“I’d love to get in trouble for you,” Luke says, his voice a little less playful than I was expecting. But when I glance at him, the scarlet apples of his cheeks rise and he smiles.
“Okay,” I say with a nod and look away. I sink my top teeth into the side of my lower lip to keep from smiling. My heart is pounding. I can’t tell if it’s this hill or the rush of endorphins or Luke.
“Come on, race you to the top,” Luke says, grabbing my wrist, his chin nodding toward the top of the hill. “On the count of three: one, two, three.”
Our legs sprint up the hill, our stride in sync. Luke has over six inches on me and his long legs begin to gain ground. I reach out and tug very gently at the bottom of his sweatshirt and he swats me away.
“Mac, you cheater.” He laughs, playfully putting his hand to the top of my chest, slowing my pace.
“Now you’re the cheater,” I holler and pull even harder at his sweatshirt, finally breaking his rhythm. One more tug and I zoom past him, my muscles burning, my pounding feet begging for rest, Luke’s long legs nipping at my heels.
My body leans forward, breaking through imaginary finish-line tape, and I pump both fists in the air like I just won the Olympics, the imaginary crowd going wild.
“I win, I win!” I yell, jumping up and down on the pavement while Luke bends over, hands on his knees, smile on his face, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession.
“You did win,” Luke replies between gasps of air while I dance in celebration. “Look at you. Even if you hadn’t cheated, I think you still would have won.”
“Hey, you cheated first,” I say, my hand on my hip, my finger playfully wagging in his face.
“No way, you started it,” he says, finally standing up straight, the dimples in his cheeks crinkling as he grins.
“That was minuscule compared to your arm bar,” I reply, giving his shoulder a slight shove.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. You win, Mac,” Luke concedes, throwing his arm around my neck and pulling me closer. Even after a run, he smells good. A mixture of leaves and body wash and cinnamon gum. I instinctively wrap my arm around his waist and play with the strings on my sweatshirt.
We walk in comfortable silence, amber leaves crunching at our feet. I look up at the tree-lined path, its branches set ablaze for nature’s most beautiful performance art. Fall is the world’s way of begging for one last colorful celebration before the bleakness of winter.
A gust of wind breaks through the stillness of the morning, whipping my hair and sending the tree branches swaying. Luke pulls me closer to him and rubs my shoulders and even though I’m warm, I begin to shiver.
“You too cold? Do you want my sweatshirt?” Luke says, tightening his grip on me with one hand and pulling at his sweatshirt with the other, accidentally pulling up his T-shirt, exposing his defined, athletic stomach.
“No, no, I’m fine.” I wave off his offer, trying to stop my body from shaking but it won’t obey. My blood is pumping and I can feel heat streak across my cheeks.
The rumble of a loud motor spins my body around. A gray van. But is it the same gray van? People in New Albany are always renovating or calling in carpenters or plumbers, so I can’t be sure. As it drives closer, I identify and file away its distinguishing features. Charcoal gray paint job. Ohio plates. No windows on the sides. Early 2000s model. GMC. My eyes strain to get a look at the driver but the sun has yet to climb over the horizon. The van quickly passes beneath a streetlight. It’s only for a fraction of a second, but long enough for me to see a face I don’t recognize staring back at me. Long black hair, a sharp jaw, and dark, probing eyes that make my warm blood run cold. The van picks up speed as it drives past us, turning down Route 62 before I can get a clear shot of the license plate.
“Mac, are you okay?” Luke asks, staring down at me, and I realize I’ve stopped moving. Stopped breathing too. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” I say, looking up at him with a forced smile that hurts my cheeks.
“You’re still shaking,” he says, his fingers wrapping tighter around my shoulders.
“I guess I’m cold after all,” I answer and pull out of his grasp. I give the bottom of his sweatshirt a tug. “Come on. Race you home.”
EIGHT
“You don’t know me, but I’m your brother”, I sing along to the record in the bonus room over the Weixels’ four-car garage. I grab one of the remotes off the rustic wood coffee table and pretend it’s a microphone. I hop on an ottoman in the corner and sing the lyrics at the top of my lungs. At the chorus, I leap off my perch like a rock star and point at Luke, stretched out on the rich chocolate-brown leather couch, laughing at me.
“Takin’ it to the streets,” Luke sings along to the record with me.
“Takin’ it to the streets,” I sing the Michael McDonald part, shaking my shoulders to the beat while I jump from side to side.
“Takin’ it to the streets,” he sings, banging on the fake piano on his lap.