by Casey Winter
“Yeah, in the living room.”
“Rude girl,” Mom says sarcastically. “Not coming to say hello.”
“You know what Penny’s like,” I mutter. “She doesn’t mean anything by it.”
Mom waves a hand. “Of course I know that.”
Penny is a tad scatterbrained. She probably just forgot to come and say hello. When I’m with Penny, I’m always aware that a large portion of her mind is on imaginary worlds, trying to untangle some plot-related problem, brainstorming ideas. Sometimes, she’ll take out her phone and start manically texting. But she’s not texting. She’s typing into the memo note she keeps for writing ideas.
“Mom’s pouting,” I tell her when I return.
“Oh, heck,” she cries. “Silly me.”
Penny jumps up to go and say hello to Mom. From the kitchen, they both talk loudly, and when Penny asks if she can help, of course Mom says yes even if she said no to me and Alejandra. Mom has always had a soft spot for Penny, considering how she came to live with us, the horror she lived through.
“You’re thinking about him,” Alejandra says over the sound of the TV, turned down low. Some gameshow is playing. It’s not a question. She goes on, “And you are drinking that wine like it’s water. Slow down, changuito, before you drown.”
I place the wineglass down, realizing she’s right. “I’m thinking about the conversation I had with Cleo last night, actually,” I lie. Well, half-lie, since we really did have a conversation. But that wasn’t what I was thinking about. “She says she’s ready for me to return to the freestyle slalom circuit whenever. And she said there are a few brands interested in making some city-skating videos with me, if I don’t want to return to slalom.”
“What does that mean?” she asks.
“Like, going to different cities—London, Shanghai, wherever—and skating around the terrain in interesting ways. They’re always looking for more women.”
“Hmm,” she mutters, needles going click-click-click. “And is this what you want?”
“It’s my career,” I answer evasively.
“Skating is your passion. You will always skate,” she allows. “But is this particular thing what you want?”
“What are you getting at?” I mutter.
She places her knitting aside. Uh-oh, this must be serious, then. Alejandra Antonella Flores does not ignore her knitting lightly. “I think you were falling in love with that nice boy, that’s what I’m getting at,” she says matter-of-factly. “And I think there are some complicated things involved, sí, sí, but if you’re looking like this—like some lost little puppy—then maybe it’s not impossible.”
I’m not saying it’s easy, but I’m not saying it’s impossible.
“It’s funny,” I whisper. “He said that to me once, too.”
“Then he must be a very intelligent man,” she says, picking up her knitting again. “Because you know me, little monkey. I never speak just for the sake of it.”
“I know,” I say quietly. “But some things, well, they’re not impossible. Technically, physically, you can do them. But they’re just so difficult they might as well be impossible.”
“Do you really believe that?” she mutters.
Maybe it’s how openly she asks it, or the fact that she’s not pressuring me. She just genuinely wants to know, I sense. I tell her the truth, “No, I don’t think I do.”
She nods. “Good,” she says.
—
Later, once the dinner is over—it’s incredible, as usual—Mom mentions that she needs a few groceries, so I offer to take a walk down to Barry’s Park-N-Shop. Walking into town will give me a chance to clear my head and, anyway, I’ve had two glasses of wine so driving is a no-go. But I don’t feel drunk or even very tipsy as I leave the Mini ’Burbs and head toward Memorial Park. The fresh air wakes me up. It’s a cool day, much cooler than it was for Queenie’s barbeque. Maybe autumn is in the air. August is nearly over, after all.
When I get to the Park-N-Shop parking lot, I freeze. Right next to the entrance, underneath the neon sign—and with country music blasting so loudly I can hear it even from here—I see Luke’s black Chevy.
I just stare at it for way too long, like I’m rooted in place, mouth open dumbly. I even think about turning around and just getting the heck out of here. I could wait across the street for him to leave, and then go inside. That seems pathetic, though, running just because I’m nervous.
So I make my way across the lot toward the store.
As luck would have it—good or bad, I can’t tell—Luke walks out just as I reach the door. He looks at me like I might be a phantom of his imagination. Standing there with his checkered shirt and faded jeans clinging closely to his bulging body, stubble covering his strong jaw and his hair messy and starting to get some length to it, his green eyes bright and grim at the same time, his mouth looking unusual without his normal smirk or smile, he looks so handsome I could die.
I could literally die. Okay, maybe not literally, but the sentiment is the same.
I ended things. I did it for a reason.
“Luke, you’re looking well.”
He walks over to his Chevy, dropping his groceries on the hood. “You are, too,” he says stiffly. “Been skating a lot? We haven’t seen you at the rink.”
“Yeah, but in the street, mostly. Sometimes in town. I even went to the skate park a couple of times.”
His lips twitch. “I hope you wore protection.”
“Oh, what? So it’s Mr. and Mrs. Prepared now, is it?”
I can’t stop myself from bantering with him. It just feels too natural. Luke once said to me, “It’s like there are grooves, twinkle toes. Like tracks. And we keep falling into them. And once the momentum gets going, damn, it’s hard to stop. I don’t know if I ever want it to stop.”
I know the feeling.
“I bet you wowed everyone there,” he says a moment later.
“Not really,” I mutter. “I did go up and down some of the ramps, though.”
“This I’ve gotta see,” he laughs.
“Only if you do it, too.”
We’re like magnets, moving closer and closer together as if we have no say in it. But no, magnets push each other away, don’t they? Fricking hell, maybe that’s right, too. We end up stood very close. It’s hard to know how badly I want him until he’s right there. I almost reach up and touch his stubble, just to feel the familiar grazing on my palm.
“You try’na embarrass me, twinkle toes?” he says. “You know I’d fall on my ass.”
“I bet that wouldn’t stop you trying, though,” I sass.
“No,” he allows. “It wouldn’t.”
The pause is awkward and heavy. I guess it’s heavy with all the things we want to say, all the things we’re skirting around. I find myself going ultra-mundane. “So, get everything you needed?” I gesture at the grocery bag.
Dork, dork, dork.
That same smirk on his lips, he says, “Oh, yeah. I got a good length of rope. Some handcuffs. A ball-gag and a blindfold. See, I’m fixing to kidnap a certain lady and take her someplace faraway, someplace our problems can’t follow us.”
He moves even closer. His chest is pressed against me now, his rock-hard, pounding chest. “I didn’t know Barry’s Park-N-Shop sold such a variety of goods,” I mutter, mouth dry, hardly even hearing my own words.
“Oh, they do,” he whispers, leaning down. “Barry’s one hell of a resourceful bastard.”
“Luke—”
“Yeah?” he growls, inches from me now, so close I can feel his breath on my face. “Tell me to stop, Hannah. Lie to me and tell me you don’t want me to kiss you.”
I’m not sure who kisses who first.
Tasting him, I grab his shirt lapel and drag him deeper into it. He groans gruffly, shoving me up against the car. I love it, the passion that whisks us both up. I drag my fingernails through his hair, down his neck, gripping onto his muscled back. His hands find my hips, pulling me clo
ser, as if our clothes are putting too much space between us.
“L-Luke,” I whimper, finally pushing him away. The only thing that saves me is we’re in public. “People can see us.”
I can tell how much effort it takes him to step back, his whole body looking like it could spontaneously combust any second. “Then let’s go somewhere they can’t see us,” he whispers.
“But … we spoke about this.”
“I don’t give a damn,” he says quietly, voice heavy with emotion. “Because I don’t think either of us was happy with how that conversation went.”
“Who said this is about being happy?” I snap, turning away slightly.
He leans against his hood, watching me like he’s sad but doesn’t know how to express it. I don’t think he’s made for big emotional displays. But the look in his eyes, it’s bad, maybe devastated.
“I mean, it is about being happy,” I go on. “But for Mom. And she’s doing so fricking well right now.”
“I’m glad,” Luke says. “Really.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“I’d like to have a chance to talk to her, to let her know how much you mean to me.”
I giggle, because, if I don’t, I might end up crying. The image is just so sweet: Luke earnestly sitting down with Mom, both of them laughing together, Luke giving her a hug and leaving our house with all this silliness left behind us. “But it’s not about me,” he says, reading me. “It’s about my old man. It’s about his delusional goddamn mind.”
“Have you spoken to him about it?” I ask, turning back to him again because looking over my shoulder feels ridiculous.
“I haven’t seen him since that night,” he says. “To be honest, I have no interest in seeing him. I’ve spoken to Coach, though, and he explained how it all went down, in detail. Teresa wasn’t to blame, Hannah. Not even close. Mom wouldn’t even have been able to see those high-beams in the fog. He’s just … he’s just looking for somebody to blame. But it’s not fair.”
“He’s still your dad, Luke,” I whisper. “I don’t want you to fall out with him over me. Or Mom.”
“That’s my decision,” Luke says flatly.
When somebody walks into Barry’s store, Luke and I drift over to the side without discussing it, near the alleyway that leads out back. I lean against the wall, hugging my arms around myself. Luke puts his hands in his pockets, watching me.
“Is that some sort of petty revenge, then?” I say, nodding at the stubble.
He strokes it, grinning. “Has it worked?”
“Sort of,” I say. “But mostly I’m just fantasizing about how it feels when we kiss.”
So we kiss again, sudden and raw, our pleasure exploding like a megaton bomb each time our bodies touch. We’re not in control, not when we kiss, not when we’re in physical contact. Desire utterly takes us over. I’ve never, ever, been like this with anybody else. This isn’t like, Oh, I’d like to kiss him. No, this is … If I don’t kiss him, I’ll die. And even if I know that’s OTT and melodramatic, it doesn’t stop me feeling that way.
“I’ve been talking with my manager,” I say breathily, breaking it off. “Cleo. There are a lot of good opportunities for me on the circuit. And other ones, too. Sponsorships and video shoots and things like that.”
“You’d be amazing at that,” Luke says levelly. “But what sort of video shoots?”
I roll my eyes playfully. Hot-and-cold, that’s us, burning one second and freezing the next. “How do you know I’d be amazing if you don’t even know what they are, huh?”
“Because you’re Hannah Coleman-Ortiz, twinkle toes, that’s how.”
I tell him a little about the possible projects, but, even as I explain them—opportunities that should excite me—I feel underwhelmed. It’s not because of Luke. Or, at least, not totally because of him. I was beginning to get bored of the nomad lifestyle long before Luke Nelson came along. I hate to stand alone, that’s the truth, and as a wanderer that’s always my destiny.
“But the thing is, I could still make videos every now and then and put them online. I could even pursue art a little more. After I find a job, obviously.”
“It sounds like you have a plan,” Luke mutters. “But I’m still not clear if you’re leaving Little Fall or not.”
“Neither am I,” I admit. “What about you, frogman? What about Sun-Disk?”
“I’m not leaving until I figure out who’s been messing with the rink,” he growls. “Until I get some evidence on Jock, I should say. He’s quietened down since the arson attempt, but I’m not stupid enough to think he’s done forever.”
“Okay—but after that?”
“You’ve told me you’re getting tired of being a wanderer, going from place to place, never really existing in one. Like a shadow, just passing through.”
My hand is on his chest. How did that happen? But I don’t care. I hold on tighter. “Not as poetically as that,” I laugh. “But, yeah, it’s true.”
“I think I am, too,” he says, reaching up and laying his hand over mine. It feels significant. “I’ve done a lot of good with Sun-Disk Security. But, sometimes, a man gets tired of violence. I could see myself staying here.” There’s a croak in his voice. “Finding a girl, starting a family, maybe.”
I blink, eyes stinging with tears. “You better start looking, then,” I tease, but my voice is choked, too.
“Hannah,” he murmurs, kissing my forehead, and then my cheek, moving down to lips. “You know I’ve already found one, dammit. I said I didn’t want labels, but I want you, Hannah. I want you for real. No more sneaking around. No more living in the past. Just us.”
“I want that, too,” I sob, the tears attacking me.
I feel theatric in the extreme, but Luke just kisses them away. Then he pulls me close to him and lets me cry myself out. All the pressure that’s been building since we last saw each other explodes. I sink deeper into him.
Maybe this could work. Maybe there is a way.
“For Christ’s sake,” a deep voice grumbles from behind us. “Can’t even come to the goddamn store without seein’ you spit all over Noah’s memory, eh? Is that about the size of it?”
We both turn to find Russel standing there. His eyes are red and watery. He has one fist clenched. “Don’t you have any shame?” he spits. It sounds like he’s about to cry. “Well, don’t you?”
I move away, disgusted.
“Hannah, wait—”
“No,” I yell. “Don’t follow me, Luke. I mean it. Please.”
I sprint across the parking lot and then pace town Main Street toward Memorial Park, breath loud in my ears.
I don’t look back.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Luke
“You’re never gonna talk like that to Hannah again,” I growl, stepping forward.
My old man gawps at me. He’s never looked fiercer, aggressive and boisterous and scarred. But I’m not a little kid anymore, and I’m not afraid of him. I don’t hate him, but the anger I feel for him now is volcanic.
“Did you hear me?” I bark, walking right up to him. “Never. Again. She doesn’t deserve that. Have you forgotten who you are, old man? You’re a goddamn soldier. You treat civilians with respect. You don’t bully women. You don’t throw blame around where it doesn’t belong. Are you hearing me, old man?”
“Back up, Luke,” Dad whispers, voice shaking. “Back up right now.”
“Never again, Dad,” I snarl, hating that it’s come to this. “She doesn’t—”
“Deserve it. I know. I heard you the first time.” He wheels away, pacing over to his car. I follow him, slamming the car door shut when he goes to open it. “Luke. I told you to back off.”
“I mean it,” I tell him. “You’re not gonna talk like that to Hannah and Teresa again. I need to hear you say it.”
“Or what?” he grumbles, stepping back. “You gonna piece your own father up?”
“No,” I mutter, stunned. “Of course not.”
<
br /> “Then what exactly have you got to threaten me with?”
“I’m not trying to threaten you,” I roar. “I’m just telling you how it is. I’ve spoken with Coach. He told me the same thing he told you: Teresa isn’t to blame.”
“What about Noah?” he barks. “Have you forgotten about your brother? What about his memory?”
“Noah’s gone. It’s a damn shame and I miss him, Dad, I truly do miss him. But sometimes, people have to choose their own paths. And I’m choosing Hannah.”
“So, it’s serious, is it?”
“What is this?” I snap. “Therapy?”
“Answer the question, son,” Dad growls.
“If serious means I can’t stop thinking about her. If serious means she takes all the goddamn … all the pain inside of me and makes it manageable. If serious means I want to be with her, to see where our lives go, then, yeah, it’s serious.”
“What a mess,” Dad sighs.
His face crumples. He paws at his cheeks. He starts to tremble and I wonder what the hell is wrong with him.
And then, unbelievably, he begins to cry. But not just cry. He sobs violently, crumpling against the car as though he’s made of paper, sliding down the door and then just sitting on the concrete.
He buries his head in his hands, clutching his face.
I just watch for a long time, no idea what to do. It’s a strange thing, seeing my own father cry like this. I’ve seen him teary-eyed, maybe even sobbing once or twice. But this is different. It’s like something has broken inside of him.
“Dad,” I whisper, stepping forward. “Jesus Christ, Dad, what is it?”
“You love her,” he says from inside his hands. He’s ashamed. I know because I would be, too. “That look, Luke … I had it when I met your mother …”
I feel at a loss, so I sit on the concrete next to him and put my hand on his shoulder. “Mom was an amazing woman,” I mutter, guessing this is about her. Seeing how I feel about Hannah, maybe it’s reminded him of his early days with Mom. It’s brought a bunch of buried stuff to the surface. “You had an incredible marriage, Dad, one anybody would be proud off.”