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“It’s not over yet, Bryson,” Bishop says, a hint of annoyance in his voice.“You have to believe.”
“Right.Sorry, sorry,” Bryson apologizes.“You got this, bud!”He lifts his hand from my shoulder and holds it up in exaggerated surrender, then drops it to my waist and squeezes gently.“Right?”
I nod and smile at Bishop.“A comeback is definitely on the horizon,” I assure him.
“As if,” Quinn scoffs, lining up a shot.“I’m about to end this man.”
“He shoots -” Bryson says in a loud tone, halting to watch Quinn throw the ball.“-oh!And he misses!This is it, Bhati, this is your moment!”
I watch Bishop walk a few feet behind the table to retrieve the ball from the grass.“Maybe it really is a comeback,” I muse.
As my eyes follow Bishop, two fingers tap my hip.I glance up and see Bryson smiling down at me.“Hey,” he says, his voice suddenly quiet.His curls are beginning to escape from beneath his ball cap.“Your toes look nice.”
“Thanks,” I say, the corners of my lips turning up.Come on Carleigh,live in the moment.I turn my gaze back to the table and shift my weight backward, just a little, testing the waters.
He doesn’t move at first, and I‘m immediately convinced that either I’ve misread the entire situation, or I’ve been too subtle - which is a possibility with Bryson, for whom subtlety doesn’t seem to be popular.But then one beat later, Bryson’s hand shifts on my hip: his thumb slips through the empty belt loop of my shorts and the rest of his fingers curl to rest against the denim.His feet don’t move, but he seems to have swayed forward - that, or I’m so aware of his presence that it feels like his chest is almost flush against my back.I’m reminded for the millionth time that he’s ridiculously tall.
Bishop scores against Quinn.This time, Bryson doesn’t fist-pump.Instead, he raises his left arm and beer bottle upward and lets out a “Whoop!”keeping his other arm where it is.I assume it’s part of some kind of exaggerated toast, but I like to think that just maybe it’s because he doesn’t want to let go.
“Come on, one of you hurry up and lose,” Royce calls, from his perch by the kiddie pool.“I was promised hot dogs like twenty-minutes ago.”
The rest of the afternoon passes almost in a blur, but I have clear memories of a few moments.Eating dinner on the grass.Bryson winking at me across the rough circle.Molly’s elbow happily nudging my ribs from beside me.Teaming up with Molly to beat Max and Royce at beer pong, this time downing the vile warm beer in the bottom of the cups, Bryson laughing at the face I make from where he’s watching nearby.
When dusk begins to settle, Quinn whistles to get everyone’s attention.He announces it’s time to start walking to where they’ll watch the fireworks.
“Don’t forget, we’re coming right back afterward - all those bars around there are a rip-off tonight.”
Fine with me.I’m happy to do a little walking and stretch my legs out; for the last twenty-minutes, I’ve been curled up with Molly and a diluted margarita on the grass, and my calves are starting to cramp up.Some movement and a break from drinking will be good for everyone, probably.
Everyone files out of the backyard, leaving their empties and half-empties behind for Bishop and another guy, whose name I don’t remember, to monitor - not fireworks fans, apparently - and settle in a few chaotic columns down the sidewalk.
I fall in alongside Sawyer and Molly.We spend most of the twenty-minute walk talking about cycling, since apparently Sawyer’s interest in running also extends a little to triathlons, and Molly had been a cycling buddy of Trinity’s.None of them seem to like lane swimming, which I point out is probably at least a little bit because of the expense of membership at a facility with a decently-sized pool in Manhattan.
Jersey City’s fireworks are over the Hudson this year, which should look pretty great with the Manhattan skyline just behind.Bryson’s friends’ viewing spot is apparently a park with views across the river.Upon arrival, it’s also several thousand other people’s optimal viewing spot.
“That’s because Morris Canal’s got grass,” Quinn pipes in, when Molly comments on how busy it is.“People watch from Exchange Place, too, and some bars, but it’s all boardwalk and wood there.”
As a short person, I’m always a little worried about seeing, but I’m comforted by the fact that at least this is fireworks - high in the sky above everybody, even tall people like Bryson.Still, as we enter the crowd in an attempt to carve out a spot on the grass, I’m feeling the downsides of being small.I get separated from Molly and Sawyer by a family with two double strollers and have to scurry between people to catch up.In the process, someone steps on my foot, but my yelp is lost in the crowd.I lean down to make sure everything is fine - can’t take any chances with the marathon coming up - and when I stand up, I realize I’m lost again.
Just as I can feel my frustration start to boil over, Bryson is magically at my side.
“Knew you’d get lost in a crowd, Murphy,” he says jokingly.“Should have given you one of the beacons they give to people at sea.”
“Ha ha,” I say dryly, but I’m ecstatic to see him.He offers one of his hands, and I take it gratefully.
“Don’t let go,” Bryson instructs, then proceeds to cut a beeline through the crowd.I stick close behind, hurrying two steps for his one, letting his large frame make an easy path to follow, until finally the crowd breaks, and I see our group getting settled on a free swath of grass a little ways away from the main horde.
“You found her!”Royce exclaims from where he’s sitting, Molly to his right, Sawyer beside her.
“I got cut off by a stroller,” I explain, slightly out of breath.
“Thought we had to send the police in,” Quinn teases.
I roll my eyes.“I’m an excellent navigator.I would’ve found my way eventually.Just look for Bryson!”
“I’m hard to miss, babe,” he agrees cheerfully.“Now come on, sit down before these firecrackers start!”
I look over my shoulder briefly to find an empty spot, but it’s still a little crowded here, too, and I’m met with a couple of glares from families already seated behind them.There’s a momentary sense of panic, until Bryson folds himself down where he stands and tugs me down, too, by the hand he’s still holding.
