Page 46 of On the Ropes
Dean
Itook a minute to towel off and throw on a shirt and gym shorts. Then I shouldered open the storm door and stepped out, barefoot, into a muggy night. It was late, the sun was setting. Past Tenth Street came the sounds of a block party and a mix of loud music from open car windows. Lía, Marco, and a handful of kids walked down the street, eating ice cream.
“You’re here for water ice, I assume?” Tabitha asked.
She was sitting on the top step of her stoop. She beamed at me, crossed one leg over the other. I had to remind myself that we weren’t back in school. That she wasn’t about to perform at a pep rally in her white-and-red uniform with pom poms glued to her hands. And I wasn’t slouched and surly in the back of the auditorium, wondering why I couldn’t have a crush on a regular girl and not the girl.
“So I’ve been told,” I managed.
She extended both containers my way, biting her bottom lip. “I’m not sure what Emily Post would say regarding the apology etiquette for what happens when you see your neighbor half-naked in a towel and kind of spy on him—completely by accident, of course—and then call yourself a pervert loud enough for the entire street to hear? So, I’m hoping letting you choose between the lemon and mango flavors will suffice.”
Feeling my head spin in Tabitha’s presence was par for the course. This time, that feeling was competing with another one. The recognition that mere minutes ago the same woman who made my heart race with every stray glance—not a regular girl but the girl—had openly checked me out. That was the only explanation for why I reached for the container on the right. Reached for yet another thing I’d denied myself for so long.
The very tips of our fingers brushed together. “I haven’t had lemon water ice in a long time. Used to be my favorite.”
She looked pleased by that. “Then it’s all yours.”
My eyes held hers, a small smile on my lips. “And your apology is accepted.”
She arched an eyebrow. “And you won’t refer to me as pervert from now on?”
“Sure seems like an accurate nickname.”
Tabitha pressed her palms to her cheeks. “I can feel myself blushing. But you must know how you look in a towel, right? You’re like one of those Sports Illustrated calendar models.”
“A…calendar model?”
She blew out a breath, looking adorably flustered. “The fact that I’m babbling like an obsessed fan girl should paint a more accurate picture of what I mean.”
I had no response to Tabitha referring to herself as an obsessed fan girl when the object of that obsession was me.
“If Emily Post saw you, she’d understand my dilemma.” She patted the spot next to her. “Come sit. Unless, of course, my very awkwardness has made you want to abandon this friendship permanently.”
Swallowing hard, I sat on the top step. It took me a second to get comfortable, stretching my right leg out. Her bare thigh pressed tight to mine, and I could see the chipped pink polish on her toes. Her pale skin was covered in a cluster of freckles near her knee. A few scars. Along the side of her leg was a large tattoo of a compass with leaves and petals.
She handed me one of the spoons. “Spontaneous water ice is a favorite summer activity of mine on the rare occasion that I’m back home. But I know how important your training is to you. I don’t want you doing anything you’re not comfortable with.”
The random dessert wasn’t the problem. It was letting go. Giving in. Funny how often every coach and trainer used to comment on the strength of my iron willpower. It was apparently no match for the feel of Tabitha’s soft skin against mine or the odd intimacy of seeing her bare feet.
I dipped my spoon into the bowl and took a bite. Flavor burst on my tongue—tart lemon and sweet sugar. It tasted like summer vacation and lightning bugs. Long days and hot city nights. It was only Italian ice—and yeah, I was only a man after all—but my first thought as soon as I swallowed was what the hell else have I been missing?
I licked my lips. Let my gaze rise to meet hers. “Goddammit.”
She was enjoying her own dessert. “It’s good, right?”
I shook my head in disbelief. Took another bite.
She laughed, licking mango water ice from her spoon. “We’ve already stayed up past your bedtime and cleaned up trash together. What can’t we do?” She nudged my arm. “Can I ask who was on the phone? You looked both surprised and pissed at the same time.”
“That would be Harry Fleet. My agent. He’s usually surprising me with something I’m irritated by.”
“Ah, now it makes sense.”
“He called with a job offer. In Vegas.”
Her mouth opened. “Uh, what?”
“There’s a primetime sports network called Game Time. They air all the boxing matches, including some amateur ones like the Golden Gloves. Definitely all the different belts and championships. Lightweight, heavyweight. They’re considering me for a commentator role. Like an analyst. Instead of boxing, I’d be talking about it.”
