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A laugh bursts out of me. Surely he’s joking.
He’s not.
“I mean, you’re you,” he says, gesturing to me as if I’m supposed to understand what that means. His declaration makes me slightly uncomfortable, so I pivot, trying to keep the mood light.
“Is this because I beat you handily in the first three holes? Because I warned you, for someone who played absolutely no sports growing up, I have scary-good hand-eye coordination.”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “C’mon, be serious.”
No. That’s the last thing I want to be right now. I’ve been nothing but serious all week.
“How do you like your new position in the park? You’re a huntsman in the forest now, right?” I ask. “Must be nice. I hear you can show up early and volunteer to test some of the roller coasters.”
He looks away, disappointed. “It’s cool. Yeah. I mean, I didn’t want to leave my post, but I wasn’t really given an option.”
“You can come back, you know. Derek’s only going to be working there for a little while. They’ll need someone again when he leaves.”
He nods, peering at me out of the corner of his eye. “What’s it like working with him anyway?”
It feels wrong discussing Derek with Ryan. So I don’t.
I point to the snow cone stand across the street and promise to be right back.
In a few minutes, I return with two heaping piles of sugary shaved ice. Syrup drips down the side of the Styrofoam cup and I urge Ryan to eat it fast. “Hurry! It’s dripping!”
“I can’t! My nose!” he protests.
We laugh as my hands turn into a sticky mess. In the end, I have to scoop bites for him and pass them over so he can wedge the spoon underneath his ice pack. It’s a disaster. All of it. But, we’re having fun, and even though I’m fighting back yawns, I know it’s not because he’s boring. He’s not. This has been the most eventful date I’ve ever been on, by far, but I haven’t been sleeping well the last few weeks and eventually my fatigue wins out.
“Ready to go?” I ask, nodding toward our parked bikes.
Ryan tosses his ice pack in the trash before we start the ride back home. The autumn air cools my cheeks as we race down the road, laughing when Ryan makes a joke about “catching some air” as he lifts his front tire in a faux BMX move.
I try the same thing myself and manage to lift my bike only a fraction of an inch. Ryan, of course, acts like it’s the most amazing thing he’s ever seen.
“You’ll go pro, for sure.”
We turn the corner back to my street together and my dorm looms in front of us. I suggest we race to the finish, and Ryan agrees. We pedal fast, but then my gaze catches on someone sitting outside on the curb, a few yards ahead. Right in front of my building.
I slow down.
In the moonlight, I can tell the guy is tall with dark hair. I squint to make out his features, hoping—then berating myself for it.
My stomach dips right as Ryan turns back to ask, “Is that…”
“Derek.”
He has his elbows propped on his knees and his head bent down. I know it’s him even before we’re dismounting and unbuckling our helmets. He glances up and our eyes meet. A familiar tug pulls me in his direction, and it’s painful to resist. He looks sad, though I doubt anyone else would notice. It’s the subtle way his dark brows are only slightly downcast, a shallow furrow between them. His full mouth is perfectly straight, and yet I swear he’s frowning.
He’s wearing jeans and a Miami Heat t-shirt, the most casual I’ve ever seen him. His dark hair is rumpled and when he stands, my eyes follow his body. He’s just as athletic as Ryan, and though he’s taller, he carries himself with more grace and fluidity. It’s self-assurance, I think, confidence in who he is and what he wants.
In his hands, there’s a hardback book. He sees me notice it and then tucks it under his arm.
I yank off my helmet, attempting to control the insane mess of waves that were stuffed underneath. No doubt, it’s hopeless. I give up and let them fly.
Ryan’s the first one to speak. He’s the only one of us currently capable of speech, I think.
“Derek, hey.” He sounds out of breath. We both are. “What’s up?”
Derek glances over at him and his scowl deepens. “What happened to you? Are you bleeding?”
Oh right, the golf ball.
“If you can believe it, I got a golf ball straight to the face courtesy of an eight-year-old. Don’t worry though, Whit here took good care of me.”
Ryan laughs and looks at me like we’re sharing a private joke. I guess we are.
“We were playing mini golf,” I explain, sounding guilty.
