My first kiss was unexpected.
I was leaning against the giant sink basin in the basement of our youth group center, washing baby blue paint from my hands when he reached for my hips, spun me around, and planted his lips against mine. Just us two, in our faded tee shirts and paint splattered jeans, surrounded by bare concrete walls with only the sounds of a gushing faucet and faint footsteps overhead. Instinct kicked in and I surely kissed him back, but there was a solid marquee of “I have no idea what I’m doing” rattling through my head. My thirteen-year-old heart was caught completely off guard.
But his fifteen-year-old mouth wasted no time in saying “I love you.” He wasted no time before slipping his hand into mine, before stealing glances across the room, before calling me “baby” through instant messages on school nights. And I wasted no time in returning that sentiment, because it tasted so sweet lingering on my lips and it seemed like the right thing to do.