Page 27 of When You Wish Upon a Wideout
“Sure about that?” Beau teased, and I realized I was still holding onto his arm so I let go and swatted him.
He folded his hands behind his head and lay back, and I tried not to notice the way his biceps bulged.
“That’s on your wish list? Riding a motorcycle?”
“Have you ever seen Top Gun?”
“Who hasn’t?”
“I used to watch it with my mom all the time. She had a thing for Tom Cruise.”
“Who doesn’t?” Beau snarked.
“Me,” I admitted. “He’s not my type.”
There were a few beats of silence before Beau spoke. “Who’s your type?”
My cheeks flushed.You.
“He’s too short for me,” I said, wondering if he’d get the hint. Most of the guys at school were shorter than me. But not Beau.
Beau’s wingspan is endless, and his presence is big but not overly intimidating. It’s more welcoming. And I won’t lie, Mom. I’m finding it harder to stop myself from imagining just how it might feel if he hugged me. I bet he’s like a warm blanket on the perfect fall day. Soft and safe and comforting, and something you just want to wrap yourself up in.
If my attempt to be subtle went over Beau’s head or he just ignored it, I’ll never know because he didn’t press.
“I’ve been working on one for a year,” he admitted. “Building it from scratch.”
“No way. A motorcycle?”
Beau nodded. “At my dad’s shop.” He cocked his head at me, and I could see the questioning look on his face with the glow of the street lamp. “Didn’t take you for a biker chick.”
“I’m not.” I lay back so we were side by side again. “But I bet it’s the closest feeling I’ll ever get to flying.”
When I turned my head, I noticed just how close we were, with Beau now on his side, head propped up.
“Do you want to be a Navy pilot too?”
“No, but sometimes I think it would be nice to be weightless for a few seconds.” I’ve felt so heavy and bogged down for the last few months—the freedom of flight is something I’ve been craving. I squirmed uncomfortably. “I’d settle for a ride in a convertible too. A really cool old one that still goes fast. Like the one fromFerris Bueller’s Day Off.Wind in my hair. The whole thing.”I turned and smiled. “Wish list.”
Beau laughed. “I don’t think a thirty-year-old car goes very fast. You could go skydiving,” he offered. “Remember when we tried that?”
I laughed as well because I do. It involved climbing onto the highest tree branch we could reach and jumping to the ground holding a sheet.
“You almost broke your leg.” I reached out and brushed my finger across the scar on his left forearm, also a result of that day, when he banged into an old wheelbarrow. Beau didn’t flinch from my touch, but I pulled back because his skin felt like velvet even under the dusting of fine hair.
“Not gonna lie, that hurt like hell.” He reached down, rubbing his ankle. “And the whole time you were so afraid we’d get in trouble, you told me to quit being a baby.”
I can almost hear myself at six saying that to Beau as he hobbled around our backyard while I pulled twigs from my hair. “I think I told you to man up.”
Beau laughed, sweet and deep. I snuck in more stares as he tilted his head to the sky, and I tried to picture the little boy I used to run around the neighborhood with. Once upon a time, I was the taller one and probably even outweighed him. He always beat me in running, but I rode my bike faster. I’ve realized over the past month that sometimes, when we talk, it feels like we’re still kids, coming up with crazy plans and wild dreams. It’s as if we were still sitting at my kitchen table, preparing our lemonade stand, certain that one day we’d franchise our recipe that included pouring lemon-lime Gatorade into an already over-sweetened pink lemonade mixture.
But then I catch a glimpse of him, and then I’m reminded of just how much bigger, stronger—and because I know my secrets are safe with you, Mom—how handsome he’s become.
I wish I had the courage to tell Beau that he manned up quite well after all.
“Are you busy tomorrow afternoon?” he asked.
“Why?”
