The Girl Who Fell (12 page)

“Zephyr—”

“I'm not going to see Dad just because he's coming over to get some stuff he left behind. I'm the stuff he left behind.” I push past her.

“Where are you going?”

“Out. I need to be gone when he comes.”

Mom follows me to the kitchen. “Zephyr, don't leave. I don't want you driving when you're upset.”

“If he's coming, I can't be here.”

I slip out the door. I don't care that I'm still in my pajama tee as I drive through the back roads of Sudbury; I let the tears come—for Mom's ability to heal faster than I can, for Dad's leaving and even more for his coming back. For Mom calling
me
selfish.

I stop at the park and turn on my phone. A text from Lizzie:
U doing ok?

Not even close. But I was. When I was with Alec last night.

My fingers hover over a response to Lizzie, but I call Alec instead. He invites me over, no judgments, no questions asked. Something like a deluge opens in me as I drive to his house and the stress of the past months breaks open. I want to feel alive for me. No one else. No parents, coaches, or teachers. No college admissions board. No one but me.

Alec meets me at his front door and draws me to his chest when he sees my tears. He rubs my back, whispers hushing words. He guides me, uses his thumb to wipe away a tear. “Your eyes are green,” he says, searching. “Bright green.”

“That happens when I cry.”

“Okay, I don't ever want to see you cry, but how is it you can you look this beautiful when you're upset?”

“Hardly. I'm still in my pajamas.”

“Is it weird that I like that? Sort of cool to see a secret side of you.”

I blush. I can't help it. “Is your mom home?”

“Nope. Just me. Is that okay?”

Yes. I guess. Maybe. I nod.

He takes my hand as we walk up the stairs to his bedroom. His room is painted marine blue and he has one of those perfect bed sets like you'd see in an L.L.Bean catalog. Bed. Matching end tables. Desk and chair too. He watches me inventory his things. “My mom picked it all out. Remember, I didn't really live here until a month ago. My dorm room was a bit more . . . well, relevant.”

“No, I like it,” I say, but it's weird that the walls are missing photos, ticket stubs, hockey swag.

“Sit.” He coaxes me to the bed so that my head rests on his lap. He strokes my hair and doesn't ask me to speak. The quiet is a welcome relief from Mom's expectations and the thoughts crowding my head. I close my eyes, drift under his touch for a wash of uncountable minutes. “I'm glad you called.”

“I just couldn't be at home anymore, you know?”

“Why do you think I saved up for such a nice car? It's the best thing to escape in.” He caresses my cheek. “Do you want to talk about it? The reason you're crying?”

I sit up, take in his tenderness. “I really don't. I'm sort of done talking about it. Thinking about it.”

He nods. Understands.

“Do you ever think—”

“Yes.” He winks.

“Funny,” I say.

“Do I think what?”

“Do you think it's weird that we've just met?”

“Ah, yeah. It kinda scares the shit out of me.”

Oh god. Me too. “Scares you how?”

“It freaks me out that I think about being with you a lot and we hardly know each other.” He releases a long breath. “And because I've never felt anything close to this before.”

“What about your other girlfriends?” I want to know how many. Has he loved someone before? Will he laugh at my inexperience?

“The few girls I dated at school weren't really special, just . . . I don't know, there, I guess. God, that must sound shitty.”

“No, I get it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” All my crushes before were just for fun. Now I find myself running to Alec after fighting with Mom, needing him.

He brushes my lip with the calloused tips of his fingers. I've come to love the roughness there. “I'd make things at your house better if I could.”

“And I'd help you go to culinary school if I could.”

“That might be the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me.”

“Really? That's sad.”

He narrows his gaze. “Why sad?”

“Because you should have people saying nice things to you all the time.”

“I think I do now. I have you.”

“You do.” I lean in and we kiss slowly. Until we don't. Alec rolls me onto the bed, his hips meeting mine. His knee spreads my legs, makes our bodies fit. His hands move along my stomach, up my shirt. Alec's fingers cup my flesh as he lets a heavy breath escape. I steal back, out of reach.

Alec pulls away. “You okay?”

I sit up, dazed. “Yeah, fine. I just . . . I don't know. . . .”

“I don't ever want to push you, Zephyr. Is this”—he moves one finger under the lip of my shirt, paints across my stomach with the slightest brush—“okay?”

I suck in an ocean of air. I want this, even if I'm afraid of what this is. But then a voice inside me tells me I've been afraid for too long. And being with Alec doesn't make me feel vulnerable or scared. Being here makes me feel alive in a way I didn't know was possible.

I pull him to me and he moves against my skin. Everywhere. My fingers grab, my body trembles. I give over to the sensation of finding my body under his hands, closing my eyes to what feels like floating, flying, dreaming.

“Yes,” I tell him. The word is mist, our breath pooling into vapor.

•  •  •

When I return home it's late, but Mom's not home. I grab a bottled water from the fridge and climb into bed. When I close my eyes again, Alec is with me. I smell him on my hair, my skin. I know it's him when my phone rings.

“Favorite book,” he asks.

“
To Kill a Mockingbird.
Because guilt and innocence are in all the wrong places. Favorite poem?”

“There once was a man from Nantucket—”

“Stop!” My hushed laughter explodes.

“Yours?”

“
Leaves of Grass
, because I'd love to feel large and contain multitudes. Favorite movie adaptation of a book?”

“Princess Bride.”

“Mine too!”

“You're breaking the rules of the game.”

“Right,” I say. “What's your one reason?”

“The stable boy's got serious game. You?”

“Duh. Because it's a kissing book, Fred Savage.”

We both laugh until I hear the metallic grind of the garage door opening. I don't want Mom to know I'm awake. “I gotta go,” I tell Alec.

“As you wish.”

I turn off my light and pretend I'm asleep, cowardly avoiding Mom. But it's Lizzie who wakes me the next morning, plopping down onto my bed and yanking the covers down. “Wakey, wakey, Sleeping Beauty. I need pancakes and you're coming with.”

“When did you get here?”

“Two minutes ago. Let myself in.”

“What time is it?” I scrape crust from my eyes.

“Almost eleven. The Blueberry Muffin's gonna stop serving breakfast soon and I needs me some carbs.”

I slip from my covers and pull on jeans and a top.

“You didn't call yesterday. I've been worried about you,” Lizzie tells me.

I corral my curls into a ponytail. “Ugh. I had a shitty fight with Olivia. It was a whole thing.”

“About your dad?”

“What else? It's all beyond bizarre. Can we just not talk about it and get something to eat? I'm starved.”

“We can and we shall.” Lizzie ushers me out of my bedroom and I'm glad Mom's not in the kitchen waiting to ambush me. I notice all the ailing plants are cleared from the sill and it strikes me that Dad might have taken them, though gardening has never been his thing. Over the summer, Mom let all her heirloom houseplants wilt slowly, turning kaleidoscope shades of yellows and browns as they battled against her erratic watering.

I focus on the stack of mail on the island, which I rifle through.

“Any news out of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts?”

I eye her. “No, why would there be?”

“Please. You don't think I know you already applied to Boston College? You? Miss I-Have-My-Whole-Life-Planned?”

“You make me sound like a predictable loser.” I pick at a heavy white envelope. At first I think it's another note from Alec, but it's addressed to Mom. The script glitters with gold ink.

“Ease up, Zee. I think . . . never mind.”

Lizzie at a loss for words? “What? What do you think?”

“I think your dad leaving messed you up more than you let on and you want to feel like you have some control over your future. I think it would be weird if you
didn't
apply early to Boston College. I would've done the same thing if I were you, and I wouldn't have told anyone either.”

“Really?”

“Yep. No one needs to have the whole world processing their rejection. I mean, not that you'll get rejected, you know, but I'm just saying . . . some things should stay private.”

“I should have told you.” I tap the thick envelope against the lip of the counter.

“No worries. I didn't tell you I applied for an internship at
The New York Times
.”

“You did? When?”

“Doesn't matter.” She waves away her words. “I'll be competing with college students, college graduates. I'll never get it.”

“You might. You're fairly awesome.”

“Yeah, well, ditto. Guess we both crave validation from the big, bad world.” She nods at the envelope. “What's that? An invite to the ball?”

“Anna's wedding, I think.”

“Who?”

“Gregg's older sister.” I toss the card onto the pile of mail, unopened. I hate not knowing if my dad will be there, if I'll have to see him before I make the choice to see him. “We've had a ‘save the date' card on the fridge for months. She picked New Year's Eve of all days.”

“Way to hijack a holiday.”

“I know, right?”

“It's been said love makes people do crazy shit, Zephyr.”

“If you say so.” I grab my coat and catch a new addition to the family calendar. “Dinner with Jimmy.” Date night for Mom and Dad. Every Monday. I pull the door tight behind me.

•  •  •

The Blueberry Muffin is packed when we arrive, with a line of at least a dozen people waiting in the freezing cold.

“Oh, this sucks.” Lizzie's breath crafts a white cloud just beyond her lips.

I shuffle my feet for warmth. “Do you want to bail and go somewhere else?”

“There is nowhere else. That's why everyone's here.”

“I can wait,” I say, just as I hear a tap on one of the front windows. I see a hand waving. I look behind me, but there's no one. I peer closer and see it's Lani Briggs, waving us in.

Lizzie shrugs. “It's better than waiting.” But only just. Lizzie seems to forget Lani's wholly unlovable enthusiasm as she pushes us through the crowd to her table.

When we slide into the booth, there are two steaming plates of pancakes, eggs, and sausage waiting, an order I recognize as the Lumberjack Special, though Lani's alone. And, come to think of it, I've never actually seen Lani eat.

“Mind if I grab one of those sausages?” Lizzie asks, unwrapping a fork from the rolled napkin place setting.

“Have at it,” a voice says from behind us. My stomach drops realizing we've just crashed a breakfast date.

With Gregg.

Lani and Gregg?

Gregg takes a seat next to Lani, plucks his coffee mug from in front of me.

“Maybe we should—”

“Wait in the huge line?” Gregg interrupts me. “That's lame. Eat with us.”

“Really?” Lizzie says. “It's cool?”

“Totally. We'll never finish all this food.” Lani pushes her plate to the middle of the table.

“Don't mind if I do.” Lizzie spears the coveted sausage with her fork.

Gregg smashes a mound of egg onto an English muffin like all of this is perfectly normal.

I shift uncomfortably in the hard booth, deserted by my appetite.

“I heard you pulled off a miracle at State.” Gregg drizzles maple syrup over his egg muffin in crisscross stripes like nothing's been different between us the last few weeks. As if he didn't kiss me, tell me I'd crushed him by kissing Alec . . . or, apparently, started having breakfast dates with Lani Briggs.

“Zephyr scored the winning goal,” Lizzie mumbles from under a mouthful of food.

Gregg catches my gaze, holds it. “The only goal, eh Five?” He reaches behind Lani, pulls a folded copy of the
Sudbury Sentinel
from the windowsill.

“My article! Zee, have you even seen this?” Lizzie doesn't wait for my answer, but points to the picture of my team on the front page. We are a heap of bodies and grins and mouth guards and victory. I am just off center, my smile larger than my face, my hands clutching my stick, the game ball.

I am sucked back into that moment and can feel the sweat on my skin again, taste the high of that collective win. Gregg waves his red Sharpie over the article, a request.

I throw an uncomfortable laugh that comes out louder than intended. “I'm not signing it.” I'm not even sure he's serious.

Gregg dangles the pen. “Come on, Five, you'll never be as famous as you are now. Sign it. For me.” It's his two final words that get me. What wouldn't I do for Gregg? And if this one small gesture starts us back on the road to normalcy, then I will sign a thousand signatures.

I take the pen and pop its top. The thick scent of ink overpowers even the sausage. I feel too much pressure to think of something witty or meaningful to write, so I just sign my full name.
Zephyr Marie Doyle
. The red looping ink bleeds into the newsprint, making my signature thicker.