Alex’s expression is carefully neutral. He spins the ball cap on my head around backward, static in my hair reacting, ends standing to attention. “First my jacket, now my hat. You want my pants, too?”
“Yes, take them off, please.” I rocket down the tunnel, determined to beat him to Coe’s Park. Maybe by the time I arrive, I won’t have cheeks so hot you could fry bacon on them. That “big fat mouth” song is probably about me. “Not that you haveroom to talk—you’ve still got all my favorite rings. Probably have them tucked away in a special drawer. Bet you take them out before bed and try them on.”
“Hey!” He veers onto the sidewalk on the other side of the road, joining me. “You’re supposed to cross at the stoplight!”
“Goody-goody.”
“Hey, I can be bad if I feel like it. Watch this.” He tries to pop a wheelie but almost falls backward; my hand shoots out to steady his handlebars.
“Calm down there, Evel Knievel.”
We cruise the street Alex grew up on, riddled with potholes so deep you could crack your front bumper on them, slowing when we reach his grandfather’s old house. He passed when Alex was away at college. I felt like an asshole for not attending his funeral, but I knew Alex would be there.
In my mind’s eye, I can still see Joshua King loping out the front door in one of his argyle sweaters, waving hello to us as we walked Alex’s dog, Lacy. If Zelda was with us, he’d shout outZelda, Warrior Princess, eternally mixing up Zelda and Xena.
“Who lives there now?”
“Looks empty.” The windows are smashed.
To wipe that somber expression from his face, I cry, “Race you!” and off we fly—I weave, which more or less forces him to stay behind me, ensuring my win. When we arrive at our destination, he picks me up off my bike and swings me around. I scrabble at him, shrieking with laughter; we end up sprawled in the grass. I roll on top to pin him.
“My poor legs are tired. You’re going to have to carry me home,” I sigh.
“Four blocks away.”
“Yes.”
He gazes adoringly at me, rosy-cheeked, stealing his hat back and replacing it on his head. “Okay.”
I tug on the bill. “You and that hat.”
“I’m only wearing it this often because you don’t like the short-hair look.”
I take the hat back off, casting it like a Frisbee. Shower his head with kisses. “I like you withanylook. I like your look so much that I’m poaching your wardrobe. I’m Single White Female–ing you.”
“You have leaves in your hair.” He picks them out one by one, then kisses my forehead. “Why did you have to be so pretty? It’s such a waste, whenever I have to look at anything else. The worst part is I’ve always known it, had to go too many years looking at too many other faces. Knew the whole time what I was missing. Knew that being satisfied with anyone else would be impossible.”
When he talks like this, confirming that he was missing me all the while that I was missing him, how much time we spent without each other when it didn’t have to be that way, an invisible hand wraps around my windpipe and squeezes. If I think about it too much, I’ll pass out. “I’ll give you my picture in a locket so you can wear me around your neck.” I roll into the grass beside him. “We’re so good at watching baseball.”
He jumps to his feet, then grabs a metal bench to steady himself, dizzy. “Right! We’re on a date. I need to feed you nachos. Lots of cheese, so that you keep coming back for more, like a stray cat.”
We settle shoulder to shoulder in the second row, soft pretzels and nachos in greasy cartons across our laps. The sky is a rich cerulean edged with pink, just dark enough for the stadiumlights to spring to life. The metal beneath my legs is slightly sticky and cold.
I look at Alex as the bat connects with the ball—crack!—and celebratory whistles erupt around us, his profile sharp and attentive on the game. My heart is breaking down, blood vessel by blood vessel. Everything about him is a wonder. The shadows of his eyelashes flaring over his cheeks, the sweat glistening on his hairline, the stubble darkening his jaw. The setting sun is a flame in his eyes, dusting his throat and arms with rose. He’s perfect.Perfect. Every inch, designed for me. I’m not entirely convinced I’m not dreaming.
“Romina?”
“Hmm?”
His voice drops. “You’re staring.”
“Your fault. You’re beautiful.”
He angles his face to appraise me, a smile first lighting up his eyes before it takes effect on his lips. My leg begins to bounce up and down unstoppably. He holds it still with his hand.
“Probably about twenty minutes left of the game,” someone in the bleachers behind us says, and Alex stands.
“Stay here,” he tells me. “I’ll be right back.”
