When I finally tell Zach, whenone daybecomesnow, I’m going to need her support.
It’s hours later, and I’m in my new favorite position for watching TV—tucked into Zach’s side, head on his chest, one arm splayed across his stomach. At his insistence, we’re watching my favorite show about a precocious high school student who solves paranormal mysteries between romantic and familial drama. I love dissecting the story I love with him, and hearing his opinion of my favorite characters.
Everything takes on new meaning when I experience it with Zach. It’s scary, this realization about how his presence enriches my life. After losing gymnastics, I didn't understand who I was anymore. It was with me through every triumph and disappointment. I could mark time based on what I’d been doing in the sport. I never thought I’d have to worry about getting so attached to another person that they could so profoundly affect the way I experience life.
I’d never known real love before.
But as I listen to Zach’s steady heartbeat, I wonder if I’m about to find out.
22
Zach
When I was akid, I didn’t understand how people who liked each other spent time together without constantly wanting to kiss. It baffled me how they could go about their day with this person, resisting the urge. I’d had crushes, put people I didn’t know on unrealistic pedestals, turned them into daydreams, and I knew nothing about relationships.
When I got older, I experienced that pull toward another person, pure lust based on physical attraction. The instinct, theneed,to be around a person fades quickly when it's all it is. It’s all I’ve ever known.
Until Finley Harris.
I’m insanely attracted to herandI never stop wanting to be around her. I’m content forgoing morning naps to hang out at the gym while she practices, mesmerized by her every movement. None of what she does should be physically possible, and yet, she makes every amazing feat look easy.
“What’s the gymnastics equivalent of a goal?” I ask while she’s taking a break atop the beam.
Her coach, Veronica, left five minutes ago, otherwise I wouldn’t risk taking Finley’s attention away from the task at hand. Veronica likes it when I’m here, says Finley is more relaxed, but she never hesitates to tell me to shut it if I become a distraction.
Finley turns, arms resting on her hips as she catches her breath. She’s done this one pass of flips about fifty times—it’d be hard enough on the ground, and she’s doing it four feet in the air with only four inches of wood and leather to balance on.
“I don’t know. I guess a stick?”
“A what?”
“You know,this.” Finley takes off to the opposite end of the beam, doing a roundoff back handspring before launching herself into the air and flipping twice. Her feet hit the mat with a smack, then don’t move an inch. “When we land perfectly still, not taking any steps or shuffling our feet.”
She flops down on the chair beside me, the one Veronica used while she was coaching Finley earlier. Veronica peppered me with Wolves questions, wanting to know behind-the-scenes information about my teammates and our training schedule, in between directing Finley.
“How hard is it?” I ask. “To stick your landing?”
She kisses my cheek. “Probably as hard as scoring a goal or making a three-point shot or kicking a field goal. It’s why we practice as much as we do. We’re building muscle memory.”
“Scoring a goal is much harder than any of those things. You know, for the record.”
“Oh, of course it is, Calder.” Finley’s hand lands on my chin, angling it toward her. The breath is knocked out of me as I take in her beauty up close, admiring the light freckle on her face, thegleam in her gorgeous blue eyes, the slight divot in her cheek when she smiles. “Those other athletes ain’t got nothin' on you.”
“You’re such a brat,” I say.
Since we’re in the gym, I move to pull away, but Finley places her hands on each side of my head to keep me close to her. She kisses me, and I react instantly, my hands going to her hips. I groan when my tongue meets hers, my body demanding more contact. As if she can read my mind, Finley climbs over me, her legs pinning me to the chair, bracketing my hips.
Veronica claps her hands together once, loudly. “Okay!”
Finley and I pull apart, lips smacking as loudly as Veronica’s clap.
“That’s enough of that,” Veronica says, “you can straddle the floor or the beam, but not boys or girls while in my gym.”
Finley launches to her feet, leaving me with an incredibly obvious tent in my basketball shorts.
“Fuck,” I mutter, grabbing her discarded sweatpants from the floor to cover my lap. Finley giggles at my predicament. I narrow my eyes at her. “Laugh all you want, but I doubt this is the only evidence of what happened, Finley.”
Her mouth clamps shut.
