“Would you—”
Our breathy laughs come out in sync as we talk over each other. I lean back into the counter and extend my hand.
“You first,” I say, my eyes moving to the spot where she’s kneading her hands together. She’s probably embarrassed about last night, and I don’t want her to be. We all have low points. I am finding it hard to reconcile that version of her with the one in front of me, and the one I’ve spent time with over the last several days.
“I brought your shirt back.” She perks up, pulling one arm halfway out of the sleeve.
“You keep it,” I say, nodding toward her. It’s my favorite, and yet it was somehow really easy to give away.
Her brow pinches, but her mouth ticks up with a tiny grin.
“You sure?” She’s already pushed her arm back through the sleeve. She loves it.
“It looks a lot better on you,” I say. That is not a lie.
“Thanks,” she says, sucking in her bottom lip.
We make eye contact once or twice while a healthy dose of awkward silence settles in. I wish I could let her off the hook, but I don’t know how to change subjects. Last night is clearly all the two of us are thinking about. Thankfully, Grandpa Hank breaks up the sound by yelling “bullshit” at the TV.
We both look toward the back of his head and I ease her concern with a soft laugh.
“He does that with hockey,” I reassure. “What’s funny is it’s still only pre-game. He’s probably reliving a bad call from two days ago.”
I roll my eyes, and Eleanor gives me a courtesy laugh.
“Hey, wanna come hang in the garage? I did a lot of work. I think Jake may win the bet at this rate,” I say, leaning my head toward the garage door.
“Can we not tell him? I was really looking forward to him streaking,” she says.
“Oh, absolutely. Good plan,” I agree.
Our eyes hang on to one another for a breath and I break the tension, urging her to follow me to the garage. I left things a bit messy when I finished up this morning, so I grab a broom from the corner and sweep up the wire clippings. Before I can get the dustpan on my own, Eleanor kneels with it and waits for me to push the trash into it with my broom.
“Thanks,” I say.
Her eyes flit up and she gives me a tight-lipped smile that highlights blushing cheeks. She’s still embarrassed about last night. I have to make this easier for her.
“So . . . how are you feeling?” I rub the back of my neck and wince at the uncomfortable entry into this topic. She pauses briefly on the way to the trash can.
“I almost let your grandpa feed me honey-beer-egg soup, if that’s any indicator,” she says, glancing over her shoulder with a bashful smile. She continues to the trash, dumping the mess and leaving the dust pan in the corner.
My hands slide into my back pockets and I inhale, breaking my breath up with a short laugh when Eleanor spins to face me and does the exact same thing.
“Listen—” I begin.
“No,” she interjects, shaking her head. She steps closer to me and when her palms run down my biceps and tug on the elbows of my sleeves, I give over complete control of my limbs to the most beautiful girl in the world. Even at her lowest, Eleanor Trombley is a wonder to behold.
My hands fall from my pockets as she moves her hands along my forearms, eventually taking my wrists then my palms. She holds them in front of her, her eyes fixed on the act while I’m unable to look away from her face. I study the jerking motion of her lashes as she blinks rapidly, nerves and raw emotion picking up her breath.
“Why do I feel like you’re about to tell me my dog died?” I joke in an attempt to lighten the mood.
She laughs as a few tears slip out.
“Oh, don’t cry. I don’t really have a dog. I mean, you probably would have seen it.”
She laughs a little harder and I give her hands a squeeze for added strength and courage. A hard swallow moves her throat and she lets go of one of my hands to run her arm over her eyes. I leave my hand where she left it, and I’m relieved when she holds it again.
Breathing out through whistle-ready lips, she brings her eyes to mine and shakes our hands as they stick together.
“I’m so sorry about last night, Jonah. I never meant to put so much of my shit on you, and it isn’t fair.” She glances down to her feet, so I tug at her hands this time, coaxing her gaze back up.
“Hey, I don’t do things I don’t want to do,” I respond.
She grimaces.
“No, it’s true. Peer pressure is useless on me.” I shake my head a little.
Her eyes squint with skepticism.
“So why did you go to the party last night? You hate them. It’s the one thing everyone knows about Jonah Wydner.” She levels me with a daring look, and it’s a tough call because she’s not wrong.
“I do hate parties,” I admit. “But . . .”
I lean back and open my mouth, cautioning her not to assume anything.
“I would not have gone if I did not want to go. At least some part of me.” I hold the tight-lipped grin in place while she evaluates my answer to see if I’m bluffing. I’m not. Yes, I hate parties, but I went for her. I would swim through lava to keep her safe.
Her head cocks to the side but her smile shifts into something lighter, maybe shedding a little of the guilt she brought over here this morning.
“You know, it’s an excellent time to climb up on the roof and watch the sun go down.” Her fingers slip away as she makes the suggestion, and I find my hands frozen
