Page 28 of He Has It All (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
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“Yes,he did just pull up with my dad’s car to pick you up for dinner,” Maggie says later, looking through the curtains out my window with the view of the street out front. I rush to her side to see for myself and I feel like I’m in some retro boy-dates-girl movie scene from the sixties. But I’m not dressed in a mod print mini-dress. I’m wearing white jeans and a hot pink sleeveless silk knit top with the wordGirlin glitter print across my boobs. No cleavage shows. I’d thought briefly of going braless, but good sense prevailed and I decided not to tempt fate—or Ryan Lover-of-Ladies O’Rourke.
Promising Maggie this would be a friendly dinner date may have been short-sighted and against every grain in my body, but it’s done and it’s probably the smart thing. Or so I tell myself as I grab my bag and head downstairs to the lobby. Maggs predictably comes with me.
“Aren’t you going somewhere with Levi?” I say to her.
“Not tonight. He’s spending time with his parents and grandma.”
We race down the stairs and I win in spite of the fact that I’m wearing strappy sandals because my legs are twice as long as hers. He’s talking to the receptionist and my body has the reaction to him that it does every time I see him, even when I try to ignore it. My chest tightens and I smile—this time I let it go. My pulse races and I can feel my temperature rise. He looks up at us and his eyes land on mine. The world stops—or it should. But it doesn’t, because I can feel it spinning.. Although I might be having a heart attack the way my heart is hammering. All this just for an innocent dinner? I must be out of my mind, returned to the state of adolescent girl crushing.
He lets out a whistle and Maggs twirls around in her yoga pants and T-shirt, sayingthank youas if he’s whistling at her. He shoves her aside in one of those playful brotherly moves, the kind I’ve witnessed a hundred times and, in truth, the kind I’ve been a part of dozens of times. The idea, the notion that we’ve been like brother and sister in the past slams into me, can’t be denied.
But it’s not today’s reality. Hasn’t been reality for a very long time. Not for me. Not for him either if the look in his eyes means anything.
“You look like temptation wearing a halo, Chelsea Wilde.”
I laugh. “You’re ridiculous,” I say.
“Fucking ridiculous,” Maggs ads. She stabs his chest with her perfect fingernails. “Behave yourself. Don’t stay out too late.”
“Yes, Mom.” He rolls his eyes, waves at the receptionist, and takes my hand. “Let’s get out of here. I have the perfect place for us to go.”
Outside, he opens the car door for me. “Nice wheels. How’d you get your dad to let you borrow his car?” I’m serious.
He gets in and tells me, “I know. I had to agree to buy him a new model in the fall when they come out.”
“Steep price to pay.” I mean it, though I realize he has a different measuring stick than I do.
“Nah. I was going to buy him a new one anyway. I do every year. Since I’ve been in the league. It’s all he’ll let me do—he won’t let me buy them a new house up on the north shore. They insist on staying in the neighborhood.” He turns to me and I’m holding my breath at the thought of his family moving away, of him not being around. Of his family and mine not being next-door neighbors anymore.
“It’s just as well,” he continues. “I’d miss the neighborhood if my parents moved. Hell, who am I kidding? I’d probably end up buying the house from them, fixing it up and living there myself.” His grin convinces me I have nothing to worry about. He’s the same old Ryan with that contagious comforting smile, the golden heart, and big giant ambitions of conquering the world.
Those ambitions have changed him, but not completely, not deep down where it counts. He may travel the world and live in a Boston water-view penthouse, but he’s still the kid from Charlestown, from the neighborhood, in his soul. Or I could be romanticizing him because it’s that kind of romantic evening as he takes off with the breeze blowing through the open windows, messing my hair. When I go to close the window, I find he’s locked them.
“What are you doing?” I laugh.
“It’s a wild night. A night for the wind in your hair.”
“You mean a messy hair night?” He does a double take and I realize he’s interpreted my words as dirty. Of course.
“Sounds perfect.” He reaches a hand over and puts it on my knee. The warmth burns me, but he doesn’t move his hand or squeeze and my nerves settle and I adjust to the sensation, relishing it.
“Where are we going?”
“To a spot on the other side of the island away from town where they serve fresh clams outdoors all night under the stars.”
“Sounds . . . romantic.”
“It could be,” he says and I’m too chicken to ask what he means. We drive the rest of the way in silence until we arrive and he parks in the gravel drive of a shack with a couple other cars and a motorcycle. There’s a string of lights like fireflies around the perimeter of a few small tables and a few people gathered at a takeout window. Bluesy music plays in the distance, from a boat in the harbor, I think. And I realize some of the patrons came to this shack by boat to eat.
“Cool place,” I say.
“Suits you,” he says, slinging an arm around me as we walk toward the shack’s service window. The weatherbeaten sign above it readsSmith Point Clam Shack—Best Seafood on the Island. I believe it. The air is thick with the scent of fried clams and onion rings and my mouth waters.
“Where’s your baseball cap and dark glasses?” I tease, knowing I’m being unfair, as if the need for anonymity is a pretention when I know it’s not. “Aren’t you afraid of being recognized?” He smiles, unbothered, causing a pleasant ripple in my gut, the kind I crave, the kind I’ve been running from because I crave it so much.
“Like you said. This place is cool.”
