Page 26 of Summer Romance
He catches me taking this all in. “Admit it. It’s pretty cool.”
“It is,” I say.
We walk to the half-pipe, and he sets our boards down. He gets onto his. “It’s unsteady to stand on wheels. It makes no sense, right?”
I nod.
“Do it anyway,” he says.
I step onto my board and it feels like a banana peel. It’s going to slip out from under me and I’m going to be flat on my ass. He reaches for my hand and I lose focus as I close my fingers around his again. I squeeze it involuntarily, maybe to intensify the feeling. Maybe to keep it there.
“I’ll steady you, bend your knees,” he says. His body is close enough to mine that I can smell the faint mix of pine and sunscreen on his skin. He rolls me back and forth a few times. “See? You’re doing great. Now hop off and back on; try to keep your feet by the bolts.”
Hopping off is easy, hopping on is terrifying, and I grab his other hand.
“Not bad,” he says. “Now let me roll you around a little.” With both of my hands in his, he walks sideways, cruising my board along. “Feel okay?” he asks.
I squeeze his hands in response. I don’t want to talk. I like the sound of the wheels on the concrete and the feel of Ethan so close, holding my hands. I am immersed in my senses—the thickness of the night air, the electricity coming off of Ethan’s hands. The smell of the grass and the blacktop in the stale air. He stops me and we are face-to-face. With the few inches the board gives me, we are eye-to-eye. And I know that I will kiss this man. As many times as he’ll let me.
“I want to turn you around,” he says.
“What?” I don’t know why everything sounds dirty.
“Get off the board and face the other way.” Right.
I hop off and turn around and get back on the board facing the half-pipe. Ethan is right behind me and takes both of my hands in his again. I can feel his chest against my back, and I want him to wrap our hands around my waist and stay there. He talks directly into my ear. “So the point of skateboarding is to master the impossible trick. You can get hurt in a ton of different ways. You’ve got to control the fear. At some point, I’m going to send you to the top of thatramp and you’re going to skate down, and you’re going to trust that it’s going to work out just fine.” I can feel his breath on my cheek as the sound of his voice moves through my body. “Because if it doesn’t work out it’s going to be all concrete and broken bones. Which is why you need to practice like crazy and then be graceful and present.”
I let out a breath. I don’t want him to move.
“Tell me, Ali. Are you thinking about Pete and his apartment right now?”
“Not at all.”
“That’s the thing about skateboarding. It’s the ultimate terror ride, so all the other stuff just floats away.”
I turn around in one step and don’t topple the skateboard. This is mostly because Ethan catches me around the back as I turn. He says, “So, in that way, it’s about mindfulness and progression. Just tiny steps forward.” We are eye-to-eye, nose-to-nose, and finally his chest is pressed against mine. I have stepped into something completely unfamiliar and unexpected. And I want to take another step forward.
15
When I get home, Pete’s car is already in the driveway. It’s blocking the garage, and it occurs to me that he’s not being thoughtless: it would just never dawn on him that I wouldn’t be home, right where he left me.
Greer and Iris are peeling off muddy socks and cleats in the kitchen. Cliffy’s in my arms. Pete has helped himself to a Gatorade from the fridge. “How was it?” I ask.
“It was good,” says Iris. “We’re going to kill at the scrimmage Saturday.”
“Kill? Really?” says Greer with an eye roll.
“Why don’t you two go get showered?” I say.
When they’ve gone upstairs, and Cliffy has turned on SpongeBob, I busy myself fake cleaning up the kitchen. It’s basically the act of moving things from one spot to another, like a Coney Island shell game, to feign busyness. “So,” I start. “I wanted to ask you. I’m feeling a little overwhelmed with everything and all the details, do you mind if I bring someone with me on Friday?” I take the dishes out of thesink and stack them on the counter. I move the pot I used for the broccoli into the sink.
“Like a buddy?” he asks. It’s really unbelievable what a child he thinks I am.
“Like a lawyer,” I say, and turn around.
“Ali, we’ve been through this. We can’t afford lawyers and there’s nothing to even argue about.”
“No, of course not. But I just sort of feel like my mom did when she had to go to the doctor all the time, that it was good for her to have a second set of ears. I’m going to be managing this house all by myself and I really want to do it right. Like make sure I understand the details.” I hate myself for sounding so incompetent, while I also like feeling a bit subversive. Like I’ve snuck Old Ali in her navy suit into a Trojan horse.
