Free The Other Half of Me by Emily Franklin

What if nothing happens at all?
    “Close your eyes,” Tate commands. I obey and then don’t. “Close them!” he says again.
    I cross my arms over my chest. “Why?”
    “It’s a surprise,” he explains.
    “I don’t like surprises,” I fire back. There’s a cynical expression on his face—he doesn’t buy it. “Really. My sweet sixteen birthday party was a disaster. My whole family and all my friends jumped out from behind the furniture and I practically died from shock. I had to be rushed to the hospital. I was there for
days
!”
    Tate laughs. “Okay, okay. I got it. No surprises.” He moves toward me so we’re maybe a foot away from each other in the hallway outside a closed door. The lighting is calm, like near paintings in a museum. His eyes focus on mine, then move to my lips. Faye read in an article that if a guy looks at your lips when he’s talking to you, it means he’s thinking about kissing you. My, oh my.
    “Good. I’m glad we got that settled.” I don’t move, so I can keep trying to read his eyes. “No surprises.”
    Tate moves toward me even more. He’s going to put his arms around my waist. He’s going to pull me close to him. He’s going to…open the door. Oh. “Go on in,” he says, and swings the door open, revealing a set of narrow stairs.
    I climb the steps two at a time, holding the polished wooden railing for balance. When I reach the last step, I take a deep breath. Not because I’m out of shape and out of breath, but because it’s so cool.
    “This is awesome!” I say. “In the real sense, not the, like, overly used
awesome
in a cheerleader sense.” Then I blush. He’s actually friends with that crowd.
    “I like that distinction.” Tate’s smile completely floors me.
    We are standing in a small room shaped in a hexagon. All the walls are windows, or the windows are walls, whichever. “I feel like I’m outside, even though I’m not.” I go over to one of the window/walls and peer out into the dusky sky. It’s just like Tate to challenge my perspective like this. I’m a little dizzy, probably because Tate is standing mere inches away.
    “I love this place,” he says. “My parents never come up here. Then again, they’re never home to begin with.”
    There’s silence. Outside, the wind shifts through the trees, and feeling Tate’s eyes on me makes my legs want to give way. I try to ground myself by looking at the red splotch of paint at the hem of my shirt. “It’s definitely a cool room,” I say.
    “Yeah, it is,” Tate agrees.
    I’m so busy picking at the paint drip, staring at the odd shape of it so I can avoid staring at this guy, this person whom I’ve wanted for so long, that I don’t realize quite how close to me he’s standing until he taps me on the shoulder and I look up. We’re less than a paintbrush length apart. There’s no doubt in my mind he’s going to kiss me. But I’m wrong, because all he does is look at me, raise his eyebrows, and ask, “Ready to go downstairs?”
    Tate bounds down the steps first, and I watch his easy stride, taking note of the way his waffle shirt is half tucked into his jeans. Painted images of gray waves come to mind and then stop. Tate halts himself and suddenly, in one fluid motion, turns around on the stairs, moves both arms so one hand is around my waist and the other palms the back of my head, and pulls me close. I am one step above him. Tate has made up the difference all right—the difference between our heights—so we’re eye to eye now. My heart is having convulsions. It’s like when Russ tries to surprise-scare me—it’s as if I couldn’t have expected this, and yet should have all along.
    Tate puts his mouth on mine and we kiss slowly. His lips are just the right amount moist without being slobbery, and he tastes even better than red licorice. When I pull back, Tate’s eyes are still closed, and when he opens them, a wide grin forms on his face. I’m smiling at him so hard, I think I