Page 60 of It’s All in How You Fall
Alex grinning and saying, “Sweet.”
And then: Drills. Drills. Drills.
I’m improving as far as getting a racket on every return… but I’m still marginal at getting the ball within the lines, let alone where I want it to actually go.
Hand-eye coordination and ball sports, man.
By Thursday I still haven’t uttered a single word about the date. Toward the end of our session, I’m chugging water and trying to figure out if I should say something or save it for tomorrow. It’s hot as all get-out and my mind is fuzzy, which isn’t so great for decision-making. I’m probably extra sweaty because I wore black—I’ve got on my Nadia Comaneci tank again, her smiling teen face angling for the sun.
As I come up for air, my stomach suddenly very full of water, Alex chin checks Nadia. “Hey, so remember when you offered to show me gymnastics videos? With Nadia and the Amanar?”
I stare at him. I mean, I said those words. And he said cool, but then I showed him that video of Sunny doing her Amanar and I thought that’s where it had ended.
“Um, yes.” I literally have no idea where this is going.
“Would you be up for… playing historian for a crash course in modern gymnastics? I don’t want to sound like an idiot to Sunny, but I also have no idea where to start. The cache of gymnastics videos on YouTube is… overwhelming.” He pauses, a deep flush rising on his tan cheeks. Alex must realize he’s going the direction of a candy apple, because he rubs his neck as if it’ll erase the color.
The vulnerability. Again.
Dear lord.
“Are you kidding!? Of course I will.” I almost add that there’s pretty much no way on Simone Biles’s beautiful earth that Sunny will spend the entirety of dinner quizzing him on the evolution of modern gymnastics, but I will take the chance to help Alex Zavala with literally anything. “When?”
“Do you have time… tonight?”
“I can go right now.” I sound a little too eager, but in my defense, itisfour thirty, and we have a lot of ground to cover.
Alex laughs. “Slow down there, sparky. I don’t know about you, but I need a shower.” He glances at his watch, then away, thinking. “Six? At my place? I can order pizza and pick it up when I get you.”
“How about six at your place, I walk, andIpay for delivery? You’re always doing stuff for me. Take your shower. Chill. I’ve got this.” His lips drop open to fight me. I put my hands on my hips. “Alex Zavala, king of nice things, please let me do this for you. I can handle a Mozza-Monster and a five-minute walk with wet hair.”
His hand drops from his neck, and all that fight of his slips away into a smile.
“Deal, Caro. Deal.”
27
I arrive at Alex’s house a few minutes early, perspiration threateningmy freshly cleaned skin on yet another summer night. But it’s cloudy and the wind’s kicked up—good ole Midwestern thunderstorms a possibility—take that, sixth-driest summer on record.
Rather than wearing one of my millions of tank tops, I’m standing in a sundress, the light blue fabric making even me look a little tan. The tennis and running probably have something to do with that too.
Either way, Alex is surprised—and not by the pop of color on pale me.
“A dress? You’re not going to troll me with that one tank top with all the names on it?” Alex grins as he opens the door. And he’s one to talk—instead of his own endless supply of workout tanks and tech fabric shirts, he’s wearing a polo and shorts. His hair is drier than mine. Whatever product he puts in it to seal in the perfection smells really nice.
“I didn’t want to spot you a cheat sheet. Plus, this dress has pockets big enough for my phone. No purse for the win.”
He laughs. “Come on in.”
I grab the door instead of ducking under his polite wingspan. Confusion breaks across his face, but no sir, I will not set my hormones up for the sort of roller coaster we had at Bruno’s.
I’m here. As a friend. Helping him ace his date.
I’m not selling Sunny’s deepest, darkest secrets or giving him creepy amounts of detail. I’m just teaching him about the sport that was my life, and then letting him use his newfound knowledge (or not) while devouring bibimbap and that addictive kimchi.
We sweep down the entry hall toward the kitchen. “Pizza will be here in twenty—though I ordered it thirty minutes ago,” I say. “Just a long wait—but it’s paid up. Except for the tip.” I pat my pocket. “I’ve got cash for the guy.”
Alex nods. “Awesome, thank you. Water?”
