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8
Paul
“Ithink I’ll go with you next time,” my dad said as he handed me a beer from the fridge. I passed it over to Will and then reached for the second one my dad offered. “It looks like fun.”
“Joe, don’t you dare,” my mom chided, pointing a wooden spoon at him from where she stood at the stove. “I’m not kidding. You’re too old for skydiving.”
“I am not,” Dad defended.
I laughed. “Dad’s right, Mom. He’s not too old. There’s an eighty-one-year-old lady at the place I go who’s done it thirteen times.”
“You’re lying,” Mom said, eyes wide.
“I’m not. I swear. You pretty much just need to have a healthy height-to-weight ratio, be able to lift your legs so your instructor can touch the ground first during landing, and have good cardiovascular health.” I took a sip of beer, trying not to think about what skydiving would do to a heart like Shelby’s. Chills crept up my arms at the thought of it, knowing what it felt like for me, without HCM. And it freaked me out to think about her doing it.
“I’ll go with you, Mr. B,” Will said. “It’s been a minute since I’ve jumped.”
“That’s the spirit,” Dad said, touching his beer to Will’s.
Mom made a worried face and I grinned at her. “Dad’s healthy as a horse. He’ll be fine.”
“Be fine doing what?” Aria asked as she strolled into the kitchen and greeted Mom with a kiss on the cheek.
“Skydiving,” Mom replied, dragging out the word.
“Your son literally does that for a living,” Aria replied with a laugh.
Just when I was about to correct her—the actual jumping out of planes part was only a small percentage of my job at work—Shelby walked into our kitchen. What was she doing here? When Aria had texted me to tell me Mom wanted me to come for dinner tonight, I’d thought it was just going to be us. And I’d brought Will along as comedic relief in case my mom got all weepy about the Roxy thing. He was good for that.
As I stood looking at Shelby for the first time since I’d almost admitted my feelings to her, whatever we’d been talking about left my brain as I studied her. She had her ash-brown hair down around her shoulders and wore a long black dress that swished around her ankles. It wasn’t a formal gown or anything. The top kind of looked like a formfitting T-shirt that just kept going, flaring out into a loose cotton skirt where it hit her hips.
Shelby had a dancer’s body. She was petite and long-limbed. Willowy. Graceful. Feminine. Basically, every word you could use to describe a ballerina. Before that fateful day on the bench outside our anatomy lab, I’d looked at Shelby as an untouchable. Me with my grimy skater clothes and her with her black leotards peeking out from under the street clothes she wore on top of them. She practiced at home every morning and had dance class every day after school, so she was rarely out of ballet mode in those days. And that made her feel delicate and too pure for me, in a way that I don’t think I really registered at the time.
But then, we became friends. We got close. We got to a point where she didn’t seem so untouchable. In fact, touching her in casual, friendly ways became part of the deal. I’d give her a hand without a second thought. I’d hug her without lingering. It was just a hug between friends. I could put my arm around her when we watched a movie if she had a bad day, and it wasn’t a romantic thing, it was a comforting thing. We got to a point where I didn’t feel like I was soiling this perfect, pretty ballerina with my burnout vibes. She was more than a ballerina, and she treated me like I was more than a burnout.
“Hey, Shelby,” Mom said when she looked over from the stove and saw her standing in the doorway. “Come here, sweetheart, how are you?”
“Good, thank you,” she replied, returning my mom’s hug.
“Actuallygood? Or just telling me that because it’s easier?” Mom asked.
I swallowed, probably a little too invested in Shelby’s answer formyown good.
Shelby grinned at my mom and gave her forearm a squeeze as she looked her over. “Actuallygood. I promise. And thank you for asking.”
“Of course, sweet girl. You’re right in time for appetizers. Girls, go grab a drink and help yourselves,” Mom directed, heading back to the stove.
“Hi, Daddy,” Aria said as she kissed Dad on the cheek. “I’m all for you skydiving. But don’t tell Mom.”
“Deal,” he said with a chuckle.
Then he hugged Shelby, and I watched as he greeted her and they chatted for a second about her parents and how they were doing. I wasn’t really listening as much as noticing how at home she was in our house. With my parents. With my sister. I knew she’d spent more time here than I had over the last eleven years since I’d left, and it showed.
Finally, she turned her brown eyes on me, a blush coloring her fair cheeks. “Hey, Paul. Hey, Will.”
We both gave her awkward waves and said hi back. Well, Will’s was probably normal. Mine was ridiculously awkward. Should I have hugged her? I probably should have. I definitely would have if this were last weekend. But thanks to the events of Wednesday night, all thoughts of platonically hugging my best friend had been replaced with pulling her in close against my chest and tipping her chin up so her lips could meet mine.
I turned and glared at Will as Shelby moved past us and sat at the counter next to Aria. “This is your fault.”
