The Girl Who Fell(15)

“Okay, come by after. With chocolate.”

“You bet.”

I shower, get dressed, and head out on my mission. I drive for nearly two hours and never even enter Gregg’s neighborhood. I start to understand why Dad took the easy way out via a note.

• • •

By the time I arrive at the park, Alec is waiting. Heat rushes to my face as he watches me pull into a tight parking space. Honestly, no one can understand the curse of Irish skin unless you live in it. I turn the keys, keep my eyes cut to Alec and his casual lean against his shiny robin’s egg blue antique Mustang. He’s wearing that secret smirk that I’ve come to expect.

I wave. He nods. I move toward him, suddenly self-conscious about my body. My too long legs. My too curly hair. My nose that’s just this side of crooked. Why are effortless good looks always wasted on boys?

“Hey,” he says casually.

“Hey.” I go for casual too, hoping it doesn’t sound like I practiced this one-word greeting in front of my mirror a hundred and three times after hanging up with Lizzie this morning.

“You’re right on time. Two o’clock exactly.”

“I’m punctual,” I say.

“Punctual says a lot about a person.”

“What does it mean when a person shows up early?”

Alec just smiles, in a way I can’t read.

So I look at his car. Cars are easy. I know cars. Dad used to leave issues of Classic Car magazine on practically every surface. He gave me and Mom quizzes when we were driving and he’d see the oncoming chrome grill of any car manufactured before 1972. I’ve been dragged to enough car shows to know this model anywhere. I swallow back the sadness that rises when I think of the July issue of Classic Car. The one that came right after Dad’s note. The issue that prompted Mom to cancel the subscription altogether. I can’t tell her the magazines keep coming, how I hide them in the back corner of my closet along with some of his other things.

“Sixty-seven fastback. With a three-ninety, right?” My voice inadvertently takes on the tone of grease monkey mechanics, men with toothpicks wiggling between their teeth. Why can’t I just be normal, be myself? But that’s the thing about meeting Alec here today—just seeing him makes me think there might be a whole other normal for me, one I don’t even know yet. I shift on my feet, my toes nervous with this uninvited newness.

“Um . . .” He laughs. “Unexpected.”

“What is?”

“A girl who knows muscle cars.”

A blush heats my face like wildfire combing underbrush. “My dad,” I say, as if that’s enough of an explanation.

He nods, but doesn’t press for details.

I feel a sudden need to thank him. For not prying. For not pushing.

“I’m glad you came,” Alec says.

“Yeah?”

He reaches a tentative hand toward me and I take it. His fingers spider around my own.

His eyes ask, Is this okay?

No, I think. It’s crazy. Holding hands at the park with a boy. Like a sixth grader. I spread my fingers, let them relax enough to pull away.

But then I see his blush and remember the way he listened without judging and reassured me things would be okay with Gregg. My fingers reposition, locking against his.

He smiles. “Seesaw? Or shall we shake it up a bit?”

“Feeling brave enough for swings?”

His laugh validates me in a way that baffles. “A fine choice. Oh wait. I almost forgot.” He drops my hand and I’m shocked by how the cold pierces in his absence. My fingers feel different from the rest of my body now, not fully mine anymore. I shake the nervous energy down through my arms and shove my hands into the front pockets of my jacket.

I think of excuses to bail as I watch Alec jog back to his car, pop the trunk with its vintage squeak.

“A picnic,” he calls, holding up a wicker basket.

His enthusiasm makes me nod, bite on another smile. And stay.

We walk together and I scan the familiar grounds, the monkey bars, the rickety swing set. “I used to think swinging was the closest you could get to flying,” I say. “When I was a kid I’d close my eyes and pretend.” All the while knowing Dad was there to catch me if I lost my wings.

“That’s how I feel when I’m on the ice. Like skating is the closest thing to flying.” Alec nods at his basket. “You want to swing first or eat?”

“I could eat.”

“Yeah? It’s not lame?”

“Not lame.”

His smile beams as quick as a child’s and I feel myself drawn to his innocence. He sets the basket onto the ground, removes a checkered cloth, and we float out the corners into a perfect square. “I’m glad you came.”