him like I did Ryan, and at the time, Kole didn't come to mind.

My eyes were still open even when his closed and he pressed his lips against mine, his arm still looped through mine. I had to twist towards him so leaning wouldn't feel so awkward, so I wouldn't feel so awkward, so it wouldn't feel forced or strained, like a first kiss should feel like. And it did, it felt like a real first kiss. I felt like I was supposed to—that fluttery feeling in my stomach felt like I was about to throw up and scream at the same time. Like reading the conclusion of my favorite novel. Like naming Puck. Like gaining a friend like Joni, or meeting Landon, or all those good childhood memories with just Fynn, Parker, and I.

His hand let go of his camera and held my knee. There was a tingling feeling in the pit of my stomach and I thought I might actually throw up. But not for bad reasons—just in general.

I wasn't sure how to conclude a kiss, but thankfully he pulled away before I could do something weird like just ceasing movement altogether. His eyes opened again, and I realized mine had been open the entire time, staring at the curls of his blonde hair over the tips of his ears. I blinked at him, and he blinked at me. "You look like you're gonna be sick," he said.

"I feel nauseous," I confessed.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"No, I'm just nauseous in general," I clarified. "Where's the restroom?"

"Hell if I know. This is my first time here," he said, and stood up, his arm coming loose from mine. He paced away from the little nook we were in, sitting on a bench next to an Alexander the Great sculpture without a nose, and some stone coins in a case.

Fynn came back and took me by the wrist, helping me up. We wandered across the exhibit and followed a few signs that led to the bathrooms, and by the time it was in sight, my mouth started to salivate like it did the few times I actually threw up.

The second I felt it I started running, ignoring the pain in my head, and burst through the bathroom door. I ran to the first open stall and choked on that retching sound that came before the bile, and the chunks of pizza and cheese and pepperoni. I coughed a little after, shaking, and realized that a hand was holding out a piece of paper towel.

I took it and wiped my mouth before flushing it all down. When I stood up and turned around, Fynn was standing there, in front of a set of urinals. We were in the men's bathroom.

"Are you okay?" he asked, looking more guilty by the second. I wondered if he thought it was possible to throw up because of a goddamn kiss.

"I'm fine," I answered, and went to the sink. I cleaned out my mouth with the water there and spat it down the drain. He held back my hair for me and even produced a stick of gum out of his wallet.

"I keep a few in there just in case," he explained, and I scoffed. "Not for that reason! I'm not a sleaze. See? Check for condoms," he opened his wallet up, but it wasn't like I wanted to know either way, so I didn't look.

I pushed the door to the restroom open and wandered back onto the glossy tiles, and pupil-less statues. A group of people were walking towards the Roman exhibit not too far away, and it didn't take much for them to notice us. It was our parents, watching Fynn and I emerge from the male restroom.

"Skye? What in the world are you doing in the guys' bathroom?" Mom blurted out, and I think that was suspicion in her eye as she glared pointedly at Fynn. I didn't understand it until I saw Fynn blush and rapidly shake his head.

"No! Uh—Skye got sick and rushed to the nearest restroom. It's fine though—no one was in there," he explained, and I promptly covered my face to avoid the embarrassment of my mom thinking I'd do something like that in public.

"Oh my gosh, Mom," I whined when she quickly transitioned into a mother hen pampering an ill child. "I'm fine now, just tired. Can we go back to the hotel now? Please?"

"Good grief—we never shoulda left them alone," Mrs. Walton muttered to Lucas, who shrugged as if to say, "Whatever you say."