As if on cue, the echo of the high school crowd cheering breaks into our space and pulls Eleanor’s attention in their direction. Her hands drop to her sides, fingers unfurling until they hang limp. I feel utterly helpless in comforting her and my chest squeezes because of it.
“Do you think we won?” Her question comes out with a sad, breathy laugh.
“Nah,” I respond. “We are probably cheering because the bloodbath is over.”
She laughs a little harder at my sarcastic response. Clueless to what I’m doing, I clap like she was a minute ago. She spins slowly, eyes drawn in with that expression that says “What the f are you doing, Jonah?” But she’s not frowning, and that’s all I need to keep going.
“We tried really hard—”
I clap and bend my knees.
“We lost the game—”
I do the same movement, and the ridiculousness of it makes her lips puff out an uncontrollable “Ha!”
“Badger Pride is not enough! It turns out, we aren’t very good . . .”
I’m fully committed to this now, and I attempt some sort of jump to match hers, which she reacts to by placing both palms on her own cheeks as she mouths, Oh, my God.
“But that’s okay because people will still pay ten bucks every week to watch us be decent, okay, maybe kinda bad . . .”
I’m caught up in my own search for snarky rhymes when Eleanor jumps forward and stomps her feet right in front of mine. I freeze mid-clap as she takes over.
“And we’ll still talk about going pro one day, even though we’ve won four games—ever.” She nods to me as if I should know the next verse. I shake my head and offer another clap and jump that makes her smile grow.
“But maybe come back next month and watch our basketball team. They are better. A little,” I ramble out. Eleanor nods with wide eyes and a grin, mouthing, Yes!
Without warning, her hands reach for mine, placing them on her hips. For some reason, the first thing I notice is the feel of the denim belt loops on her jeans. I’m sure my mouth is open wide like a fool, but Eleanor snaps me to attention by leaning in and whisper-shouting, “Ready?”
“No.” I chuckle.
“We’ve got this,” she says, nodding at me until I nod back. It’s a big fat lie because I don’t even know what I’m nodding about.
Her knees unlock, and I bend mine in sync as she counts backward from “Three, two . . . one!”
With some strange innate instinct, my hands grip tight at her sides as she pushes up from the ground and I lift her up to the sky. Her knees move to my shoulders and I lock my arms around her legs as her entire weight is braced on my not very macho frame.
I glance up, praying to myself not to drop her, and the bottom of her zip-up hoodie tickles my nose and chin. It’s difficult to see from my vantage point, plus I’m virtually having a heart attack while standing here, but I’m pretty sure her arms are V-shaped above her head like a superhero ready to jet off into the sky. Her hair tie falls loose as her chin drops to her chest and it lands in the tight space between her body and mine as we make eye contact and she signals with a short nod for me to let her down.
The feel of her body sliding down mine as my arms loosen just enough for her weight to return to earth sears through my chest, leaving a scar behind as I make mental notes of every single everything—the way her jacket lifts and shirt rolls up enough on her descent to reveal her belly, the exact route her hands take as they move from the sides of my neck to my shoulders as she braces herself, the curve of her back and the way my hands seem to know exactly where they fit.
But mostly, it’s this moment we’re in together, blue eyes to green, inches apart, a quiet that is achingly uncomfortable. It doesn’t last nearly as long as I want it to, and when she breaks free, cold air sweeps into the growing space between us much too fast. My hands find their way back into my pockets and hers ball at her sides before slowly banging against her hips with what I hope isn’t regret.
I bend down and pick up the hair tie that had fallen to the ground.
“Here,” I say, tossing it to her. We’re too far apart for a direct handoff.
“Thanks,” she says, holding it up before sliding it onto her wrist. Her hair spirals into wild waves around her with the slight breeze. She’s beautiful like this, and if I were another guy and this were another time and place, I would tell her that. Instead, I just stare at her like a foolish boy with a foolish crush and add this to my log of favorite Eleanor Trombley moments.
“So when does the alternator get installed?” She tilts her head toward the garage.
“Oh, uhm.” I twist where I stand and glare at the box still resting on the Bronco’s bumper, as if I have to think about it that hard. “Tomorrow, I guess. Jake’s supposed to come over around two. My mom’s making burgers for my birthday, so maybe three?”
I turn back to her and am relieved that she’s staring at the box too. That damn alternator is like our reset button, letting us both pretend there wasn’t a quiet weirdness ever, at all.
“Do I get to come over for birthday burgers?”
Internally chastising myself for not immediately inviting her, I fumble out a quick, “Oh, I mean, yeah! If you want, that would be cool. But, don’t feel like you have to come, if you don’t—”
“Burgers at two, then?” she interjects, halting me from digging a deeper hole, a sideways hole that would
