“What are you thinking?” she asks. “You look so serious. Does this park have bad memories? Want to go somewhere else?”
“No, the opposite. See that field over there? That’s where my Little League team played. I practically lived there. I learned to ride my bike on these paths—my blood’s probably still on some of these tree trunks. I wasn’t very good at turning or braking.”
She laughs and follows my finger as I point out the landmarks of my childhood. “I’m sure you crashed just for the Band-Aids. I bet you were a tough guy even back then.”
Suddenly, it’s easy talking to her. I want to tell her more, show her more of my town. Redeem Hamilton from the first impression it made. I lead the way to the swings and hold one for her as she sits before lowering myself onto the next one.
“Before the divorce I used to live less than a block from here on Arroyo Court. Jeff, Sean, and I used to meet here to play catch. I kissed my first girlfriend—way before Carly—on the slide over there.”
“So you were a stud? You dated a lot?” She leans her cheek against the chain and looks over at me.
“Some. I don’t know about a lot. I had a few girlfriends before Carly.” She’s got this half-amused, half-preoccupied smile on her face, and it’s driving me crazy. I grip the chains tightly before asking, “What about you? Not that I’m keeping up with Cross Pointe’s gossip, but I haven’t heard about you and any boyfriends.”
The half smile locks in place, frozen in a look that’s supposed to be lighthearted and natural. I can read her better now; I know it’s not. She examines her hands, seems startled to find her nails green, then hides them in her palms and pushes off with her good foot. Her words get carried away with her swinging motion. “Sorry to disappoint, but there’s not much to hear.”
I stand up and grab the chains on both sides of her swing. Hold her hostage. “Oh, come on. Don’t give me that.” She has to know how guys look at her. Has to know she could have her pick of almost any guy in school. I refuse to believe she hasn’t played with that power.
When she shakes the hair out of her eyes, I can see she’s not flirting, she’s serious. “I keep waiting for the day when I wake up and realize one of the boys I’ve known since kindergarten is suddenly breathtaking and makes my pulse race or something cliché like that.”
“So there’s no guy at Cross Pointe who’s good looking enough for you?” I give her a gentle push and watch her arc away from me. Her hair trails like a live thing.
“No! That’s not what I mean at all! There are plenty of guys who are hot, but I’ve known them so long. They’re the same boys who used to show off their burping and farting skills. Thinking about dating any of them feels … weird and slightly incestuous.”
“Incestuous would be weird.”
She finally laughs. “Stop teasing me! I’m serious. Amelia tells me I should just suck it up and pick a guy—otherwise I’ll go off to college ‘dangerously innocent’—her words, not mine. But if I know I’m not going to feel about a guy the way he feels about me, then I’m setting him up to be hurt. How can I do that to someone I like? Even if it’s not like-like.”
I was going to make a crack about “like-like,” but her answer doesn’t seem funny anymore. “Good question. I don’t disagree.”
“Plus, I think they’re all still secretly impressed with the noises and smells they can make.”
“They are.” I laugh louder than the comment really deserves and almost prove her right about my gender’s immaturity by twisting her swing sideways. Instead, I put an extra step of space between us and look around for something distracting that isn’t her. She lets herself slow to a stop. She’s not looking at me either.
If “awkward” had a flavor, it would taste like this moment. Like my mouth opening and closing as I try to think of something to say. Or sprinkler water and the one sip of beer I had tonight. Or the ghost of Carly’s lip gloss and the laughter that just fizzled.
I rap my knuckles against the cold metal frame of the swings. A hollow sound reverberates down the pole, and I open my mouth again. I don’t know what ruined the moment, but I want it back.
Maybe the moment was damned to fail. I mean, Brighton. In Hamilton. With me. It’s an equation that has no solution.
I look away from her, across to the other side of the park, and suddenly I need to see it again. I’m already off the playground sand and on the sidewalk before I call, “There’s somewhere I have to go. It won’t take long. You can either come or stay here.”
I’m not sure which I’d prefer.
32
Brighton
12:25 A.M.
12 HOURS, 35 MINUTES LEFT
He’s leaving without me.