by Ginger Scott
I pulled the collection of pictures down from beside my bed on the off chance that Eleanor might come up here again. I’m thankful for my past self now that she’s scooting her way to the far corner of my bed and laying on her side while her hand calls me to join her.
There is nothing relaxed about me. My muscles are all flexed and guarded, probably protecting the massive hard-on aching to break through the zipper of my jeans. Boxers are useless in situations like this, and I feel as though Eleanor is staring right at it. I push my hands into my pockets to adjust myself a little as I walk toward her, a vain attempt to hide what she does to me. I’m sure she noticed last night too. It’s impossible to feel her lips with my own without biological chemistry taking over most of my reasoning skills and leaving me with an uncomfortable erection.
I sit at first, looking down where she lies. She’s wearing her hair around her shoulders today. It’s pretty any way she wears it, but I like seeing the various shades of gold when it’s splayed out around her face like this. Her long-sleeved shirt has a daisy embroidered on the front and the word HAPPY stitched above it. It feels like a label for our moment. It’s definitely an accurate assessment of me right now.
“Hi,” she says, voice raspy and quiet. Seductive.
I suck in my lip and look toward my door, so quiet on the other side.
“Hi,” I repeat, bringing my eyes back to her.
She giggles at my awkwardness. I can’t tell her how very little experience I have with anything like this. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do in these situations, but I know that sitting here literally twiddling my thumbs is a pretty lame move. I decide to take her hand in mine, and busy myself playing with her fingers, drawing invisible lines up and down the sides.
“I have to tell you something,” she says. Her words still me for a second and the heart thunder takes a harsh pause in my chest.
“Okay,” I say, flitting my eyes to hers then back to her hand. I continue running my thumbs along her fingers, tracing her knuckles and the few lines that have formed on her young skin. So much life left.
“I got my acceptance for college in the mail.”
My heart kick starts again and I laugh out a truly nerdy smile.
“Oh, thank God. I thought—”
“You thought I was going to say I shouldn’t have kissed you last night? All night? And again this morning, and about five minutes from now?”
I meet her amused eyes and shrug.
“Something like that.”
She shakes her head and threads our fingers together, removing my distraction and taking charge.
“I applied for Woodsman-Still University in Texas. They have a really good cheer program, and I like their sports med school.” Her eyes light up when she talks about it, and I can’t help but be infected by her joy.
“Cheer, huh? So does this mean—”
“That I’m going to rip my spot back from that bitch’s hands? Yeah, it does.”
I cackle at her ballsy response and she pulls my hand toward her. I give in and nestle up next to her so we face one another. The view from this vantage is spectacular, and the way the sun spills into my room hits the flyaway hairs around her face, making her look like an angel.
“That was mean. She’s not a bitch. She’s just a sophomore and it’s not her time. It’s my time, and I really want this. No matter what,” she says.
No matter what.
Texas.
That’s why the heaviness took over her eyes.
“I’m probably going to Tech, downtown,” I say.
She nods.
“I figured.”
I move my finger to the tip of her nose, along the bridge, tracing around her perfectly arched brow and down the side of her face, turning my hand so the backs of my knuckles graze along her cheek. She closes her eyes and leans into my touch, and no matter how finite her truth might be, I refuse to be sad about it.
“Texas isn’t that far,” I say.
She laughs softly.
“It’s pretty far,” she says.
I look up as I pretend to calculate a fact I already know, yet one more random set of data stored in my strange mind.
“Okay, so one thousand, one hundred sixty miles, give or take,” I say, meeting her eyes again.
“Give or take,” she laughs out.
“Depends on what part of Austin you’re in.”
She holds my stare, her eyes darting from one to the other while her smile hovers on breaking wide.
“Kidding,” I say, but I shake my head no, because I’m really not. She rolls so she’s laying on top of me, her palms on my chest, her chin at her thumbs as she pats her hands against me with her frustration.
“I don’t get you. You’re a mystery!” Her eyes widen in playful exasperation, then she tucks her chin, kissing my chest in the very center.
Her hair cuts off my view of her eyes like sets of curtains, so I reach forward and scoop both sides with my thumbs, moving her locks back to their temporary home behind her ears. She leans into my right hand again as I do, and my thumb traces the space from the corner of her eye down to the corner of her mouth.
“You really watched me come home from dates?”
I squeeze my eyes shut tight. I can’t believe she’s bringing this up again, and now, while we’re here, lying in my bed together with nobody around. I open one eye and nod just enough to admit my guilt.
“And those guys were all bad choices?” she asks with an arched brow.
I nod slowly, sucking my lips in a hard, straight, confident line.
“And how, mathematical genius, do you know that?” She rests her head on her hands again, eyelashes batting in wait for my answer. I better make this good.
“It wasn’t math,” I say in a low voice.
“No?” she questions.
“Uh uh,” I say, shaking my head again. She reaches up and touches my nose, tapping it a few times in a way that puts me completely under her spell. I bite at it teasingly and she recoils, tucking her hand back under her chin.
“They didn’t see you. Not really,” I say.
Her skeptical expression dims with her intense glare.
“And you do?” This question is the easiest one from her I’ve ever had to answer.
“Oh, I see you. I have always seen you, Eleanor. Always. More than anyone ever has.”
I feel her chest quake against mine, cracked open by my simple honesty. Her eyes close and open a few times, almost as if they’re heavy with sleep, but I know that’s not it. I think maybe this is what happens when someone truly sees you for who you are. This is how it feels, both ways. It feels heavy and explosive all at once.
Pushing forward against me, she moves until her mouth is lined up with mine and dusts a feather light kiss against me as I move my hands to gently hold her face again.
“Well, okay then. If you say so,” she says, eyes falling shut as her forehead meets mine. I keep mine wide open so I don’t miss the minute hers do again. I don’t want to miss a single flash of golden-green, a single flit of honeysuckle lashes, a single blush or curve of her smile.
“We can meet in the middle,” she hums. “Wherever that is.”
Arkansas.
Eighteen
Either Jake is getting smarter, or I am a remarkable tutor. I know what my grandpa would say, but I have to give Jake some credit for doing the work. He’s managed to pull himself up from a sometimes F to a comfortable C in geometry. I am so proud of him I can’t help but brag while we’re working in the garage, and mostly because Gramps will overhear and have to give my friend some well-earned props.
What I don’t expect is the invite to some impromptu poker later that night. I guess Gary and his wife are moving to Florida. My mom will be so upset to see Gary go. Even though it’s not a Thursday, the gang is getting together for one more night. There’re six guys coming altogether; with Gramps that makes seven.
Gary refuses to play anything greater than a five-hand table, so my gra
ndpa needs three or four more players. I decide to let Jake feel special when my grandpa asks, instead of warning him he’s been branded fresh meat by most of the guys.
He could not look more the part.
“Are you seriously wearing a green tinted visor?” I flick the underside of Jake’s stupid hat while grandpa belly laughs.
Jake straightens it and scowls at our attacks.
“This hat is legit. I saw that Phil guy wear it on ESPN,” Jake defends.
My grandpa rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair, cupping his mouth to pretend he’s speaking only to me, though the real intent is for Jake. “Phil Hellmuth probably makes a buck off every sucker who buys one of those.”
The garage booms with cigar-fueled laughter. My mom has buried herself inside with movies for the night. Her room is the farthest one from the garage, so I hope between her binge of period dramas and the house’s insulation, she’s able to spare herself any hint of this scenario.
“All right boys, I came ready to play. And if it’s all right, I brought one more?” My heart leaps hearing Eleanor’s voice, but I take a quick step back when her sister stands over her shoulder. Our eyes meet for a moment and we give each other a nod. I credit Morgan for coming around and giving her sister the boost she probably needs to truly fight for her spot on the squad.
“You got cash, honey?” Gary speaks out of one side of his mouth, his cigar precariously hanging from the other.
“I mean, I’ll have yours in a minute, so does it really matter?”
The room explodes in Oooohs at Morgan’s burn. She wears the smug smile with pride after that, and I think Gary might have a rough night with this one. I get a good sense that she can walk the talk.
We divide up, Eleanor and I at a table with my grandpa and his friends Rufus and Clark. I think Grandpa wants it to be a little easy on Eleanor for her first go at the game, and Rufus and Clark aren’t very big risk takers. I also think my grandpa wants to watch the showdown at the other table as Dale throws a tantrum every other hand and Morgan silently pushes them all to the brink of bankruptcy.
The play goes on for an hour without much action at our table, which is fine by me because I’m much more interested in the way Eleanor’s ankle is hooked around mine between our chairs. A few people in the neighborhood walk by, all of them shouting hellos and lingering at the end of our driveway to see what fun they’re missing. Some of them stop to warm themselves at the fire pit grandpa wheeled out from the shed while the rest of us cluster around the portable heater filling the garage with the acrid scent of propane. My grandpa had me help him set up the living room TV out there so we can all watch the Blackhawks game while we play. They might all be enemies at the tables, but they are united when it comes to the Chicago ice.
“They have hockey down there in Boca Raton?” Grandpa teases Gary.
“If you can call it that. You know what they do have, though? Bikinis!” Gary tips his head up from his cards and puffs out cigar smoke as he laughs.
My mom is right to avoid this place at all costs.
“What’s going on in here?” There’s a small break in the action in both the room and on the television that lets Mrs. Trombley’s voice cut through. She’s clinging to her husband’s arm as if they encountered aliens and they aren’t sure whether or not they’re hostile.
“Mom,” Eleanor says, getting up from her seat a second before Morgan does.
“We thought maybe . . . it’s a good night to get out.” She looks up toward her husband, his face tired but more alive than the last time I saw it.
“Yes, I mean, Morgan said she was coming over to the neighbors’, and I know we don’t talk much, but . . .” Mr. Trombley keeps looking to his wife for help, but she only grows more tense at his side.
Lucky for them both, Hank Wydner is in this garage, and he can set anyone at ease.
“Come on in. We were just getting ready to watch young Jacob here pull off a move I like to call Losing His Shirt.”
“I mean, come on!” Jake says on cue, tossing his cards to the center of the table.
Grandpa threw my friend under the bus for a laugh, and it earns one. I get up and pull out more chairs from the far corner of the garage. I don’t think we’ve had this many people in here since my mom tried her hand at being a scout mom. Turns out neither she nor I were made for knots, fires, and general roughing it. If I ever actually get to camp with Eleanor, I hope she knows what she’s doing.
Eleanor’s parents sit over our shoulders so they watch us play but also take in the game. It seems that hockey catches her father’s eyes first.
“Did you see that boarding call against the Sharks last week?” Eleanor’s dad could not have uttered a more welcome sentence. Within minutes, cards are abandoned and tables rearranged for better viewing of the third period against Detroit.
Morgan, Eleanor, and I slip toward the back of the garage, watching a mix of generations all come together over something meaningless in the grand scheme of things, especially amid all that’s happening to the Trombleys right now.
“Gemma’s on her way,” Eleanor says at my side. “I’m going to wait by the curb.”
“Want me to come wait with you?” I ask.
She leans forward, noting her sister watching over both of us while trying to pretend she isn’t.
“No. You stay. I’ll be right back,” she says, rocking back on her feet. She kisses my shoulder and heads down the driveway, her body bundled in her oversized yellow sweatshirt and a pair of my sweatpants. There’s something unbearably perfect about seeing her in something so casual of mine.
I tuck my hands under my arms, partly to stave off the cold, but mostly because this is the first time I’ve been left alone with Morgan since I boldly told her all the things she was doing wrong.
“This is nice,” she says, leaning in so she doesn’t have to talk very loud.
I glance at her and nod.
“Yeah, it is. My grandpa really knows how to throw a good party.” We both laugh, but there’s a lot of truth in my joke.
“I wanted to thank you. For the other day,” she says.
“Of course,” I say, giving her another tight smile.
She doesn’t let me brush off her gratitude so easily, though, and reaches for my arm. My eyes jet to her hand on my forearm and I relax the hold I have on myself.
“Seriously, Jonah.” I’m a little shocked to hear her use my actual name rather than an insult. I relax my arms completely and turn to square myself with her because I know what she’s trying to say right now isn’t easy.
“I know. But I also meant it when I said of course. I’ve grown up watching all of you grow up,” I say, glancing to the end of the driveway and not just to the Trombley home, but to the blonde gift standing on the sidewalk and waving at me. I hold up an open palm and Morgan does the same.
“Don’t you dare break her, Jonah. I couldn’t take losing her too.”
I can’t bring myself to look her in the eyes after those words, but I take them to heart. I know it wasn’t a warning. It was a plea. It was the God’s honest truth.
“I wouldn’t dare,” I utter.
The garage erupts with cheers, bringing our attention back to the warmth inside and a very rowdy group of Blackhawks fans.
“I think my dad likes your grandpa,” she says, noting the high fives they exchange after a short-handed goal against the power play.
“Everybody likes my grandpa. Careful, he’s single. He has no compunction about age discrepancies,” I say, only partially kidding.
We step in closer to the heater and warm our hands while the remaining minutes of the period tick down, and for this little moment here in my garage, everything feels normal. It’s almost like a window into lost time. These are things we could have done long ago. Rather than hiding in my own world, I could have invited the Trombleys over for spaghetti nights when my dad was alive, or to shoot off the illegal fireworks he drove down to Indiana to get. For a man I considered so pr
eoccupied with work and numbers, he still managed to mark my life with special memories.
“Hey, Morgan?”
We both turn at the sound of Eleanor’s voice. Our faces are all smiles, still caught up in the glee and joy happening inside the garage. It takes a minute to catch up to the serious expressions standing just outside. Eleanor looks uncertain, maybe even rattled. I feel as though I recognize the woman who is standing next to her, but the two men waiting back a few feet aren’t familiar at all.
“She’s from National Network News. They, uh, they want to do a special, on us and Addy. Maybe something she’ll see, if she’s . . . out . . . there.” Reality hits Eleanor all at once, drowning her in its molasses-like thickness, choking off every other sensation so all she feels is the urgency and unrest that comes along with the role of being a girl with a missing family member.
A news story for the national stage.
“Oh, uh.” Morgan freezes in place, her eyelids twitching while her mind switches gears. “Can we go somewhere more quiet to talk about this? I— Let me grab my parents. Really, this is up to them.”
“Of course,” the woman says.
Suddenly, my use of those very same words feels shallow.
I wait with Eleanor while her sister weaves through the revelry to her parents, yanking them from their brief vacation from grief. Both of their heads jerk in our direction, not to us, but to the opportunity for one more message of hope behind us. It’s a ratings grab, masked as public service, but even still, how could they say no?
Eleanor’s fingers brush against mine in the quiet space between our bodies, finger looping through finger until we’re fully clasping hands. Her sister and parents are already headed our way, an end to a near perfect evening counting down in five, four, three . . .
“Do you want me to come with you?” I ask.
I know she doesn’t. She shakes her head and whispers, “Thanks” anyhow.
I squeeze her fingers between mine before she strips them away, like grains of sand falling through the gaps. I clasp my hands behind my neck and pivot as the Trombleys guide yet one more camera crew toward their home.