Page 44 of It’s All in How You Fall
Time stands still as our world becomes the canvas of the city-dark sky and the show, which is told in flashes and sentences and even paragraphs. The choreography is exquisite, telling a tale, playing to our expectations, toying with our feelings.
There’s a dramatic pause, the big finale up next, and I glance at Alex and mouth, “Wow.”
Alex’s teeth flash and suddenly I realize how close we are. His hands are still on my shoulders, warm and solid. His body is at a polite distance, and rather than standing directly behind me, he’s off to the side. Still, we’re close—so close I can smell the gel he puts in his hair and catch the glitter of the twinkle lights in the deep chocolate of his eyes.
And his mouth isright there.
The same moment I realize we’re still touching, he seems to realize it too. He drops one hand and then the other from my shoulders and stuffs them safely in the pockets of his shorts, inadvertently making his phone light up.
I’ve spent nearly the whole show tangled up with Alex.
The warmth of his palms still sits on my shoulders, his fingertips gone but the memory marking the bare skin around my tank top. I look up at him, not knowing what to say, but then think better of it because my eyes immediately zero in on his mouth. Still so close.
Too close.
“I should go back…” I gesture in the general direction of my blanket. Nat’s probably sprawled out on the whole thing, elbows and knees and all pointy things in my way.
Alex nods. “Me too.”
As the big finale lights up the night above and the summer-dry grass crunches beneath my feet, I walk away, a chill brushing my shoulders despite the heavy ninety-degree air.
Just a trick of the night.
As I spy our blankets ahead—and get a surprise when I see Nat has gamely relegated himself to a corner so that Elena and Chad can have more room—my phone buzzes.
I pull it out. Alex’s name and a text.
See you tomorrow.
19
I have no idea what to wear for golf.
I’ve never owned a pair of khaki shorts in my life. A quick Google of the best players is somewhat comforting because it confirms sleek khaki knee-dusters aren’t the only appropriate attire of choice. So I spring for my single skort—the one I wore playing tennis. It’s black, not khaki, but we’re going to go with it. Most of the girls on the tour are wearing some sort of polo—basically, at least a single button. I don’t own anything that looks like a polo shirt (because why would I), but in continuing my theme of tank tops or bust, I do have some sort of weird sea-green Henley-style sleeveless shirt that Mom sent in a random box of back-to-school clothes two months early. Better than two months late, I guess.
Even with a ponytail, I’m dressed differently enough for my dad or brother to notice, and that, combined with the idea of seeing Alex, makes my stomach flip. I don’t know why—both of them want me to be trying new things. It feels different from explaining myself to Peregrine and Sunny. And my insides curdle at the idea of tripping over explaining away Alex’s niceness. They’ve both known him forever and a day, yet when you’re a teenage girl and a teenage boy is going out of his way for you… it changes the way friends and family see things. Obviously.
Dad’s got the night off and he’s taking Olga to dinner and a movie. The gymnasts aren’t the only ones with more time in the evenings during the summer—the coaches get that time back too. At a quarter of five, he’s in the shower sprucing up, and Nat’s still playing ball, possibly with Alex. Some preplanned game that’s the reason Alex has to meet me there, I guess—I have no idea. All I know is, this seems like an excellent time to start walking toward the country club to completely avoid any intersection of Dad-Nat-Alex and the target it puts over the strange feeling in my stomach.
I head out the door into the oven that is late afternoon in early July and point myself in the general direction of the club. I could take the road that runs past the park and hang a right like we did on our Saturday run to the market, but instead, I snake down the warren of side streets that leads from our neighborhood to the back of Northfield. Shorter, shadier, and far less likely anyone I know will see me and wonder why the hell I’m dressed like this.
Ten minutes out, I group text Dad and Nat to tell them I’m headed in the direction of Peregrine’s. This isn’t a lie in the literal sense, because it’s more in the direction of her house than anyone else’s. Next comes a text to Alex that I’m on the way.
I seriously cannot wait until September, when I have my driver’s license and the most difficult logistics will be getting Nat to actually share the Jeep that he calls his but is one hundred percent in Dad’s name.
Alex’s reply comes in first.Meet you at the employee entrance?
Oh right. I’m not a member. It’s private property. I can’t just walk up to the golf course like I own the place. I’m not even allowed to be on the grounds without a member/employee like Alex.
When I arrive, Alex is already there and waiting by the gatehouse. His Royals hat is in place, but otherwise he’s flexing a fashion muscle I haven’t yet seen. His golf polo is legit Lacoste, little alligator on the chest and everything—it’s crimson red and crisp at the corners despite the heat. Moreover, Alex Zavaladoesown khaki shorts, and they’re clean and pressed too. He even has on an honest-to-God belt. Rather than his basketball shoes, he’s wearing some fresh Nike numbers. The boy is nothing if not a breathing brand advertisement for all his favorites.
He arches an eyebrow at me. “Let me guess, you walked because you didn’t think you’d get enough of a workout with golf?”
We’ll go with that—I don’t want to get into the fact that I didn’t ask Dad or Nat for a ride. “It doesn’t exactly seem strenuous when you’ve spent your entire life purposefully ping-ponging your full body weight into the air over and over again.”
Alex manually raises the arm on the swing gate. I walk underneath, no awkward limbo required.
“There are different types of strength, Caro.”
