The Girl Who Fell (6 page)

My heart wells with loss. “The best.”

“Did you guys ever date?”

“No. Why?”

He shrugs. “I just thought maybe that's why there's tension now.”

“No, nothing that dramatic.”

“Then I'm sure whatever's going on between you two will work out. It has to. Good friends are hard to come by.”

He's right. Spot-on right.

He swipes the toe of his sneaker into the dirt, creating an arc. “Can I ask you something else?”

“Sure.”

“Would you meet me here tomorrow?”

“Yes.” I'm surprised by the commitment.

Surprised?

No, scared.

The crow of a rooster wakes me. It's close; in my ear close.

I open my eyes and fumble for my phone, knowing it's Lizzie. For a long time it was a game to see if I could keep her from messing with my ringtones. But she always got to my phone somehow. Now I can't imagine being surprised by her selections.

Finn lifts his plump head from my pillow, clearly displeased with the disruption to his slumber.

LIZZIE!—in all caps, of course—blinks on the screen. I silence the rooster with the practiced twitch of my thumb.

“Morning.” The word rumbles low and scratchy, a storm scraping the sky.

“I'll need reinforcements at work today.”

“M&Ms or Junior Mints?” I sit up and Finn lets out a gruff sigh before repositioning himself at the foot of my bed.

“It's feeling like a Tootsie Rolls day. It's just me and Shorty so I'll need a big bag. Party size.” Shorty is the middle-aged manager of Too Cute Shoes, the dumpy discount footwear place where Lizzie earns the cash to visit Jason. “What are you doing?”

I prop my pillow and pull back my shade. A blast of too bright light hurtles into the room, illuminating my wall of photos like the trained light in a museum. There's the picture Lizzie took of me and Gregg in the lunchroom last year. We are both laughing, his two fingers in a peace sign behind my head. I drop my gaze to my bureau, to the framed photo of us when we were five, Gregg pushing me on a swing at Young Ones childcare center where we got bused after our half days of kindergarten. I remember how we'd play king and queen and pretend to live in our castle under the slide. He kissed me then, too. A peck on the lips because we were married and that's what married people did. It's almost impossible to believe my view of marriage and trust was ever that simple.

“I'm heading over to Gregg's.”

A beat of silence. “Do you want to wait? I can go after work. You know, if you need support.”

I do need the support. I have no idea what I plan to say, but, “I think I should go alone.” It's never been hard to talk to Gregg. I've never had to prepare to talk to Gregg. I draw hope into my lungs that this time will be no different.

“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.”

“You mentioned that.”

He blushes. “Five minutes in and I'm already redundant. What a lame date.”

My gut dips. This cannot be a date. I cannot do complicated right now.

Alec looks at me softly, his eyes apologizing. “No . . . sorry. I just meant . . . it doesn't have to be a date. Not if you don't want it to be.” He drags his fingers through his hair. “Christ, I sound like an idiot. What is wrong with me?”

“What do you mean?”

“I sound like a twelve-year-old around you.”

I chuckle.

“It amuses you that I'm a bumbling twelve-year-old?”

“No,” I say, laughing.

“All I'm trying to say—as inarticulately as is humanly possible, apparently—is that I'm glad you're here.” He looks down, bashful. “Shit, that is actually the third time I've said that now.” He unwraps a tuna sandwich and hands me a square. “I might not be displaying it so brilliantly at this moment, but I think you're easy to be with. I like talking to you.”

“I'm sure you know lots of people who are easy to be with. I see you talking to people in school all the time.” I bite into the soft bread and taste the unexpected crunch of celery and red onion.

“School chat's easy. It doesn't have to mean anything. I miss real friendships, you know?”

“I can't imagine moving to a school without Lizzie.” And Gregg, I almost say Gregg.

“It's been the hardest part. Leaving the buddies I was tightest with.” He takes a bite of his sandwich, settles back onto an elbow.

“So why did you leave your school?”

He squints against the sun and finds my eyes. “Why, Zephyr actually, that's a fairly sly way to ask if the rumor is true.”

I feign indifference. “You don't have to tell me if you don't want to.”

He sits up, looks off into the distant ball field. “The true part? I had a girl in my room after lights out, which was an expulsion-worthy offense.”

This revelation translates to Complicated with a capital C. I should have gone to Gregg's instead. Worked things out with him. What am I even doing here with this other boy?

He meets my eyes. “The tricky part is that this girl was my roommate's girlfriend. She was there with him. Not me.”

“Then how come you got expelled?”

“I took the blame for it, said she was with me.” He picks away the crust along his sandwich. “Honestly, I didn't even really think about it. I knew my buddy couldn't take the fall. He was on scholarship and would've lost everything. I figured I'd be fine, since colleges only want me for hockey, not my grades.”

Okay, so not totally complicated. It's more—“Selfless,” I say.

Alec pulls two bottles of water from the basket, opens one and hands it to me. “Not entirely. I mean, he would have done the same for me. Besides, I'd been wanting to come home for a while and saw my chance.”

“I can't imagine ever wanting to be in Sudbury.”

“That's because you've always been here.” He takes a sip of water. “And it's not Sudbury, really, I just missed home. My mom. Or . . . I miss the way she used to be.”

“Used to be?”

“She was softer when I was a kid. That probably sounds ridiculous.”

“Not really.”

His eyes lock on mine, hint at trust. “Since my dad's been working overseas, my mom's all aggressive and hyperfocused on her company. My coming home hasn't changed that. Not like I'd wanted it to.”

“My mom's been the same way since my dad split. Like she's overcompensating.” This fact is out of my mouth before I realize.

“No small burden. When did your dad split?”

“In June.”
On my eighteenth birthday
echoes in my head. When the kitchen smelled like lemon basil because Mom took cuttings from her plant to make my favorite pasta sauce. “He wrote a letter to my mom saying he couldn't do it anymore.” The minute the words are out I want to shove them back into silence.

“Did he write to you?” Alec asks.

“No.” It is a hard word. A hard truth.

“Shit.”

The air feels hollow then, like it did that day. Like breathing is no longer an option. “I used to think my dad was perfect. Until he wasn't. You know?”

“I do.” His eyes throw me a soft smile and it feels like he really might know.

“My mom's been trying so hard to hold it together that I think she'll shatter. It makes me nervous about leaving for college next year. I mean, what if she loses it? Has a breakdown or something?” I don't tell him how I'm
really
afraid I'll never even get into college because I fear I'm deeply flawed and that's why my own father didn't want to stick around or at least give me a letter explaining why he left.

“I think we can make ourselves crazy thinking about all the what-ifs.”

“Yes. Exactly. That's exactly what I'm doing. But somehow it feels easier to stress about the future instead of really looking at the past. Like maybe I don't want to see what was there.”

“That sucks, Zephyr,” Alec says, and I'm surprised by my laugh. “What?” His eyes brighten.

“Nothing, it's just . . . well, you're right; it does suck. It did suck. Everyone's been saying they're sorry and it'll get better but no one's ever called it out for what it is. Sucky.” I take a drink, trace the open top of the bottle with my finger. Marvel at how easy it is to expose my private thoughts to Alec. “And now my dad's back and that's sucky too.”

“Like
back
back?”

I shake my head. “He's somewhere. My mom's talking to him I guess.” I hope he doesn't hear the way my voice cracks, falls through that sad space.

“Have you seen him?”

“No. I can't.”

“I get that.”

His three words are so much bigger than just three words. They are a space in which I am understood by another person. No questions asked.

“I'm glad you told me.”

I'm glad too. And relieved. And relieved. Listening to Alec talk about his family is different from talking to Lizzie, whose dad was killed in Afghanistan, or to Gregg, whose parents are the definition of Happy Couple, completely devoted to their six kids and each other. Alec's dad has been making a choice to be away from his family. Same as mine.