The Trouble with Kissing Connor

The air thrummed with the pulsing beat of the music, a kaleidoscope of pink and blue lights strobing across the walls. Brett's party was, as usual, a chaotic symphony of teenage revelry. I surveyed the scene: Emmy in a clumsy embrace, the black-eyeliner crew in their smoky corner, and Brian, already very drunk, pouring shots.

Then my eyes found him. Connor Matthews. Laughing amidst the dancers, his black shirt clinging like a second skin. My heart, a traitorous thing, pounded a familiar rhythm against my ribs. Ten years of loving him, and still, he made me as nervous as hell.

Suddenly, Brian’s slurred voice cut through the noise: "Who's up for a game of suck and blow?" My stomach plummeted. Kissing games. I watched, a knot of dread tightening in my chest, as my sister and her friends flocked around Connor. He high-fived Brian, a grin splitting his face, "Let's do this."

I couldn't watch him kiss other girls. Turning for the exit, I felt a familiar pang of unrequited agony. Then, BAM! Darkness.

The lights died with a loud pop, plunging the room into chaos. Gasps and fumbling ensued. Someone bumped into me, and I stumbled. Instinct, reckless and sudden, seized me. I started to run, pushing through the dark. Phones began to glow, illuminating the frantic scramble.

Then, smack. I collided with him. The intoxicating scent of Connor. Our faces were inches apart, his warm breath on my lips. Electricity, sharp and undeniable, sparked between us. We leaned, then leaned again.

And then we were kissing. My brain caught up a second later: OMG! I AM KISING CONNOR! But just as quickly as it began, I pulled away, melting back into the darkness before he could possibly know it was me.