Page 78 of It’s All in How You Fall
He presses the pad of his thumb to my lips, shutting off the faucet of all my regrets and didn’t-mean-tos and every other hurdle I’d tossed up in my brain.
“How were you supposed to know? I didn’t say anything.” He smiles and yet I’m the one who sighs with relief. “I told you I liked Sunny. That was the information you had. And you wanted to help and went with it. And I let you.”
This is… true. But… “No,” I say, “you did what you set out to do. I needed a new sport, and I found one that I love—actually two, you were right about running.”
Alex lights up further. “Told ya.” We laugh, and as the sound dies, Alex tips my chin so that our eyes meet—his gaze is warm on my face.
I play with our hands, still entwined. “I needed a fresh start and a new outlook. You gave me both but you didn’t push. I did. I’m sorry for trying to force you into something with Sunny. I really thought it was what was best and seemed perfect, and…” Nat’s summer night big brother wisdom kicks into my brain. “And what’s perfect on paper might not be in real life.” I shake my head, glancing down. “It certainly wasn’t perfect for me. Or Sunny. Or you.”
“Caroline, that’s not your fault. I was ready to go on dates until Sunny said no, just to make you happy. And I thought I’d screwed everything up before I even began. I scared myself shitless thinking I’d misunderstood you before LJ and Nat walked in.”
I guess we’re all capable of overthinking things. Even Alex Zavala.
“And because I didn’t know what to do, I just went ahead and let you think everything with Sunny was great,” he says, “when I should’ve addressed reality instead of just going on, business as usual. In truth, I was ready to do that today, tomorrow—as long as I could stand it. I didn’t want to mess up your hard work.”
“You know,” I say, “I had the same thought. You’ve got your Northfield championship to defend, and a varsity soccer team to make after a year away, and not to mention the delights of junior year of high school…” I don’t add the wild card stuff, just letting that arm of the existence of Alex Zavala sit between us.
“Yeah, all of that. But just so we’re clear.” He draws in a bracing breath and I stare into his dark eyes. “Sunny was everything I’d hoped she’d be and everything I thought I wanted.” A grin pushes up in the corners of Alex’s mouth. “But I don’t want her. I want you.”
I lift my hands from their tangled embrace and cradle his cheeks in my palms before speaking directly to his handsome, grinning face. “So we’re clear: I want you too.”
This time, I kiss him. And it’s perfect.
35
Somehow the days have flown by in a blur of court time withAlex, rides home with Alex, Mozza-Monsters and bibimbap and caprese salads with Alex… and now it’s the first day of the tournament and I’m about to vomit. It hasn’t beenthatlong since my last competitive outing, but my gut is acting like this is my first rodeo and I pregamed at an all-you-can-eat buffet.
My heart’s no help either—it pounded all night, keeping me awake until I must have fallen asleep, though my only indication was jolting awake to the sound of my alarm. I rolled out of bed, showered, and took the same dose of preemptive ibuprofen I’ve lived on for years. My back isn’t yelling at me, and I would like to avoid a single peep from it at all today, if possible. It’s been stiff from all the hard training the past two weeks but not painful, if that makes sense.
I don’t know that it does. My brain is day-old scrambled eggs.
I wander into the kitchen for some sustenance and am choking down some stomach-friendly dry cereal as Dad appears, dressed and chipper. He’s been in a fine mood since I told him about tennis. Probably because he’s regained his legendary status as “top moper” in the Kepler household. Not that he has much to complain about these days. “Check the fridge, Serena.”
At least Dad’s tennis references are clear enough that I don’t have to think very hard. I do as directed, lugging the fridge open to find… my typical cold brew, as I like it, on the middle shelf, ice still wholly intact. My family really does know that the way to my heart is through perfectly chilled rocket fuel. “Nice surprise, thanks, Dad.”
“Want another one?”
“Another… coffee?” I take a long drag in hopes my brain will jog to life. They don’t sell this nitro cold brew in larger sizes than the one in my hands because it’ssocaffeinated.
“Another surprise,” Dad clarifies.
“Um. Okay?”
“I’m going to be at your match today.”
I blink at him as the caffeine hits my system. “You are? Instead of Nat?” Now I’m really confused, because Nat is already at work but he’d confirmed my draw time and asked to end his shift ahead of time—golf course maintenance and done.
“No, in addition to Nat. Oscar invited me.” Oscar—Alex’s dad. “I guess the whole Zavala-Mack clan can each bring a guest. Seems like the least Northfield can do for that arm and a leg they hack off with membership each year.”
Oh.
This doesn’t make my stomach feel much better. Dad will be there to see me suck. Nat will be there to see me suck. Alex will be there to see me suck and then kick ass on his own. Ugh.
“Cool.”
Dad also, as it turns out, intends to drive me. We get in the car at seven thirty so I have time to check in, warm up, and be ready for my match, which is to take place in the second slot—not before ten o’clock. I text Alex that we’ll meet him out front of the clubhouse.
When we roll up to the members’ gate, we’re magically admitted with a special pass Dad obtained from Mr. Zavala, who, from the way Alex talks, is clearly the de facto sports parent. As the clubhouse looms, Alex waves, as if we’re going to miss the two very handsome men standing out front looking for Dad’s car. Of course, to go along with the Northfield experience, a valet rushes around to take the car off our hands. I grab my racket from the trunk, its handle poking out of the backpack I have moonlighting as a tennis bag, an ode to my previous life—the backpack’s black has gone gray with chalk I couldn’t wash out, embroidered scroll across the flap: Team Balan.
