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Del's not sure what the fuck she’s saying at this point. She’s just rambling like a goddamn idiot, tongue thick in her mouth, the tips of her toes curled up all tight and tense inside her shoes.
Ever since Wayne did that stupid little twirl and dropped to his knees in front of her like some Danny Zuko clown, her head had started buzzing. It was the same feeling as when she’d shoved a fork into the kitchen outlet as a kid, except then, she'd gotten thrown by her hair into her room and yelled at for two straight hours. Now, she just feels buzzed, even though she hasn't had shit to drink in hours. Maybe that would've been a better idea than this.
The music fades into some other world as they make their way across the backlot, him not meeting her eyes and that little dimple of his peeking in and out. Really, he’s being all sweet again, like the chocolate bar she snagged from a girl’s backpack earlier, but this is so much better. Because it feels earned. Feels like one of the only things in this fucking world that she didn’t have to snatch and sneak away to get.
Fuck. She hates how much she likes that small little shy smile he gets when she says something cheesy, like she got him a fucking birthday present and cooked him dinner and kissed him all at once. She hates how smooth the top of his hand is when it brushes up on her arm like that. She hates how he looks at her—like suddenly she’s the whole world and he’s just hanging on for dear life. Fuckin’ idiot.
Her eyes glance down at his mouth, half-parted, as he keeps his gaze glued to the ground. Del’s really thinking about kissing, now that she mentioned it. How many girls has he kissed before her? Does he wanna kiss her, too? She thinks he does. She's 99% sure, but the last 1% is her making her hands all sweaty and gross.
Jesus, she’s still talking, and he won’t meet her eye, and fuck, okay, she told him not to look at her like that but since when he has ever listened to anybody?
Truth is, Del dreams sometimes about that look in his eyes. She dreams about the feeling of his hair wild and messy beneath her hands. She felt it once, bored on the back of his motorbike, and she remembers how soft it was. Maybe the softest part on his whole body.
Her voice dies in her throat, and she can’t stand Wayne watching her feet anymore, can’t stand not knowing what he’s thinking. So she grabs his face and forces his chin up, her breath leaving her all at once as they meet eyes.
Oh. There it is. Now all his focus is on her, so intense she thinks about punching him to dispel the tension. But not really.
Whatever’s there, like a finger-painting smeared messy all over his face, is making her burn, the heat rushing up to the top of her head and down to her toes—probably turning her as pink as his fucking suit. She tries not to care. It’s just Wayne. And that’s all she can handle him being, if she’s gonna make it through this whole fucking thing.
He’s stepping forward, gaze even more intense somehow, and she loses her breath again, feeling the hitch of it tremble in her throat. It’s the only sound either of them has made in what feels like fucking years.
She knows where this is going. Read about these scenes a billion times, seen it in a dozen dumb romance movies that her ma always loved. He moves even closer, eliminating the gap between them, filling the space with Wayne. She can smell the cheap cologne he must have borrowed from Trish’s house, and somehow that makes her heart swell like a balloon in her chest, whacking against her ribcage.
Then he’s leaning in, like it’s no big fucking deal, like they do this every day and he’s memorized the path between his lips and hers and is taking all the shortcuts to make it there. She meets him halfway, almost as an afterthought, because she wants to remember this moment—not feel like a statue sitting in her own skin.
The shape of his mouth fits nice against hers, she thinks, warm and soft. His lips might even be softer than his hair. They’re like tiny little pillows, breathing her in, tasting whatever’s left there—some nasty combination of cherry Burnett’s and gas station licorice. He doesn’t seem to mind it.
To be honest, he kinda tastes like blood, something leftover from the cut on his lip, but it doesn't bother her as much as it probably should. It's just him. She likes this part of him, too: the one that uses his fists like pistols, so unafraid and unbothered. He's simple like that. Easy to know. Hers.
His hand moves slowly down to her hip, a little uncertain, and it’s kinda fucking hot. Instinctively, she presses closer to him, soaking in the heat of his chest where it curves against her. Before she can give it a second thought, she bites down not so gently on his bottom lip, right where he split in.
He barely even flinches, though. Freak. He simply opens his mouth and allows her tongue to slip in. They try that for a bit, the tongue thing and the hands above the belt thing, and she’s into it. The weight of his hand at the back of her neck paired with the one at her hip is sending, like, sparks or something all throughout her body. She’s just so fucking warm.
Just as she’s slipped her mouth away to draw a breath, and he’s moved his lips over to her jaw easily, exploring the skin there and down her neck, and she’s starting to pant really heavy, and her hands have moved underneath his shirt to touch his stomach, and he’s making some kinda noise that she has never, ever heard before and really wants to hear again—
Just then, of fucking course, Trish and Jenny have to make an appearance.
“Dude, Wayne, they’re totally asking for an encore now—"
“Shit! Babes! This is so cute!”
Both the girls squeal a little, kinda like excited baby piglets, and giggle into each other’s arms.
“Sorry, we’ll just—" Trish starts to back up, but Del untangles herself from Wayne first, grabbing his hand and pulling them toward the doors.
“Nah. It’s alright. We were coming back in anyway.”
Jenny and Trish both giggle at that again. “Okayyyy! Whatever, lovebirds!”
When Del shoots a glance up at Wayne’s face, reservations beginning to take over—was he into it? she thought he was, but weren’t guys supposed to grab ass and throw their dick out of their pants when they liked a girl? not that she wanted him to or anything, but how was she supposed to get how interested he was?—she finds him already looking down at her.
He’s got that half-smile on his face again, and his lips are a little swollen from the attention. A tiny trail of blood trickles down from the split there. She blushes.
“What’re you looking at?” she says, glancing back down at her feet.
“Nothing,” he mutters.
As they burst through the doors, greeted to a wide round of cheers, she sneaks a peek back at him to see a full grin now. Which makes her grin, too, because fuck, it’s so hard to be anything but happy when he acts like this.
Like the world is theirs. Like the rest of it doesn’t matter.
Maybe it doesn’t.