The Girl Who Fell(26)
Alec sits straight, smoothes his hair. “Right. Sorry. I mean, sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I’m not sorry about the kissing part.”
I smile and Alec runs his thumb over the flesh of my bottom lip. He pulls my forehead to his and we press into one another. “Favorite drink,” he says.
“Cold or hot?”
“Cold,” he whispers.
“Raspberry lime rickey. Supersweet and fizzy.”
He pulls away. “Where do you get one of those? A soda fountain in 1952?”
“And you want to be a chef?” I mock outrage. “How can your restaurant be successful if you don’t plan on having lime rickeys on the menu?”
“It’s a beverage choice I’ll now have to consider thoroughly.”
“As you should,” I tease.
“Thank you.” He cups my ear, strokes my lobe.
“For widening your beverage horizons?”
“No. For believing in me. For thinking I’ll have my own restaurant someday.”
“I’m sure you can have anything you want.”
“You make me feel like that’s possible.” Alec raises my palm to his lips, kisses the tender skin.
My insides race with belonging.
He shakes his head quickly, like he’s trying to dislodge the heat between us. He gets up, ventures to the corner of my room, crouches in front of the turntable. “Old school vinyl.” He thumbs through the albums.
“I have a thing for the art on the album covers.” The best covers from the sixties are pinned to my wall. “And the scratch. I kind of think the needle is an instrument, part of the band.”
“The sign of a true connoisseur.” He sets the needle onto the record in the player. The hollow scratching joins us. Then the music starts, Joan Armatrading’s “Whatever’s For Us.”
Speaking of love
You ask how much you should give
It’s a question I can’t help asking myself as Alec reaches for his French book and opens it onto the bed between us. Finn watches his every move.
“So . . .” Alec says.
“French?” I suggest.
He draws his hand to his chest. “Why, Zephyr. How forward of you!”
I shove at his knee and he laughs. We manage to review the last few weeks of work, with Alec stealing a kiss for every correct past participle and two kisses for every incorrect conjugation. I suspect he throws a few. When a burned smell reaches us from the kitchen, Mom comes in to inform Alec it’s time to go. I walk him to the door where he tells me, “You’ll be great tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
He plucks his finger off the tip of my nose. “See? I told you distraction was best.”
He’s right. Field hockey and friend drama are the last things on my mind.
Later, as I slip under the covers, Alec’s spearmint scent lingers on my comforter and I pull it close to my face, breathe him in again and again.
Chapter 10
By the next afternoon, I’m crawling out of my skin in anticipation of the state championship game, the final game of my high school career. I can’t remember one thing my teachers have said all day and I refuse to let even Gregg’s cold shoulder bring me down.
Alec left a mock menu in my locker this morning. “Restaurant Grand Opening: Everything from A to Zee.” There was an old-timey soda fountain picture on the cover. Inside, lime rickeys were listed in every size and availability, all with unique pricing. I carry the menu in my game bag now. For luck.
Having Alec with me in this unique way gives me strength as I ride the bus south to Concord, the town where, apparently, Dad now dwells. I can’t help but wonder if we drive past his neighborhood or if he knows we’re coming. But for the first time in months, I don’t question what’s ahead. It’s like Alec’s absorbed some of the doubt that’s haunted me and I’m glad to be rid of its shadowy weight.
When I reach the field, the sweet scent of grass fills my head and my muscles remember their mission. My brain knows what it wants. Nothing less than victory. And it feels, miraculously, within reach.
The referee drops the hard white ball in the center of the field and time slows. A whistle sings just as the two center forwards battle for control of the first play. Sticks bang and beat against one another until my teammate gains control. I sprint for the pass and tuck the ball under my stick’s head. But within seconds, I’m being guarded by a nymph. I’m twice her size, but she’s quick. And cunning. She hovers the butt of her stick inches from mine, no matter how expertly I try to jog the ball away from her. She steals the ball and runs it to the opposite end of the field. She bends low, sends the ball so close to our net, where Karen stops it with her oversize glove.