by Casey Winter
Every time, it wanders back to Hannah. Without fail, as I jab the air, as my shadow blends into the spiky outline of the evergreens, I think about the discussion in the car. Or argument, whatever the hell you want to call it. She was upset because it meant more to her than it did to me. But is that true? Did it really mean less to me?
Goddamn it, I don’t know. It seems women always see things deeper than men, or maybe that’s just an overgeneralization and it’s only me who’s emotionally stunted. I drop down, grabbing my bag and some water. I tip it over my head, letting it drip coolly down the back of my neck. It’s a warm day, and it’s only going to get warmer.
Monday morning comes, and still I haven’t got a clue what to do.
Monday collapses into Tuesday, and I’m none the wiser.
I sit at my desk, looking at the calendar, tomorrow’s date seeming absurdly important: the one week anniversary of our picnic. I laugh at myself, my voice grumbling loudly in the small office.
Get a grip, soldier.
I think about calling Coach again about the air conditioning unit, but I know there’s no use. He can’t find any leads. He thinks it’s just kids messing around, the same way they graffiti the alleyway between the bakery and the electronics store sometimes. But I know who it is without a doubt. The Hanlons. Luckily—for Will and Jock—I haven’t seen them around town these past six days.
I look at the clock: almost ten, time to close up. I wander over to the window, checking if she’s still there. She is, looking like an enchanted woman, ponytail flaring behind her, hands darting to her sides like she’s casting a spell. It takes all my self-control not to charge down there and tackle her into the wall, listen for her moan to let me know she likes it, and then ravage her, every inch of her. Palm her sex until she quivers and moans, her whole body shaking.
No, my whole body is shaking. Right now, as I stare down at her. And she’s stopped skating, looking up at me, head cocked knowingly. “Getting a good look?” she calls up.
Her voice is dimmed, but audible. “We’re closing, twinkle toes,” I call back. “Better get packed up.”
“Fine by me,” she says. “I’m tired of being ogled anyway.”
“Sure you are,” I tease. “I think we both know you like an audience.”
“Yeah right,” she snaps, back-skating as she scoops up her slalom cones. “Keep wishing, frogman.”
We’re both smiling, enjoying the banter. It’s like there are grooves in our interactions now. It’s so easy, and comfortable—yet exciting—to slip into them. It’s unlike anything I’ve experienced with a woman before.
Which is why Noah loved her. I have to keep reminding myself of that. Even if it’s getting harder and harder.
Hannah leaves, and I close up, doing my customary circuit of the building. The new air conditioning unit, courtesy of Coach’s friend, is humming along nicely. Once the check is done, I make my way toward my car.
But Hannah’s pink eyesore is still sitting in the lot. I hear tsk-tsk, the sound of skates on concrete. I walk around her car, and watch in awe as she pirouettes and tiptoes and heel-balances and flies around the cones. Her ponytail has come loose, but she’s absorbed, letting her gorgeous hair cascade wildly. She looks beautiful. Completely, undeniably beautiful.
“You’ve been at it all day,” I mutter, when she comes to a stop.
“Yes,” she agrees, returning to her starting position, “I have. So what?”
“So … hell. Are you trying to learn a new trick or something?”
She idly weaves between the cones as she adjusts her ponytail. It’s so damn womanly, the way she casually scoops up her hair, ties it, straightens down her outfit. “No,” she says. “I know all the freestyle slalom tricks. I’m just trying to get better.”
“But you’re good,” I mutter. “You’re great.”
“Yeah,” she says. “But I’m not perfect.”
“Is anybody?”
She smiles for a second, then wipes it away with a grimace, not deigning to reply. She’s trying to stay mad, and it’s so cute that for a second all I want to do is envelop her in my arms. “Anyway, why are you trying to pretend you don’t know what perseverance is, Luke? I’m pretty sure you’re a SEAL.”
“I was,” I say. “Now I’m just an Average Joe who runs a roller rink.”
She skates over to me, stopping just short with a little hop. Her breasts jiggle slightly, pert. I can’t stop myself from looking. She sees, and smirks. She knows how much power she has over me. “I don’t think you could ever be an Average Joe,” she says. “I think once you’re a SEAL, you’re always a SEAL. I think if somebody ran into this parking lot right now and tried to knock me off my skates, you’d pick them apart in two seconds flat.”
I laugh darkly. “I thought you said nobody could knock you off your skates?”
She giggles. “I said try.”
I don’t think. I step forward and grab her by the shoulders and tug her right up against me, feeling the glow of her body, her breasts flattening, her lips parting on instinct. We kiss long and hard, both of us moaning with the pent-up pressure, both of us hungry. No, starving.
But then she shoves me, skating away coolly. “No, Luke,” she whispers, her lips red, her tanned skin flushed. “I don’t want to be—I’m not saying you used me last time, obviously. It was consensual as heck, and I loved every second of it. But you can’t just pick me up and put me down anytime you want.”
“Let me take you out, then,” I say.
My manhood is pulsing. My heartbeat is a series of drum beats. All my excuses and inner roadblocks, dammit, they’re still real. But looking at Hannah, they’re difficult to remember. Even if I know that later they’ll return full force, barreling into me, crushing me under their weight.
“In Lorham,” I add, knowing she’s not going to want anybody to see. That pisses me off because, even if this is disrespectful to Noah, I’ve never been the kind to sneak around. Except when I need to, for work. “I heard they’ve got a decent Mexican place there.”
She glares playfully. “Oh, I get it. Just because I’m half-Mexican, I must love the food, right?” She giggles, letting fly a musical exclamation in Spanish. “Do you want to know what I just said, frogman? I called you the biggest jerk who’s ever lived.”
“For your information,” I growl, grabbing her again, “you told me liked Mexican food.”
“What?” She sinks into the embrace, kissing me naturally. Then she leans back in my arms, head tilted. “When?”
“When you were a kid,” I say quietly. “When we were both kids. Remember the day we had that street party, and everyone was barbequing, and Mom made some damn fine burgers and Teresa made enchiladas and nachos? You told me nachos were your favorite. Has that changed?”
She’s looking at me closely. Her eyes water slightly. “I can’t believe you remember that,” she mutters. “Well, yeah. I still love nachos.”
“That was the day you and Noah and Mom had that competition,” I almost say. “That was the day he got down on one knee as a joke, and asked you to marry him, and you were so happy you cried and dropped your nachos and said yes, and even when everyone said you were too young, you didn’t care. You tied a blade of grass around your finger and said you were Noah’s wife.”
I keep it to myself. Because I don’t think either of us could handle that.
“But don’t think just because I’ve agreed to go on a date with you I’m forgetting how much of a jerk you were, kay?” she says.
“Alright,” I growl. “But don’t expect me to grovel and beg for your forgiveness, either. Because that’s not who I am. And it never will be.”
She bites her lip, like she can’t decide to be excited to angry. In the end, she settles for resting her head on my chest again. We stay like that for a long time, neither of us talking.
Chapter Twelve
Hannah
So maybe another woman would hold more of a grudge against Luke. Maybe I should, like,
snub him for another week. But it’s so difficult when just looking at him makes me smile, when bantering with him feels like home. I tried to warn myself away again and again this past week. I failed, okay? I failed hard.
Mom is doing better lately, especially since her last run of chemo ended and she’s had a chance to just sort of be. Weirdly, I think being diagnosed with cancer has made her live in the moment more, throw herself more fiercely into her painting, laugh harder. She’s an inspiration and, even on the bad days, she has a smile on her face.
Tonight, when I come downstairs dressed for the date—jeans, a nice top, some glittery heels, casual and yet fun enough that we could go dancing if we felt like it—Mom and Alejandra are giggling like crazy in the living room. I walk in, sitting next to Mom, who for some reason is in the middle of a Sean Connery impression. She wheels on me, her face bright. Her bandana has come loose, showing some of her stubble-covered scalp, but she doesn’t notice and, anyway, she looks beautiful when she smiles like that.
“Isn’t he, little monkey? Isn’t Sean Connery a hunk?” This, of course, delivered in the impression.
“Well, he’s about seventy, right? So probably not for me.”
“Ah, no seas tonta, changuito. He’s mouthwatering.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not being silly, vieja.” In Spanish, I say, “Maybe he’s good for over-the-hill women like you two sad old crones, but me? I need some young meat.”
Mom laughs in outraged delight, and then throws herself at me as Alejandra clicks her needles together like an audience member at a Roman gladiator fight, eager for blood. I leap up, hands raised. “Mom. You’ll ruin my hair.”
I realize as soon as I say it that I’ve made a mistake. Of course they’re going to be super-curious about why I care about my hair so much tonight. Mom, casually adjusting her bandana, narrows her eyes at me. I swear to God, she’s like a fricking interrogator, the way she’s looking at me. “So who is this man, huh, that my daughter is getting herself all dolled up for?”
“Dolled up?” I cry. “I didn’t realize we were in the fifties, Mother.”
“You look nice, dear,” Alejandra says. “I like how you have only chosen one to display. That’s a good decision.”
Groaning, yet curious, I say, “One what?”
She gestures at my ever-so-slightly low-cut top with her knitting needle. “You’ve got a nice bit of cleavage there, dearie, but you’re not showing too much. And your legs are all snug in those jeans. Tits or legs. You’ve got to pick one.”
“Oh, Jesus,” I mutter. “I’m sorry I asked.”
“I do hope we’ll get to meet this mystery man,” Mom declares. “You have a sneaky look in your eyes.”
“Maybe,” I mutter.
But I hope not.
I’m pretty sure Luke is going to park down the street and text me when he’s ready for me to come out. I mean, we haven’t actually arranged to do that, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. My belly drops as I realize my mistake. Maybe he doesn’t see things the same as me. Maybe he thinks it’s entirely appropriate to walk up to the door, like it won’t cause World War Three, like our families aren’t Romeo-and-Juliet levels of messed up.
I take out my phone, about to text him to let him know the deal, when the doorbell rings. Mom’s face lights up. She leaps to her feet. Her painting supplies, balanced on the cushions, go flying. A streak of pink paint splatters the coffee table, so it’s lucky it’s covered in paint-stained newspapers. Alejandra leans forward eagerly.
I dread every second of it.
“I’ll get it,” I yell, running for the door.
“Not so fast, young lady,” Mom thrills. “Let mamacita get a look at this date of yours first.”
I run to the door, hoping it’s the mailman, which would make no sense at seven o’clock in the evening … a courier, then, or a neighbor, or anybody, fricking anybody apart from Luke Nelson. But it’s Luke, standing there with his hands behind his back, like the soldier he is. He smiles when he sees me, and then nods politely to Mom. I was right to dress conservatively. He’s just wearing a smart shirt and jeans and boots, rugged and handsome.
“Miss Ortiz,” he says politely.
“Uh, hola, Luke,” she mutters. “I’m sorry. This is just a surprise. Are you the date? Hannah’s date?”
“Mom,” I hiss, sounding and feeling about thirteen.
“I hope so,” Luke says easily. “I know that there’s some stuff between our families, Miss Ortiz, some history, but … well, I asked Hannah if she’d let me take her out tonight, and she said yes. It only seemed proper to walk up here and introduce myself.”
Mom just about closes her mouth. She turns to me, turns to Luke, turns back again. It’s like she expects him to just disappear in a puff of smoke, restoring balance to the universe. In Spanish, she says, “Is this a joke, little monkey? The big brother? Noah broke your heart.”
“Mom.” I’m basically yelling now. “It’s rude to talk in Spanish when he can’t understand what we’re saying.”
Major points for hypocrisy there, Hannah. I’m also talking in Spanish.
“Oh, what are we to do with this silly girl?” Mom cries, striding over to me. “Have you forgotten about the sleepless nights? Have you forgotten how you cried? You filled the bathtub with your tears, little monkey. What that boy did to you—how he hurt you—you haven’t even told me the full story, nobody knows … and yet now you let his brother take you out? Why? Why?”
“Miss Ortiz,” Luke says. He hasn’t stepped a foot in the house. His hands are at his sides now. He looks nervous, the first real nerves I’ve seen in him. He looks stranded. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry, really. But you’ve gotta know, we’re just going for dinner in Lorham. It’s not … a big deal.”
I wince, feeling just a tiny bit annoyed. Or maybe more than a tiny bit. Why does he keep doing that, devaluing what we have? Or am I the one overvaluing it, inflating things way beyond what they really are? He calls it a fun screw. I call it a life-changing experience. Maybe we’re both wrong. Maybe it’s somewhere in the middle.
Mom grabs my face in both her hands. “Little monkey, is this really what you want to do?”
“Yes,” I say, irritated. “I love you more than life itself, Mom, but I’m twenty five years old. I can decide who to date.”
She sighs, and then turns to Luke, finally switching to English. “Luke Nelson,” she says. “You treat this girl with respect, you hear? Or you’ll have me to answer to. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Luke says. “And, Miss Ortiz, I just wanted to say I’m very sorry about your medical concerns. It’s a hell of a thing, and if there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know.”
I can tell Mom kind of likes that, how polite he is, and that if it was anybody else she’d be inviting him in for a cup of tea. Instead, she nods her head slightly. Then she retreats into the living room.
After getting my bag, I walk with Luke out to his Chevy.
“Looks like we’re both going to be Wannabe Badasses tonight, eh, twinkle toes?”
He casually tickles my side as he opens the door for me. I slap his hand away, pouting at him, feeling beautiful reflected in the desire in his eyes. But, when he’s started the car and we’re pulling away from the Mini ’Burbs, I let out a sigh. “That was a really nice gesture, Luke,” I say. “But you didn’t have to do it. It’s lucky she reacted so calmly.”
“That was calm? I’d hate to see her angry.”
I giggle. “Yeah, I think you would.”
“Let’s forget about it,” he mutters. “This night’s about us. Not the past. The past can stay in Little Fall.”
“You think sixty miles is going to undo it?” I ask softly.
He puts his hand on the back of my neck, guiding the wheel with the other hand, the sun setting over the long tree-shrouded road. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. All I know is that no good can come of airing all that tonight, Hannah. Your family has
one view of Noah, and I’ve got another. I don’t think we’re ever gonna agree there.”
I swallow: anger, resentment. Because Luke doesn’t have all the facts. Nobody has all the facts. Laughing it away—because, despite everything, I don’t want to ruin the night—I say, “Jeez, our families really do hate each other, don’t they? Like, I get it, the breakup was bad. But talk about holding a grudge.”
Luke nods slowly, probably nervous this is going to veer into Noah territory again. “It’s strange,” he admits.
His jaws are tight. I can tell he feels trapped: just as trapped as I do. We’re the same, in that way, always under attack by things that happened years ago. “My old man’s the same. Of course, he’s grieving, but sometimes it’s like he dislikes your mother as much as he dislikes you.” He bites down. “I’m sorry, Hannah. I didn’t mean to say it so blunt like that.”
I slap his arm playfully. “Frogman, I know he hates me, don’t worry about it.”
“I do worry about it, though. But I worry more about him having that sour look on his face even when he talks about Teresa. I can’t see why he should have any problem with her. I don’t know if they’ve had some sort of disagreement while I’ve been away …”
I shake my head. “Not that I know of. Not that Mom’s mentioned. But Mom’s the same. I’ve seen her looking out the window at Russel a couple of times, when he’s been doing work on the house. Urgh, that man. What a pig. She actually said that, once.”
“Hmm,” Luke mutters. “I wonder. You don’t think …”
I pause, trying to read his expression. When the penny drops, I throw my hands up. “Ew. No way. They hate each other, Luke.”
“I know, I know,” he says, nodding. “Anyway, Dad told me he hasn’t been with a lady since Mom.”
“He told you that?”
“Not in so many words, but yes. There’s a lot you can say about Russel Nelson, but lying about a thing like that, no damn way.”