“He trusts you guys.”
“He does, but he only trusts us to a certain extent.” Andreas exhales loudly. “Wow! Way too deep before school, man. Pretty sure I have a migraine now.” He pokes me with an elbow. “Too bad you didn’t wanna join soccer, bet you could have convinced him, too. See you later, chiquitas.”
“Is it just me, or is your head hurting now, too?” Cassie says once he’s frolicked down the hallway.
“For real,” I say immediately. It feels good to agree about something again.
The bell rings and her small smile freezes.
“Let’s go,” I say, steering her toward AP Chem. “It’ll be as fun as AP Chem can be.”
Her steps are slow, reluctant, but they’re still forward. That’s the most I can ask for right now. “You know how I feel about rules, Savannah. I’m going to hold you to that fun business.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
I FINISH MY run to find a text from Marcos. So I know it’s Sunday and you’re probably busy…
Yes, busy running for a whole fifteen minutes. Actually, I’d almost zoned out for the last couple of minutes. Runner’s high? Have I made it to that level?
There’s a cool bite to the November breeze that feels welcome against my warm skin. I balance on my right foot, satisfied when my knee doesn’t waver, and smile as I write back. Are the triangles getting you down?
Cassie attended every class this past week. She didn’t love it, that’s for sure, and I can’t say that the “fun business” was achieved. She stuck it out, though, leaning over to ask me about what she’d missed. “The doctors advised me to do my best to be present,” she’d said. “I know it sounds stupid, but it feels better coming from them, you know?”
“It’s not stupid,” I’d said immediately.
Can neither confirm nor deny, Marcos replies. I have a fried avocado taco with your name on it in the fridge. Pick you up in fifteen?
Between helping Cassie catch up after school and practicing, I haven’t had any time alone with Marcos. Sounds great!
Then again, I’d rather not ruin the good flow of this week by witnessing Marcos and Dad having their first awkward handshake. On second thought, I write back, pick me up at the corner.
When he pulls up ten minutes later, I’m at the old bus stop that Cassie and I waited at in elementary school. He honks, and I bound over to the car.
When I slide in, he pulls me to him and kisses me so hard, I forget to breathe. His lips, his hands, his breath, everything’s warm against my cold skin, and I want to press against him, gathering up more of that flame.
So I do.
“Sorry,” he says when we finally break apart, the dimples revealing that he’s not sorry at all. “You looked so happy.”
I am happy. It’s not the off-kilter euphoria of being drunk off Cassie’s hot chocolate-and-mint concoction; it feels more like nailing a beam routine with the most difficult elements. Making sure Cassie stays afloat. Improving in the gym. Carving out a future. Marcos. I just have to find a way to keep everything together, no wobbles.
“How were the kids you coached on Friday?” he asks.
“Out of control,” I call over the rumble of the engine. “Super cute, though. One clung to my knee and cried when it was time to go home. And one kicked me in the eye.”
“Sounds about right. Andreas and I used to be volunteer coaches for the elementary school soccer league.”
Is it wrong that the idea of Marcos shepherding children on the field is adorable? Must be how he learned to be so absurdly encouraging.
“Of course,” he adds, “Dre was pretty much one of the kids.”
When we drive onto Pine Needle Street, the same trio of boys on bicycles refuses to get out of the way until the last moment. “C’mon!” Marcos calls out the window in exasperation, leaning on the horn.
The effect’s less than ominous, as the horn bleats like a dying goat. The kids laugh and scrape their sneakers along the road, balancing on the bikes. There’s a woman across the road who hangs laundry despite the chilliness, dressed in pastel blues and pinks. Dreaming of warmer places, possibly. A man, perhaps her husband, sits on the cracked steps with the newspaper. He waves at Marcos when we pass.
In a house before Marcos’s, music pours out the windows. “Merengue?” I say and he confirms it, pleased that I knew, although it was a shot in the dark. Through the kitchen window, I see a woman sashaying near the counter, arms and hands twisting up to the sky and back down again. “Laura Morena,” says Marcos. “She dances all day. She makes great empanadas, though.”
We spend an hour with the pen scratching over the paper in the living room, our heads close. He’ll laugh when he makes a silly mistake, his warm breath brushing my cheek, and as he crosses out a mistake in firm black lines, his elbow knocks against mine and remains for an extra moment.
He’s the one working hard; each problem must be solved and resolved until there are no more cross-outs. “Let’s do number two again.”
“We finished it,” I say.
“I want to do it on my own this time, know what I mean?” He nudges me playfully. “No cheating.”
Victor roams around the kitchen. The cabinet doors swing open and closed, a metal lid reverberates against the counter, and the microwave begins to hum.
“You want any, Marc?” he calls.
Marcos shakes his head, causing him to smudge an acute angle. That’ll be another three-to-five minutes of him redrawing it to perfection.
“How about you?” Victor says to me, elbows up on the counter and dark eyes watching me closely. Measuring. The black ink of a tattoo slips into view from under the sleeve of his shirt.
I watch him right back. “Got any more of those chips?”
The screen door wheezes open and in an instant, my palm is stinging from an Andreas high-five. “Ladies, gentlemen, put your books down,” he announces like a horserace caller, “we’ve got the Miami Heat to watch.”