Page 61 of It’s All in How You Fall
“Sure.”
He gets the glasses, and as he does, I glance around. Music plays softly from somewhere. Bon Iver or a knockoff—I’m terrible at identifying anything that wouldn’t be played over the gym stereo. Alex has a laptop out on the coffee table, the wall-mounted TV across from both it and the sectional couch showing his screensaver, the setup ready for video viewing. He’s just as prepared for this as he is for all his practices.
He hands me the water, ice clinking in the glass. “Need a snack ahead of Mozza-Monster?”
“No thanks.” I trail him as he heads to the couch.
“I actually had a bet going with myself that you would show up with a pan of your brownies.”
I sink into the down-stuffed ridiculousness of their family room couch. “What was the over-under on that bet?”
“Sixty-forty. Mostly because I wasn’t sure you’d have time to get them cool enough to carry.”
The couch claims him too, and we both slide toward the middle as it accepts our collective weight. I try to right myself, but he weighs more than me and it’s not going to work. I scoot over a good half foot but it’s helpless. “I actually was going to bring you some brownies, as both an appetizer and a dessert, when I found out the wait time. But I was missing a key ingredient.” He raises a questioning brow. And so I tell him. “Don’t laugh—beans.”
“They…beans, beans?”
I nod. “Like the kind you would put in a burrito.”
Alex’s lips form anO.
“That sort of recipe was popular a few years ago, and I guess I never let go of it. I should probably try the almond flour ones or something… probably less… potentially problematic.”Ohmygod, I’ve now brought up both “ball sports” and an allusion to poo in front of this perfect person.Shut up, Caroline.“And stuff.”
I brace for his thoughts on this but because he’s an angel, he simply says, “That’s a lot of fiber.”
Bless him.“Don’t tell Nat. It’s probably the only fiber he regularly gets in his system.”
“He’s never seen you make them? Didn’t notice cans of beans in the recycling?”
I shrug. “You’ve seen what he forces upon his digestive system. Do you really think he cares how anything is made?”
“I. Uh. No.” His knee knocks mine, and I try to escape the couch’s clutches long enough to slide out of its clearance. And then, becausebeans, I change the subject.
“Okay, so gymnastics?”
In answer he shifts the laptop my way. “You can airplay from your phone if you want. I just thought this might be easier.”
“It’s perfect.” My fingers hover over the keys. He’s got YouTube pulled up, and apparently the kind you pay for without ads. Fancy. “So, shall we start in the modern era and go chronologically?”
“Seems reasonable.”
I start to type. Vera Caslavska and Cathy Rigby come to mind as probably the oldest good footage available. And indeed—a few rare pieces from the 1968 Mexico City Olympics pop up. I really should’ve been Alex-level prepared and created a playlist. Oh well.
That’s when I realize… “Where is everyone?”
“The country club. Trivia night. Well, trivia for Mom and Dad, pool time for LJ and her friends.” Huh, Lily Jane must be back from St. Louis. “They leech themselves onto my parents to score one-for-one entry on trivia night and then sneak out.”
“Oh. Do you usually go?”
Alex grins over the rim of his glass. “No. I’m at that club enough.”
Fair. “Okay, well, you’ll be enjoying only the finest pizza and ice water at the gymnastics club tonight. Shall we?”
In answer, Alex sits back, crosses one ankle over his opposite knee, and drapes one arm over the couch. It’s the side opposite me, which repairs the couch’s cushy equilibrium a little.
“Okay, so, for your reference, the modern women’s gymnastics era started in 1928, because that’s when women began to compete in the Olympic Games. That said, the golden age really began in the 1960s.”
Alex nods. “Television really upped the ante, huh?”
