The-Lucky-List-Rachael-Lippincott

look down at Matt. For a moment I watch the firelight dance across his face, his eyes nervous and
hopeful now that I’m an arm’s length away from him. He stands slowly, taking a small step closer to
me.
And then, before I can think about it anymore, I lean forward and kiss him.
He smells like his favorite cologne, the one he only wears on dates, and on Valentine’s Day, and
when he’s got something planned. His mouth tastes like whatever beer Jake sneaked onto the bus in a
duel bag. His hand feels so but firm as he finds the small of my back. It’s familiar. e same person
I’ve kissed the same way since freshman year.
But just like every single kiss since freshman year, there are no fireworks. No rush of dizzying love.
No puzzle piece clicking perfectly into place.
My mind starts the countdown it always has.
But for the first time, I finally realize what I hope it’s counting down to.
I realize deep down, I’m waiting for it to fix me. Like I thought the list fixed me. To make
everything right. To make this part of me, the part that my mom never knew, right.
But it doesn’t.
When I pull away, my eyes search for Blake just over Matt’s shoulder. She’s looking away, out at the
dark lake, her jaw set, hurt painted onto every feature on her face.
Automatically, I take a step back, and Matt’s hand falls from my waist, his thick eyebrows jutting up
in surprise at my reaction. Everyone around us is cheering their approval, but I think he can tell
something is wrong. I think we both can.
Blake turns and pushes past our classmates, walking out of the clearing and into the woods,
disappearing into the darkness of the tree line.
I watch her leave, my unlucky heart ripping like a sheet of paper, a list being torn apart.