His attention dips, ever briefly, to my mouth. My insides clench. The distance between us feels like a mile.

Quint inhales and I can’t move, waiting for him to speak, to say my name, to say anything—

But when he does speak, his tone is clipped and brash. Nervous. “Should we talk about something else? The gala? Or biology? Or—school field trips, or something?”

I lick my lips. That does sound safer, and it seems clear neither of us will be falling asleep anytime soon.

“We still need to figure out our raffle prize?” I suggest.

“Good. Right. Something priceless, but that we can actually afford.”

We spend a few minutes pondering. Quint throws out a few ideas—Ari could write them a personalized song? Or the winner could invite some of their closest friends to the next animal-release celebration, like a private party? They’re all good ideas, all possibilities, but nothing seems quite right …

I’m looking around the break room, hoping inspiration will strike, when my attention lands on the photo of the sea turtle caught in the netting and debris.

I gasp. “Quint!”

“What?”

I jump to my feet, tightening the blanket around my waist as I cross the room. “These! Your photos!”

He stands up too, but less enthusiastically. “My photos?”

“Yes! What if we made a series of limited-edition prints showing some of the center’s patients? You could sign each one and number them. They’re so beautiful, and they do such a great job of capturing what the center is all about. People would go nuts for them!”

“Shucks, Pru. That’s mighty kind of you to say.” Despite his joking tone, I can tell he’s embarrassed by the praise. “But come on. They’re too sad. No one would want them.”

I consider this. “Yes, they are sad. But lots of great art is sad. And these pictures, they make you feel something, you know? You capture these moments, these emotions…” I press a hand over my heart, remembering the way my throat had closed tight the first time I’d seen the animals in the photographs. “The pictures are heartbreaking, but they’re also honest, and they explain in the most visceral way why the rescue center is important. I know you didn’t take the pictures so you could sell them, but for a raffle … What do you think?”

He’s frowning at the photos on the wall. “I don’t know. I mean, I’m glad you think they’re good, but … they’re just…” He shrugs. “Depressing. Besides, I’m not some great artist. No one will pay money for these.”

“I think you’re wrong. I know you’re wrong.” I grab his arm, pleading. He tenses. “And they have just the right amount of personal touch. They’re perfect!”

His lips twist to one side. I think I might be wearing him down, but I can also see he’s not convinced. “I guess we can put it on the maybe list.”

I pout. “Fine. It’s your art. I shouldn’t tell you what to do with it.” My hands fall to my hips and I look back at the framed photos, shaking my head in disappointment. “You can do whatever you want to do.”

Quint doesn’t respond.

I wait, fully expecting him to give in. To throw up his hands and proclaim—fine, Prudence, you win. Use the darn photos if it’s that important to you!

But his silence stretches on and on.

Finally, I glance at him.

He’s watching me, his eyes glinting with the faint glow of the flashlight.

“What?” I ask.

His mouth opens, but hesitates. Two seconds. Five. Before—“I can do whatever I want to do?”

I’m immediately wary. My eyes narrow. “Within reason.”

He exhales sharply. “It might be too late for that.”

I’m about to ask what he’s talking about, when he lowers his head and touches his lips against mine.

I freeze.

All thoughts evacuate my brain, leaving me with nothing but mental static.

My lips tingle. It’s a brief touch. Hesitant. Unsure. And then it’s gone. His eyes are hooded as he peers at me, waiting for my reaction.

And I—I can’t react. I can barely breathe.

Quint Erickson just kissed me.

He starts to look concerned. He gulps so loud I can hear it.

“I’ve … wanted to do that for a while…,” he says, which might be an explanation? Or an excuse? And then he’s pulling away even farther, and those eyebrows, those glorious eyebrows are knitting together, and I can tell he’s embarrassed and hurt and—why can’t I move?

“But if I shouldn’t have … I maybe misread … um.” His shoulders rise defensively. “Should I say I’m sorry?”

“No!” The word is all I can manage. Anything to get him to stop talking, to stop backpedaling, to stop looking like he might have just made a mistake. “I just … you surprised me. Is all.”

His head slowly lifts, slowly falls, in something like a robotic nod. “Okay. Good surprised, or…?”

I laugh, the hilarity hitting me all at once.

Quint. Quint kissed me.

He kissed me.

“Pru—”

I don’t let him finish. I grab his shoulders and kiss him back.

FORTY

“The second-to-last day of school.”

“Second-to-last day of school?” I say, baffled, trying to remember what, if anything, was so special about the second-to-last day of school. But then I shake my head. “No, no. I know you’re lying, because the last day of school is when we got our grades from Mr. Chavez, and you implied that only a masochist would willingly work on that biology project with me over the summer.”

“Oh yeah. I’m not saying it was the first time I realized I liked you. I was still thoroughly convinced that you were a terrible person. I’m just saying, the second-to-last day of school is when you became a terrible person that I sort of wanted to make out with.”

I blanch. “Quint!” I say, hiding my face behind my hands. “Honestly!”

He shrugs. “You asked.”

I stutter a laugh, even as heat burns across my cheeks. We’re sitting on the pile of blankets. The power is still out, though the storm has dulled to a steady drizzle. Quint’s arm is draped around my shoulders, as comfortably as if we did this all the time.

I don’t know how many hours we’ve been sitting here. We’ve gone past that period of late-night delirium when everything becomes hysterically funny, through the point when everything seems impossibly profound, and now we’re both sleepy and yawning and refusing to close our eyes. I never want this night to end.

“So what was it? My extremely detailed miniature model of Main Street, or…”

“Karaoke, obviously.”

I gasp. “Oh! That was karaoke night, wasn’t it? When I…” I touch the back of my head, remembering my fall. Then I look at him, dubious. “You have a thing for girls with concussions?”

“I honestly don’t know what I have a thing for.” His fingers mindlessly trace circles around my upper arm. “But there was just something … I don’t know. At one point you did that little shoulder-shimmy thing…” He wiggles his shoulders in imitation. “Plus, that lipstick of yours…” He brings his free hand to my face, pressing his thumb lightly against my lips, even though there’s no way I have any lipstick left after this night. I shiver. “I usually don’t get the whole makeup thing, but that lipstick. I’ve had dreams in that exact shade of red lately.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Is that weird?” His eyes crinkle in the corners, and I want to tell him that every word out of his mouth for the past I-don’t-know-how-many-hours has been weird.

“It might be a little weird,” I say. “But I’m not complaining.”

He grins and his eyes dip to my mouth. I’m coming to recognize this look, right before he kisses me. His hand moves to cup the side of my face. He leans down and I tilt my head up to meet him. My lips are swollen. Twenty-four hours ago I’d never been kissed. Now I’ve been kissed into oblivion.

“Your turn,” says Quint, pulling away and settling his forehead against mine. “When did you first want to kiss me?”

I close my eyes and try to remember. Right now it’s hard to imagine a time when I didn’t want to kiss him.

“Snorkeling.”

“Yes!” Quint pumps his elbow. “I knew you were totally into me that day. I could sense it.” He snaps his fingers. “Was that also the day that I helped rescue that sea otter? It was, wasn’t it? Man, that was a good day for me.” He sighs wistfully, as if he’s an old man feeling nostalgic for his youthful prime, rather than something that just happened a few weeks ago. “It was kind of magical watching you snorkel for the first time. I don’t think I’d ever seen you that happy before.”

I consider this. “I wasn’t happy so much as amazed.”

“No, you were happy. I can tell, you know.”

“Oh? How?”

“I could see your dimples.” His eyes glint, almost teasingly, though he’s trying to keep his expression stoic and wise. “They don’t show up as much when you have one of your snarky smiles on.”

My heart thumps, and I can’t help but grin. Flustered, but happy.

“See?” he says, knocking his shoulder against mine. “Like that.”

I bump him back. Then my eyes catch on the windows and I blink. “Hey, Quint. Do you see what I’m seeing?”

He turns his head and it takes him a minute to realize what I’m talking about. Daylight. Just a faint hint of it illuminating the windows. Not sunshine, but the promise of sunshine. A dim greenish-gray light cutting through the drizzle.

“What time is it?” He grabs for his phone reflexively, before remembering that our batteries both died eons ago.

I glance at my watch. “Almost six.” We look at each other, realizing that we’ve been awake all night. Not only that, but the storm seems to have passed.