Page 71 of First-Time Caller
“I’m fine,” I say again. “You were saying? About the hips?”
“Oh.” Her hand presses flat against my abdomen and her nails trace a meandering, distracting path, like she’s trying to map all the dips and contours of my body through touch alone. Heat licks everywhere her palm touches. I grab her hand when her pinky touches the button of my jeans.
“Lucie.”
“Hmm?”
“What are you doing?”
“Oh,” she says again, her forehead dropping to my shoulder. A sigh shudders out of her. “I forgot what I was saying.”
Some of her words slur at the edges and I glance at our abandoned table. Two empty baskets of French fries and a collection of glasses. An empty plate that used to have a burger that she absolutely devoured. A buzzy, far-off part of my brain suggests we’ve had too much to drink, but I can’t make my body move away from hers.
“I think you were trying to show me proper form for Skee-Ball throwing,” I say slowly.
“That’s right.” She hums. She nuzzles into the space between my shoulder blades and makes a happy sound. “You smell good.”
“Thank you.” I squeeze her hand. “You smell good too.”
Two green eyes appear over my shoulder. “I said that out loud?”
“You did.”
“Great.” She sighs. Her palm pats at my stomach. “Okay. Let’s toss some balls.”
I snort. “Yeah. Let’s do that.”
“Be mature, please. This is very serious.”
“Of course.”
She places one of the balls carefully in my hand and wraps my fingers around it, fussing with my thumb and where it’s placed. I try to pin hers with mine in a juvenile attempt at a thumb war, but she evades my clumsy maneuvers, clicking her tongue in disapproval.
“Focus,” she says, and I swear I would if I could. As it is, I can only focus on the places she’s touching me, one of her heeled feet between mine. My imagination is having a field day.
“Okay, so, when you throw the ball, you’re not extending your swing.” She tugs my arm back, then pushes it forward in a wide arc. When we move forward, her body slides against my back. Goose bumps erupt on my forearms. “Like that. See?”
I move our arms together again. “Like this?”
She nods and her hair brushes against my biceps. “Just like that,” she whispers in my ear. “Give it a try.”
She steps away. I throw the ball. It hits the metal grate again and bounces off the ramp, rolling under one of the booths by the window.
“I think I’m just bad at Skee-Ball,” I murmur.
“Yeah, you’re pretty terrible at it,” she agrees. I turn halfway with an arched eyebrow and she’s grinning at me, smiling so wide her eyes are a fraction of their usual size. A laugh slips out of her the longer I try to look stern, and something inside me cracks open.
“Oh!” she says, her face twisting in eager anticipation. I like this version of Lucie. She’s unburdened by the weight she seems so intent on carrying around. Soft at the edges. Playful. “You know what we should do now?”
“Have some water and get you another burger?”
“I want to dance!” she declares, ignoring me completely. She turns and clicks her way over to the jukebox. She makes a show of studying the selections even though there’s only one song, then holds her hand out to me, palm up.
I slap it with mine, then hold on.
She glares at me.
“What?” I ask, leaning heavily against the machine at her side. I feel like I’m underwater. Everything is dense and slow-moving. Like I’m stuck in a syrupy haze, or maybe just caught in Lucie’s orbit. The orange light from the jukebox makes her look like she’s glowing.
