Page 51 of It’s All in How You Fall
“Don’t care.”
“You know my guilt complex.”
“Don’t care,” he repeats. And suddenly I realize we’re toeing the same line I crossed when we set foot on court two.
Just go with the flow. Enjoy the experience.
Let Alex be your friend, Caroline.
My stomach growls a second time—quieter over the engine purr and slip of tires as we navigate the employee access road, but still audible. Goddammit. “Sure.”
Alex’s smile is illuminated by the glow of the newly lit dashboard. “Your enthusiasm bowls me over.”
“Hunger skews how I display enthusiasm.”
“I’m sure it does, but I think this is more about that overactive debt complex of yours.”
Caught. “Maybe.”
“How about I pick where we go? Does that mute your wailing guilt banshee?”
He’s not wrong that it’s always a three-alarm siren in my brain when I’m being let off easy. “A tiny bit, yes.”
Alex laughs. “Okay, Bruno’s?” The pizza place appears on our left like he summoned it, even though it’s been holding down the same strip mall since our neighborhood was some farmer’s field. Then he adds: “They have salad.”
“Despite Nat’s opinions, it is possible to eat more than salad even if you like it the best and gravitate toward it. I love pizza.” Then, I add for extra emphasis, “Cheese is not the enemy.”
“I’m putting that on a T-shirt.”
“If it comes in a tank, I’ll buy it.” I toss him a grin. “And add a tip—thus paying you back for dinner.”
“Knew that was coming.”
We park and step into the night, which seems so much darker than five minutes ago—everything a pewter gray, the lightning bugs swirling despite our strip mall location. Walking next to him, even with a wide berth, seems to put our hands too close—height difference and all. I feel my stride slow so that I’m a half step behind Alex, despite my hunger.
Alex either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care about our hands. He opens the door and pointedly takes a step back, making it clear I’m supposed to go through first. I duck my head in thanks, while going so far around the open stance of his body that I inadvertently bang my shoulder into the doorframe upon entering.
Like my stomach growl, it’s a noise I can’t play off.
“Oh! Are you okay?” The hostess jumps into action from behind her little station after hearing the audible clang as I bounce into her restaurant, a self-made pinball.
My cheeks flame—I made a successful and long career out of my knack for controlling my body. “Yep. Uh-huh, fine.” One open door mixed with Alex Zavala and I’m suddenly a klutz. “Two, please? On the patio if you have room?” I add, because I refuse to embarrass myself further by leaving a sweat stain the shape of the backs of my thighs on the faux-leather seating, which is even more of an embarrassing prospect than the leather over at Burger Fu. Yes, I am very much obsessed with these types of sweaty scenarios—I’ve spent my life working out, but I don’t want to leaveproofof it everywhere on pieces of furniture that aren’t mine. Gross.
The patio is available and pretty quiet, most everyone settling up with checks or boxes for leftovers. The hostess tucks us in the far corner, between the wrought iron fence bordering the patio and some sort of clipped-bush topiary that’s big enough to be a Halloween costume for someone like me.
We take a seat and our waitress appears with a pitcher and two massive plastic cups that she fills with a beverage that’s more ice than water. Peregrine would toss the drink straight into the bush if she were here.
“So, tell me about Dr. Kennedy,” Alex says, bringing the ice-filled cup to his lips.
I’m surprised by the subject matter. Tonight was a roller coaster on my end, and our run-in with the doctor wasn’t the most thrilling part. Not that I want to discuss the swing guidance at the driving range, or my complete inability to accept Alex’s kindness as genuine when aimed at me.
I frown.
Alex doesn’t know the whole story. Not really. He clearly pieced together enough during our run-in, fueled by Nat’s fantastic description at Burger Fu—Caroline’s back is shit and Dad made her quit gymnastics—and whatever else my brother has shared when prodded.
“Dr. Kennedy fixed Nat’s knee but took one look at me and announced I should retire at fifteen, approximately four hours before I face-planted and earned myself a trip to the ER for the double career death blow of a lumbar strain and spinal stenosis diagnosis.” I hold up a hand. “Let me say for the record that despite the good doctor’ssuggestion, I left his office with my career intact and a steroid shot. It’s not his fault that my back is screwed up. It’s not. I know that.” My hand drops and smacks the table. “ButI blame him for preying upon that stubbornness that amuses you so very much, because I might not have face-planted at the next practice and bought myself a little more time until the stenosis diagnosis and Dad’s kibosh onmy life.”
I expect Alex to point out I’ve blamed literally everyone but myself in thathanger-fueled rant. Instead he leans heavily into his dining chair, removes his hat, and runs a big hand through his dark hair. He doesn’t smile. “I wouldn’t have been that nice to him.”
