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It would have been better, almost, if Bill disliked kissing Beverly. He didn't dislike it. It was a pleasant experience, and by the time he drew back, he felt closer to Bev than before, because now he knew how soft her lips were, and how she would hold his cheek as they kissed. He loved her, truly and deeply, and he felt no urge whatsoever to kiss her again.
"I thought," he said, and paused, restarted. "That was good."
Bev frowned. "Yeah," she said, like she wasn't sure if she agreed or not.
"But like, fine. It was fine."
"It wasn't as much of a thing as I thought it would be."
He relaxed, because he'd realized how silly it was that there had been a doubt in his mind that they would be on the same page about this. Bev always seemed to know what he was thinking, often even before he knew. Like always, she'd put his thoughts into words. "Exactly."
They sat in companionable silence for a while, looking out at the birds. If Stan were here, he'd be able to tell them the names of each one, and Bill would enjoy his company, but it was good with just the two of them. They weren't touching, and that was fine. Bill liked having her close, and appreciated that they could be quiet together.
At last, Bev said, "I like Ben."
"Oh," Bill said.
Apparently making the not unfair assumption that Bill wouldn't know what she meant until she spelled it out for him, she went on, "Like, I want to kiss Ben. And only Ben."
He closed his eyes for a few seconds, and pictured kissing Ben. It wouldn't be bad. Ben would be a generous kisser, he was sure. But then he pictured Ben and Bev kissing, and how Ben would go all red, and Bev would grin like she won the lottery, and that would be far better.
He opened his eyes and looked back at Bev. She was watching him with something like trepidation, like she was expecting him to react poorly to this news, rather than the smile that she got.
In the abstract sense, Bill understood that he was supposed to react poorly. He was a boy, and she was a girl, and they were close, so he was supposed to want all of her time and attention and love, and give her all of his in turn. He would give her anything she asked, but he couldn't imagine she would ask for the things society told her she should want. Their relationship wasn't like that.
"I don't think I want to kiss girls," Bill said. "If there were a girl I would want to kiss, it would be you. But…." He shrugged. She'd already heard his review of their kiss. It was fine.
Bev accepted this without trouble. "Is there anyone else you want to kiss?" she asked.
It was an open secret that Richie and Eddie would rather kiss each other than any girl. Who were the losers to tell them they were wrong for what they wanted? All of them lived on the outskirts of society, and if they turned on each other, there was no one else who'd have their backs. Bill would defend Richie and Eddie with his life, but he had no interest in joining them.
"No," he said. "There's no one." He tried to play it off as casual, smiling as he said, "There's never been anyone."
"Hm," Bev said, and he could tell she didn't understand.
How could she? None of them could understand each other, not really. Mike would tell Bill about his parents, and Bill would listen and empathize, but they both knew that he could never truly know everything that Mike went through. Bill didn't need to understand in order to love him.
Bill looked at Bev, and thought of how much he loved her, and of how much he loved every one of them. "Except you all," he said. "I don't care about kissing you, but I don't know what I would do without you and the losers."
She smiled, and bumped his shoulder with her own, and he knew that in this, at least, they felt the same.