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“The deepest,” he says, clapping me on the back. “Congrats, man.”
I smile at the flutter of hope I feel in my chest. And how stupid is that? That I feel something like aflutterof anything? But it’s true. Because if I get to do this, reallybewith Faye? Then it’ll be more than okay. And that’s worth smiling about.
30
faye
“You look pretty,”Zeke says as he pulls a peach spider mum out from the cabin of his truck. He’s wearing cargo shorts and a polo shirt. He’s showered and shaved and he grins as he walks around the front of the truck. His gaze slides up the sleeveless kelly green linen dress I’m wearing and settles on my face with a smile.
When he told me he was picking me up at six-thirty, it sounded like a date. I spent all day at the Knitty Kitty trying to talk myself down from that suspicion. But now that he’s actually here, in front of my house, with a flower, telling me I look pretty, it’s a lot harder to discount that suspicion.
“Thank you,” I say, taking it from him.
His fingers brush mine and send a little zip up my arm. “It’s gorgeous.”
“I thought you’d like it.” He opens the passenger door and motions for me to climb in.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“If I told you, what would be the fun in that?”
We pull out of our street and he heads west, toward the river.
“How was your day?” he asks.
What am I supposed to say?I spent all day doing inventory over and over again because I couldn’t concentrate around the anxiety of whether I should take Aly’s advice and borrow Caro’s crotchless panties for tonight.
“It was good,” I say, quickly. “Yours?”
“Good,” he says, pulling up to a stoplight. “I’m all set for training camp.”
“When does that start?”
“Uh, next week?” He drives through the intersection and squints into the late afternoon sun. Soon enough the sun will drop below the hills before rush hour and we’ll be driving in the dark. But for now, it just colors the city in the prettiest ambers and golds.
“Next week?” I frown. “Wow, that’s soon.”
He just nods. I bite my bottom lip but feel the excitement of his statement flush my cheeks just the same. Outside, the trendy Pearl District flashes by, block by block of cafes, boutiques, and brewpubs. We cross NW 23rdand the business district morphs into a residential street, lined with bungalows and cottages. But it’s far more parked up than I would have expected for a weeknight.
“What is this?” I ask as he angles his truck into a parking spot. Families walk past along the sidewalk, carrying blankets and camping chairs.
“Come on, I’ll show you,” he says, getting out of the truck. I do the same and watch him pull out two camping chairs and a full backpack from the bed of the truck.
“Think you can carry one of these bad boys?” He passes me a chair with a strap and I take it, hitching it over my shoulder.
Ahead there’s a large hillside next to what looks like an elementary school. The school is a relic of the old school Horace Mann era in American school buildings, made of orange-brown brick and complete with a tall, narrow chimney. Along the hill, couples and families picnic, as children slide down the hillside on large pieces of cardboard.
“Okay, is this one of your weirdo sports? Cardboard luge?” I ask as we turn the corner.
“It is not, but that isbrilliant.”
Zeke sets up a picnic blanket and unfolds my low camping chair next to his. From the backpack, he retrieves two slim brown bags. He passes me one and I see that it holds a can of cold, Migration Brewing IPA.
“I see you’re not screwing around,” I say, popping the tab and taking a hearty sip of the hoppy, citrusy ale.
“I know you don’t mess around with your IPAs.”
He pulls out his camera and motions for me to come closer and snaps a picture of us before I can object.
