her hard work. How he didn’t get the lollipop she’d promised him in exchange for hours of sitting still while she “worked.”
“I think you should demand a whole bag of lollipops to cover the missed payment, plus interest.” I giggle, once again enjoying the sound of the word sucette as it comes out of my mouth. It tastes sweet and sticky.
“How did your brothers embarrass you?” Zeke asks, his hand coming to rest in the small of my back as he slips me in front of him through a narrow path. I know all the words he’s using (tes frères, your brothers; embarrassent, embarrass) and yet the warmth of his hand on my back, the heat that radiates past my T-shirt, makes speech more challenging. In any language.
And apparently walking, because I trip on an uneven piece of stone in the walkway and were it not for Zeke’s hand grabbing my arm, I would have gone flying.
“Ça va?” Zeke asks, holding me tight.
Part of me wants to nod and break away, to keep walking and chuckle at my clumsiness. To return to what things were like five minutes ago.
Another part of me wants to stay in this position for the next few minutes, enjoying the feeling of his body against mine, his grasp tight.
But yet another part, the largest part, the part that truthfully dwarfs all the other parts, wants to spin around and pull his head toward mine. Start something totally new, something entirely different from everything that’s happened so far. Something that will unstick the residual awkwardness that clings to us.
Instead, his hand slides across my back and grasps my hand as he whispers into my ear: “How about I hold on to you in case you go flying again?”
I nod because I’m not sure what language to use, what language Zeke is even speaking except I love the sound of it.
We make it through the path without any more spills, but thankfully Zeke keeps our fingers entwined. “So how did your brothers embarrass you?” he asks again, but this time it sounds different. Maybe it’s our fingers; maybe it’s the way his thumb is sweeping across the inside of my wrist. Either way, it feels like it’s just us here. Just us in all of New Hampshire.
I snicker. “Well, they made a rule about swearing. They’re much older than me, so by the time I came around they knew all the bad words. Especially given all the sports games they attended. There was always some drunk idiot who didn’t have an issue shouting curses regardless of the small kids in front of him. And so apparently in second grade, I also started swearing. And at first it was funny because here was this cute little pint-size me, swearing like a sailor when I couldn’t find the book I wanted to read. But then it started coming out at school. And one day, in class.”
I pause, because we’re now in front of the dorm and I don’t know what to make of the fact that Zeke is still holding my hand. He’s holding my hand and we didn’t talk about Friday night and we didn’t talk about who was on the phone and how awkward things were all weekend. But he’s still holding my hand, still looking at me like he’s waiting for me to finish the story.
“Apparently,” I start again, my cheeks warming because they’re no longer hidden by the alleyways and deserted walkways of Huntington. “Apparently the teacher got an odd look on her face when I dropped the f-bomb in class, and asked me what it meant. So I said: ‘It’s what you say when you get really, really mad. Like when the bases are loaded and the batter strikes out on a pitch that any fucking moron with half a brain could hit with his eyes closed.’”
Zeke guffaws a laugh that’s so enormous, I’m shocked he’s able to continue holding my hand through it. “Tell me you’re exaggerating.”
I press my lips together, and in the process hold his hand a little more securely. Because all my muscles are connected. And then I shake my head. Slowly.
“So, wait, what happened?”
“Well, my parents got a call and had to come in for a meeting, and I needed to be taught that I wasn’t allowed to swear. And they tried for months but it had become a really bad habit and plus, it made everyone laugh. But finally they came up with a solution. I can’t remember