The Girl Who Fell(13)

I lace up my sneakers and grab my iPod. “Sorry Finn,” I say when his pant becomes please, please, please. “You wouldn’t be able to keep up with me today.” Or any day, for that matter. Finn’s a mixed breed, but the girl at the shelter called him a Couch Retriever since all he ever did was sleep. “I promise I’ll walk you later.”

I jog the quarter-mile length of our dirt driveway and check the mailbox for an envelope from Boston College. Nothing. I channel my disappointment and head into the woods, running carefully over the grooved ruts of the path, the ground already hard with the coming winter. My thoughts crowd with Gregg’s kiss, and I struggle to find the words to make us right again.

After nearly four miles my brain shuts off and all I feel is the breath passing in and out of my lungs. It’s the best kind of inner quiet, the kind where every other problem in the world falls away.

When I reach Gosland Park I take a break before heading home. I settle onto a swing and pedal my feet off the ground. I float above the earth, back and forth until my body cools. I lean way back, extended. My eyes study the unobstructed blue of the sky, as vibrant as a spring wildflower. I breathe the color deep into my lungs, knowing December will soon rob me of this hue.

“Zephyr?” My name carries on the wind, like a whisper, like birdsong. I’m in such a fog, I think I imagine it. Until I hear it again.

I squint, see Alec leaning on the swing set pole, one hand crooked into his side.

I sit upright, dig my toes into the bark chips to brake. “What are you doing here?”

He plucks an earbud and lets it drop around his neck. “Out for a run.” I take in his fleece, his running sneakers, the horizon of sweat that hangs at his hairline. “Clears my head.” He takes the swing next to me, pushes off before tucking his feet under his body like a child. He surveys the park. “You come here a lot?”

“Sometimes,” I lie. “I used to come here when I was a kid.” It was special then. Now it’s an escape.

He stares at the far fields, where tiny kids in blue shirts play T-ball against tinier kids in red shirts. “Would it be dorky to want to ride the seesaw?”

I laugh. “Totally.”

“Wanna be a dork with me?”

I stare at him, registering this unexpected request. “Sure.” I stand. “Why not?”

“Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but I’ll take it.” Alec smiles as he invites me to mount the board first and then slowly lifts my side of the seesaw into the air. My legs dangle with the freedom and I can’t help the way my toes kick out, happy. He straddles his end and calls, “Just so you know, I plan on having kids someday, so no quick movements.”

“Got it.”

He climbs on, shimmies forward to balance us. We catch an easy steady rhythm and the floating sensation makes my whole body soar. I’d forgotten how weightless seesawing could make me feel, like a world of problems can be brushed away through bristles of moving air.

“My dad used to take me here every Sunday. We’d tell my mother we went to church, but really we just ate donuts.” I’m surprised at how easy this personal memory rises into the space between us.

“Is that your flaw, then?”

“My flaw?”

“You come from some donut-worshipping cult and I should be afraid. Very afraid.”

I laugh and the sound rises along with my body.

“Do you still do that with your dad?”

I shake my head, float downward.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been to a park with my dad. Not even when I was little. He’s too serious for such nonsense.” Alec’s face contorts like he’s mimicking a familiar stern expression. “Not sure he’s ever even eaten a donut, poor guy. If it’s not made of bran or cabbage, it’s not worthy of his gullet.” I wrinkle my nose. Alec laughs. “Exactly.”

“Is your dad glad you’re home? He’ll be able to go to all your games now, right?”

A flicker of sadness drops over his face before disappearing. “My mother’s the one who got me into hockey. Probably thought the coach would be a good role model, seeing as my dad was never around.”

“Are your parents divorced?” It seems like such a simple question to ask a stranger, even though I can’t bring myself to ask my mother or father if that’s what’s coming for them. My body rises and my ponytail bounces just as I peak, then instantly begin to fall.

“Nah. They’re more of the live separate lives type of people. My dad works in Singapore. Tries his best to get home for Christmas. He Skypes sometimes, when he can remember he has a family.”