“Down the hall, two doors to the left.”
I’m pouring tea into mugs when she reemerges, drowning in grey sweats that are three sizes too big for her. She’s adorable. I turn away and place the cups on a tray before bringing them to the kitchen island.
“Thanks. You went to Triton Prep?”
I look over at the prep school emblem that she’s assessing on the sweatshirt. “Briefly.”
“Oh. That’s where Evan graduated. Did you know him?”
I drop a couple sugar cubes in my tea, keeping my eyes set on the tray of teacups, sugar cookies and madeleines. “I was only there for a year.”
“Oh? What happened?”
I shrug. “Transferred.”
“Ok.” She busies herself, sipping her tea and nibbling a cookie. “I went to St. Mary’s in Boston. But I’m sure you already knew that.” She blushes, then looks down.
“I did.”
She lifts her chin and her eyes find mine, burning with curiosity. “Triton is a great school. Probably the best in the country. Your test scores must’ve been amazing to get in.”
I shrug again. Damn these shoulders. “They were alright.”
“Alright? If my parents weren’t adamant about raising me outside the city and subjecting me to an all-girl hell, I’m sure my father would have been making a generous donation to get me in. Where’d you go after Triton?”
“Denton Academy.”
“Oh. That’s a good school.” She tries to recover her smile, but I can already see it.
Denton isn’t Triton.
I’m not Evan.
Just as I’m about to let the comparison worm its way into my head and hatch up a bunch of different reasons why I’ll never be deserving of someone like her, Ally’s face lights up, setting those cerulean eyes aflame. “Consider it a compliment. I’m determined that the prerequisite to attend Triton is you must be at least one-third, pretentious douche-nozzle. I think we’ve determined that that does not apply to you. At least not one-third.”
“Douche-nozzle?” I ask, raising a playful brow. “Are you sure you graduated from Columbia? Because I’m pretty sure that’s not a word.”
“Yup. With honors, buddy. And I would gladly explain the logistics of a douche-nozzle, but I wouldn’t want you to toss your cookies. No pun intended,” she giggles, obviously pleased with herself.
I put down my mug and turn towards the refrigerator. “Well, lucky for me, I’ve got ice cream.”
Ally makes a noise that quite frankly sounds like a mix between a squealing pig and a drowning cat. Either way, it makes me laugh, and I turn to gaze at her with wonder.
What is it about her? What makes every little quirk, every idiosyncrasy that would usually annoy the f*ck
out of me, seem so goddamn adorable? I laugh like an idiot when she’s around. I worry about hurting her feelings or being too gruff. Hell, I’ve been eating ice cream like a hormonal chick with PMS! I just don’t get it. What’s next? Watching the newest Nicholas Sparks flick and drying each other’s tears?
“You’re not too cold for this, are you?”
Ally shakes her head vehemently. “Hell no. I could be in Antarctica, floating on an iceberg while ice skating with a family of penguins, and I’d still want it.”
I grab the pint and two spoons, handing her one. She digs in, and I quickly follow.
Ally scoops up a heaping spoonful and extends it towards me. "Cheers." We clink our spoons and devour that first creamy, cold bite of Mint Chocolate Chip with corresponding Mmmms.
"So...if you had to give up one, would you rather sacrifice your sight or your hearing?" She asks, going in for more.
"That's an easy one. Hearing. I'd definitely give up my hearing if I had to."
"Explain your case, sir."
"Well, for one, you can still communicate even if you're deaf. You can sign or read lips. And let's face it—we live in the age of excessive technology. I could just text or Instagram you."
"Yeah, but you'd never hear music. You'd never get to hear a child's laughter or the sound of someone saying, "I love you." You'd miss out on so much."
I look at her, seeing her. Trying to make her see me. "But to not be able to see a pink sunset fade to purple or a million stars in the sky, stretching to eternity...you can't manufacture that. Technology can't create a smile so bright that it makes you smile even when you don't want to. It can't manipulate true beauty. It can try, but it'll never duplicate that exact shade of red, fiery hair. Or the pattern of cinnamon freckles on your nose. Or even the way your eyes change from blue to green like a mood ring. You can't forge what has been perfectly designed. That kind of beauty doesn't require sound or words or even music. It doesn't need anything else. Anything more and it would overwhelm you."
She doesn't speak, and neither do I. I've said enough. I've said too much.
Eventually we resume eating, confusion heavy in the air. I know she's wondering where that came from—hell, even I'm not sure—but one thing is clear.