Page 50 of It’s All in How You Fall
“Okay.”
“Now,” he says, “why do you do that?”
I blink at him.
He waits. Dribbles the ball. Waits some more.
The flaming light of sunset sits on his shoulders as he stands there, all six feet plus of him, patient and calm. Just open and waiting for an answer.
I shift on my feet. “I… I don’t know. Reflex?”
“I’m not trying to psychoanalyze you,” he clarifies, probably suddenly aware that he might sound a tad like his own mother. “I just… being self-effacing is something but it makes those who love you feel like shit.”
Those. Who. Love. You.
We’re ten feet apart and suddenly I feel like he’s close enough to hear my heartbeat.
I don’t have the words to explain to him that self-effacement isn’t just a reflex—it’s a survival skill. Honed over years of working very hard to be perfect and knowing it’s nearly impossible to do so. Everyone has their ways of surviving perfection, and joking about my flaws is one of my best-proven defenses. And yet I had no idea the mark it could put on someone outside of the gym.
“Be proud in who you are and those who care for you.”
Care. For. You.
“Okay.”
Alex dribbles the ball again before picking it up and spreading his arms wide, racket gesturing to the majestic courts. “Yes, Caroline, this is where I spend all my time.” Then he smiles across the space. “When I’m not with you.”
He’s said it before. Recently. All the other people and places he spends time with flit through my mind.
Work. Tennis practice. Hoops with Nat. Soccer drills. Stadium stairs. His family.
I clamp down that reflex to mention them. Stretch my stumpy wingspan reaching for something new to say.
Glad you showed me the Northfield courts.
Glad you let your worlds collide.
Glad I’m here with you.
Instead, I say: “Serve, Zavala.”
And he does.
21
The good kind of exhaustion hangs over me—my muscles supple,sweat drying tightly on my skin, my heart happy. I’ll sleep well tonight.
Alex already has towels laid out on the Challenger’s seats, and as I slide onto the soft fabric, my stomach audibly growls. So loud it nearly echoes within the confines of the big muscle car.
“My thoughts exactly,” Alex says as I fight the urge to cover my sweaty face with equally sweaty hands—my skin wouldn’t be able to take it. So I just laugh.
“So embarrassing.”
Alex turns the key in answer, and the engine’s own growl roars into the night. “No, I mean, I’m starving too. Want to grab a bite?”
It’s an innocent ask, and my stomach will not allow me to deny my hunger.
I check my phone and it’s 8:02 p.m. No texts from Dad or Nat. So, I’m free. But also, I’m SOL. “I didn’t bring money.”
