The Girl Who Fell(28)
“Figure out the details and just come pick me up. After you shower, obvs.”
“Will do.” I turn, but before my feet carry me away, I move closer toward her. “I want you to have this.” I jiggle my gift in a loose fist.
Lizzie extends her palm, onto which I slide my saliva-filled guard.
“A small trophy. To mark the end of an era.”
“You are gross, Zephyr Doyle.” She hooks my mouth guard across the V of her hoodie like some perverse medal. “You make me so proud, little grasshopper.”
“Thanks Obi-Wan.”
My smile reaches Coach before I do. The bus literally rocks from my teammates clanking sticks in beats of victory. Adrenaline surges. I’ll never have a night like this again and all I want to do is capture this rush, bottle it.
We plan to celebrate in style. Karen’s parents have opened up their house to the team and our fans. Heated pool. Catered food. And even though I’m psyched that Lizzie will be there with me, I can’t help how the sadness of absent Gregg wiggles into this night.
I approach the door to the bus as a figure steals out from beyond the headlights.
I’d know the shape anywhere.
His steady gait.
His broad shoulders.
My heart sprints as if I’m on the field again.
Alec walks to me. “You rocked it, Zephyr actually.”
“You’re here?”
“Wouldn’t have missed it.” He pulls me softly off to the side. It’s almost too surreal: his support, his tousled hair, his beautiful tallness. “See me tonight. To celebrate.” He strokes my cheek with his finger and I press my face into the tenderness of his touch.
“I-I can’t. I already made plans.”
He scowls softly, his disappointment making him even cuter. “With who?”
“The team has this huge celebration bash planned. I told Lizzie we’d head over after I showered.”
“Be with me instead.” He steps closer to me, his breath so close to my neck I can feel its signature heat. And I smell the spearmint hovering on his words.
“I can’t.” I couldn’t.
“You can.”
I laugh. “If only. Maybe tomorrow?”
Alec nods, smiling. “Tomorrow.” He steals a quick kiss on the cheek before Coach hollers again.
“Thanks for coming.” I board the bus and it lurches into gear. I wipe the fog from the window with my palm and that’s when I see him.
My father.
Standing under a parking lot spotlight, hands in his jacket pockets, watching our bus start out on its return trip to Sudbury. I press my hands around my eyes, against the glass, trying to magnify this one person among a crowd of people. But then I don’t need to focus or wonder if he can see me. My father brings one hand free of his jacket and gives me his signature wave, a sideways thumb held steady . . . steady. Until he raises it quick and firm into a thumbs-up. My heart wrenches. It is the same signal he gave me a million and four times from across the playground when I jumped off a swing or when he watched me compete in junior high track meets. My own thumb twitters with a response, but I tuck it into my fist.
The bus lumbers out of the parking lot and I can’t help watching my father’s figure become smaller with distance. Until darkness erases him. Music booms and my teammates sing and scream, but inside my brain the world is silent. And filling with anger. Does he think he can pop back into my life whenever it’s convenient for him? Whether it’s what I want or not? He had to know his presence would rock me. And then my anger reaches out, grabs Mom. Did she tell him to come because she couldn’t be here?
The ride home is too long. It is long enough for my anger to fall into confusion. Over why Dad wants to be a part of my life again. And then anger again at him leaving in the first place and allowing any of this sadness to drape over my insides like a permanent shadow.
By the time I see the WELCOME TO SUDBURY sign, I realize I’ve become that girl again—the one from summer who doubted she had any worth at all if her own father couldn’t see a reason to stay with her. I hate that my father has this much power over me still.
I drive home and stop at our mailbox. I tuck my hand inside and pull out a few bills—all addressed to Dad. I crush them into a ball, toss them in my backseat. Then there is only a card. With two stick figure people walking hand in hand along a beach. The drawing is crude, the shoreline just a thin swipe of ink. I open the card and read:
I dig hanging with you.
A.
I stare at the two outlined figures connected on paper and feel that same connectedness with Alec. How can he know exactly what to say? Even when he’s not here? I clutch the card and know he’s the only person I want to process my father’s skulking with.