“Is that a yes?” he asked gruffly a moment later, his hand now cupping the side of her head and their mouths brushing together.
“I’d like it to be a yes.”
“Then it is,” he said simply. He smiled, and she found herself smiling back, so wanting to be convinced by his absolute confidence.
“I’m glad you feel a little better,” he said.
Alice blinked when she felt him slide something against her palm. It felt metallic and cool.
“What’s this?” she asked, taking a step back and staring at what he’d placed in her hand. But Dylan didn’t need to reply. It was a beautiful silver vintage lighter. On one side, the silver was smooth, on the other it was intricately chased. She ran her fingers over the tiny metallic grooves in wonder.
“It was Alan’s,” Dylan said. “I figured after last night . . .”
“He smoked?” Alice asked dazedly. She flipped open the cap and gasped softly. The whisking sound of the hinges sounded familiar. She repeated the action.
“No,” she heard Dylan say. “I mean, he did, when he bought the lighter. He quit the day you were born. He kept the lighter out of habit . . . and because he was fond of it. He’d purchased it in Paris, when he and Lynn were on their honeymoon. He told me that once you discovered it in his pocket when you were three or so, and you became fascinated by it. So he removed the flint, so that it couldn’t light. Then he felt better about giving it to you when you asked him to play with it.”
“Yes,” she said softly, running the lighter through her fingertips and whisking off the cap several times. It did feel familiar, the memory of the antique lighter a purely tactile one. The grooves in the metal felt good beneath her fingertips. No wonder she’d liked it as a child. Impulsively, she pressed it against her lips and nose and inhaled. There was no discernible odor, but she smiled anyway. She had the distinct impression she’d done that before. She looked up at Dylan.
“Is it okay? That I gave it to you now? Is it too soon?” he asked.
She shook her head adamantly. “No,” she assured him, going up on tiptoe again to put her arms around his neck. “It’s perfect.”
When she lowered enough to see his face, she saw a shadow of tension on his face.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered.
He shook his head, stroking her shoulders. “It’s nothing,” he grimaced and inhaled. “No, that’s not true. It’s something.” He met her stare. “I wish this could have waited, but it can’t. We need to talk about something important when I come back Thursday, okay?”
SEVENTEEN
That morning, she was extra thankful for the distraction of running with Terrance on the beach when she returned to camp. Dylan had insisted that what they needed to discuss wasn’t earth-shattering, and that he was confident she could handle it. But he wouldn’t say any more. About that, anyway.
He did tell her that he wanted her to return to the camp and hit the ball out of the park in regard to her counselor duties.
“You’ve been a huge success here,” he’d said. “Now, just focus on going down there and sealing the deal.”
His support had meant a lot to her. Enough that she was pretty successful at focusing all her attention on Terrance that morning.
Terrance was doing a lot less huffing and puffing nowadays, even though he continued to waste an awful lot of breath by talking to her nonstop.
“I still think we were robbed with that tie with the Orange Team,” he was saying as he thundered along next to her. “We won the wall climb, Jill got top points for that painting she did, and Miguel even told her it was so good that he talked to a gallery owner he knows, and the guy said he wanted it for his gallery,” Terrance said, referring to Miguel Cabrera, the camp’s talented art therapist. Alice was highly gratified over the fact that Jill had finally felt secure enough to leave her safety zone in her art. The result had been three unique and moving paintings, one of which Miguel considered fine enough to sell in a top gallery in Chicago. Jill had gone speechless again for almost a whole day when Miguel told her. This time, her muteness had come from disbelief and happiness versus residual trauma. To see Jill so silently rapturous had humbled Alice, not to mention made her almost ridiculously proud.
“We dominated with that whole Bang thing,” Terrance continued. “Judith won the diving competition, and Red Team won all the football games for the week—thanks to me.”
Alice feigned shock. “And they had the nerve not to give us points for modesty.”
Terrance grinned slyly. “Why deny greatness?”
“Does that mean you’ve decided you’re going to go out for football this year?” she asked casually. It was something she’d been subtly pushing for with him. Not only did she think it’d help Terrance’s self-esteem enormously, she knew that the practices and a coach would continue him on a path of better health.
“Those guys are all white dicks.”