Page 43 of It’s All in How You Fall
We start moseying back toward the crowd and Alex says, “Hey, so I was just going to text you.…”
“You were?” I squint up at him, all expectant. This is when I’ll hear that I’ve achieved matchmaking glory and Sunny and Alex have officially connected. I will bask in the glow of the perfect setup for two seconds before probably having to admit that I spilled the contents of Alex’s heart into Lake Dabinawa, but we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.
“Uh, yeah, but then I saw you hauling butt across the park like a girl on a mission and figured I might as well try to catch you.”
“Annnnnd?” I ask, head cocked to the side, prodding. Is he going to make me ask directly? Come on.
“I know it’s late notice, but what are you doing tomorrow night?”
I. Uh. My schedule is about as open as a virgin bullet journal, but… that was not what I was expecting. “What time?” I ask, like it matters. It doesn’t.
“Five thirty?”
“I could do five thirty. But… what…?”
His dimples wink as we pass a light-wrapped tree. “New sport.”
Okay. I page through Alex’s list, trying to figure out what would need a specific last-minute slot in the schedule, but then he answers for me. “I was going to keep it a surprise, just to see the reactions you’d get in one of your loud tank tops, but I should warn you it’s golf.”
Golf. I don’t know why that surprises me, but it does.
“My dad has a standing driving range slot on Mondays but tweaked his shoulder playing volleyball this afternoon.” I immediately wince as he gestures toward the court that was set up for today’s festivities—likely with all the proper permitting, knowing Alex’s civil engineer dad. “I’d been trying to get us a time this week and failing. So his injury is our gain?”
“Is he all right?”
“Yeah. Just old. So he says. We’ll see what happens when the extra-strength ibuprofen wears off tomorrow.”
“I mean, I feel bad for your dad, but yeah, I can totally do that.”
“Cool. I’ll have to meet you at Northfield, if you don’t mind getting a ride or—”
“No problem.”
That settles it. A hush descends over us as we get to the natural fork in the grass—his family by the fated volleyball court, mine down the hill toward the duck pond. Our gait slows, and I take a deep breath because I know it’ll be even weirder if I ask tomorrow. “Hey, um… did you get my text earlier? With Sunny’s number?”
Alex stops walking altogether and I can’t read his face. “Yeah. Thanks.”
It’s right on the tip of my tongue to directly ask—if he’s texted her, if he’s asked her out. What’s the plan? But all of that just feels overly invasive and maybe even a little creepy. Actually, I shouldn’t have even brought it up. He was with his family all day—he wasn’t exactly in a spot to text back. Or text her. In fact, he’s with his family now. But he’s also talking to me. Who is overthinking all of this. But I can’t stop.
I should stop.
This must be where so many fictional and real matchmakers go wrong. They get too involved. They try to force things beyond the initial setup. Alex and Sunny aren’t puppets, and I was never holding any strings to begin with. I really should’ve done my research on how to be successful in setting people up instead of wistfully just hoping it would all work out based on sheer will and my basic knowledge of Jane Austen characters.
I’m shifting my balance to sidestep away with a little wave good night when one of his big hands lands gently on my shoulder. It’s then that I see his eyes are pinned on the face of his watch. “It should start in three, two, one…”
The first explosion goes off in a shattering white light above the treetops. An opening salvo meant to make a statement. And it does.
I can’t help it, I literally jump.
And Alex, the statue full of cinnamon rolls, is right there, solidly tamping down my shock with a second hand on my other shoulder—his arm nearly draped across my back on the diagonal. “And here I thought you weren’t afraid of anything, Caroline.”
“I’m not afraid—I’m surprised.”
“You’re at a fireworks show, and I literally counted down the seconds.”
“Okay,Nat—”
Another furious line of fireworks streams in after that, in rat-a-tat-tat succession. We both are stunned still. Electric blues, brilliant reds, more flashes of star-like white ebb and flow into the night sky. There’s a music to them, and it reminds me of every floor routine I’ve ever watched or done myself—starting with a bang, then a low and slow moment before building, building, building, into something bright and beautiful and emotional.
