"That's not how physics works."
"Your energy. My cap. Cause and effect."
An usher motions our row up. We stand and file toward the aisle, and Maya's hand brushes my arm as we walk.
The stage is smaller than I expected. Three steps up. The podium to the right. The dean waiting in academic regalia that makes him look like a wizard who teaches accounting.
Cole Maddox.
I walk, and the applause rolls over me warm enough that I have to swallow before I reach the dean.
My father is in the fifth row with the Briarcliff scarf draped over his suit, the edges frayed from four years of games, losses, bad nights, and overtime wins. Suzanne sits beside him with her hands clasped at her chin.
I shake the dean's hand.
"Congratulations, Mr. Maddox."
"Thank you, sir."
Turning toward the stands, I find my father's face. Wet. Smiling. Suzanne is beside him, crying openly, her hand reaching for his arm.
One wave, and I walk off, four steps down.
Maya Maddox.
She's right behind me. Her name comes through the speakers before I've cleared the stage exit, so I stop off to the side and turn to watch her climb the stairs.
Maya walks across that stage like she built it.
The cap stays at its stabbed angle. Somehow, the gown looks sharper on her than on anyone else. She shakes the dean's hand, and he holds the shake a beat longer than he did for the others. He says something. She says something back. He laughs.
A job is already waiting for her at the Chicago Tribune, junior metro desk, because Chicago is where Dante and I landed and she chose not to send the Globe application. The offer arrived two weeks ago and made her close her laptop, sit on the counter, and cry for three minutes before she opened it again and typed her acceptance.
When she turns to the stands, she finds me first, still standing near the stairs, watching. Her eyes are bright. One small wave lifts her hand, the fingers curling and uncurling.
I press my hand to my chest, right over my heart. Her hand lifts to her chest.
She walks off the stage, and I'm already off to the side at the bottom of the stairs with my hand lifting before I can overthink it. Open palm. Waiting. Her gaze drops to it, then cuts back to my face. Every game comes back at once. The plexiglass. Her palm on the other side. Mine pressed flat to meet it. My hand waits for hers now.
She presses her palm to mine. Skin to skin. Her fingers lace through mine, warm and real.
"The cap stayed on," she says.
"The cap stayed on."
"I told you."
"You were terrified."
"I was prepared. There's a difference." Her fingers slip free so she can loop her arm through mine. "How bad is my mascara?"
"You look beautiful."
"That bad?"
We sit down together, her knee pressing against mine.
Declan Reid.
