Free Kiss Crush Collide by Christina Meredith

angles against the curb. He checks himself in the rearview mirror, flicking his bangs to the right before he steps out of the car and into the perfumed bridal shop. The clatter of the bells hanging over the door and the rush of the bracelets down my mother’s arm announce his arrival.
    “Well, there he is.” My mother laughs, stretching out her arms to greet him.
    “Any luck?” Shane asks as he leans down to receive my mother’s kiss.
    Yorke strides out of the dressing room, toes lost in the thick cream carpet, wearing nothing but a strapless bra under a loosely tied short satin robe.
    “Nope,” she says.
    Shane’s eyes bulge out of their sockets as her robe slips open when she slides down onto the love seat, shoving me over and squeezing me out.
    “I’m ready,” I say abruptly, standing and blocking Shane’s view.
    “And Fred?” Shane asks hopefully, his eyes searching the room.
    I point to her feet, just visible under the curved door of a dressing room.
    Shane stares at the door, his dreams dashed. I guess he was hoping for three Johnson sisters in a state of undress today. He is totally pissing me off, so he will be lucky if he makes it to two.
    “So, we’re good to go?” Shane asks, looking past me and doing the standard double check with my mother before he reaches down to grab my bag.
    “You can take her away,” my mother replies. “We are done with her.”
    Sliding into Shane’s car is the same as diving into a pool of warm water on a hot day. It feels thick, soupy, and unsettling. He shifts into drive and automatically drops his hand onto my leg. I lean my head back and close my eyes tight against that heavy feeling, but it glows burning and red against my lids, no matter how hard I try to shut it out.

    I stand with my knees locked, my bare legs pressing against the metal seat behind me, my eyes on the grade schoolers.
    Having spent the afternoon navigating the crowded, choppy waters of the pool, they now hang limply from the chain-link fence while the sun sets over their freckled shoulders. They look wrung out. I can relate.
    Balancing on their rusty three-speeders in damp bathing suits, they sit out the hour while the pool is closed between the afternoon and night swims. They live here all summer, like refugees. It’s not just a pool; it’s a baby-sitting service with free chlorine.
    Finally Troy climbs onto his chair, and bicycles drop to the ground like flies. The refugees are ready, good for another go. I, however, am not so sure I have it in me.
    When the sharp sound of Troy’s whistle finally splits the soft evening air, I buckle. I pull my legs in close to my body and lean back, with nothing more to do than watch little kids and their parents paddle around for the next two hours while the sun goes down and the temperature sinks.
    The greased-up girls of the afternoon, lying side by side on thick beach towels with their bikini straps lowered, are gone. The guys in dark denim and worn baseball caps who sweat in the sun as they flirt and chat with the sunbathers have long since disappeared. They hopped into their cars for a smoke before heading off for a night at the lake.
    Tonight it’s mostly families, little kids and parents who have put on a few pounds since their dating days. They do this thing—I remember it from last summer—where they take the first few embarrassing steps, the ones after they drop the beach towel but before they hit the water, on their tiptoes. Like that makes them look skinnier or something.
    A breeze lifts the branches that dangle over the top of the fence, and I take a deep breath. It feels like the first one of the day.
    Lights are popping up all over the park. Bright circles of white light suddenly appear over splintery teeter-totters, dusty home plates, and empty grass lots, making the night seem instantly darker, the sky more indigo.
    The overhead lights around the perimeter of the pool buzz and flicker to life just as Valerie Dickens steps out of the