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Seventeen
AFTER
Lily
James's eyelashes are easily half an inch long. Or more. And very, very thick like he applied mascara. His face is a combination of beautiful and handsome. Beautiful eyes, beautiful lips. Handsome jaw, handsome chin.
"Why are you staring at me like that?" He asks me with a tug at the corner of his lips and his eyes on the road.
"I'm staring at the boy whose idea of a date is evening mass," I say, teasing him.
He smiles. A shy, embarrassed smile. "It's not a date," he says, and it hurts, "it's just . . . I was going to mass and I figured—"
"I would want to?" I prod.
He shrugs then says, "we could go out," in a whisper. "After Mass . . . If you want."
I laugh because he seems so nervous. His hands are trembling slightly on the steering wheel. "Don't bother."
The dress I am wearing is modes
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