It's hard to let go of characters who've been living in your head for almost four years. There's so much more to tell. Not huge plotty things, necessarily, but those odd, snapshot moments that make up our lives--the day the cat got stuck behind the refrigerator, or the night you spent sleeping out in the backyard with your best friend, laughing and sick on too much Mountain Dew and a giant bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, or the day the boy you like looks at you across the cafeteria table, and really sees you for the first time.
This is one of those moments, from Cold Kiss.
“Let me cut it,” Danny says, running his hands through my hair as we sit in the swing on my front porch.
He’s pushing it slowly with one bare foot—it’s May and weirdly sticky-hot already, and we have my house to ourselves for the afternoon. Saturdays are usually for doing something—something more than sitting anyway—but it’s too warm, and everything is hazed over, moving in slow motion.
“What do you know about cutting hair?” I elbow him in the ribs, or try to, but he twists away too fast and grabs my arm.
“More than you do.” His tone is lofty, smug, and I snort a laugh. He doesn’t know the first thing about cutting hair, but I’m tempted anyway. My hair is so ridiculous, there’s not much that could make it worse.
Plus, I like it when he’s touching me, even when it’s nothing more than him tangling his fingers in my crazy hair.
His legs are endless, stretched out in front of him, and his sweat-damp hair curls around his ears and at the back of his neck. I lean into him and tilt my head back against his shoulder so he’ll lean down and kiss me.
He does, and I smile against his mouth. “Okay,” I whisper. “But if you really mangle it, I will end you.”
He grins, and ten minutes later I’m sitting on a stool in the middle of the kitchen, my hair wet and the scissors’ blades clicking together with terrifying speed.
“You’re not going all G.I. Jane on me, right?” I ask as another dark brown tuft falls to the floor.
His left hand is steady and warm on my shoulder. “As if,” he says, and bends down to press a soft kiss behind my ear.
It’s one thing too much, too sweet, and I feel like I’m going to burst, everything I feel pushing its way to the surface. It’s happiness too big to contain, too bright and hot and delicious. Sometimes I can’t really believe I can have this, and I wish I could turn around and hide my face against his chest so he won’t see how much I love him.