me. Between being dazed from the conversation with Marianne and sneezing and trying to remember how to say sneezing in French, I didn’t notice Zeke standing outside waiting for me.
A tes souhaits. To your wishes.
I sneeze again.
“A tes amours,” he says and takes an additional step closer.
To your loves.
To sneeze. Eternuer. In French, each sneeze gets its own equivalent of bless you. One more sneeze and he’ll say the last part. Qu’elles durent toujours. May they last forever.
A tes souhaits. A tes amours. Qu’elles durent toujours.
To your wishes, to your loves, may they last forever.
I don’t sneeze a third time.
“Do you need a tissue?”
My eyes are watering from the sun and the sneezes and Zeke standing so close and Marianne’s question about whether I’d consider coming to Huntington next fall, and it’s so much.
Zeke passes me a tissue and I’m not sure whether to attack my nose or eyes first.
I’m a mess. And Zeke is still here.
“Come,” he says, and his hand is on my lower back, and I should be putting up walls but I don’t have it in me. Because Marianne can’t believe that I’ve made this much progress considering this is my first formal language course, and she thinks there may be amazing opportunities for me at Huntington. Or maybe at the University of Montreal, where her friend Louise teaches. And so I follow Zeke through the courtyard and toward a clearing with my favorite stone bench, the bench that is always cool even when it’s warm outside. The one that makes me feel like I’m alone in this lovely place, like I’m in my very own secret garden.
I turn to find Zeke staring at me, his long lashes blinking rapidly. The rest of his body is completely still, and I know with a certainty that aches in my bones that if I walked away now, he wouldn’t follow me. He wouldn’t dart out his hand and hold my arm, make me talk to him.
The ball is completely in my court.
“Hey.”
Zeke’s eyes flare and I hear the telltale ping of his phone from his bag but he gives no reaction. No reaction except to take his backpack and throw it as far away as he can.
“I hope you’re better at throwing a baseball than a backpack.”
My joke hangs in the air, surprising me as much as him. But he doesn’t smile.
I wish we could pretend none of this ever happened. I wish I could just stop everything and say, I know we’re in a fight and that right now everything is messed up. But can we just pretend that this is last week because I need to talk to you about what Marianne just said. Because there’s no one who’d understand how cool this is for me and . . .
“I need you to understand why I didn’t tell you.”
It’s not last week.
“Why you lied,” I correct.
“Why I didn’t tell you that I played baseball.”
“Played or play?” We may be sitting in the shade, but I’m heating up.
Zeke closes his eyes and drops his head, shaking it slightly from side to side.
Je suis méchante. I am mean.
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s why I lied to you. Because I know how much you hate baseball. Because here I am falling for this girl who makes me laugh and makes me so effing crazy, and she hates the one thing that brings me the most joy. And I didn’t know what to do. If I told you I played ball, you would have done this the moment you heard. And I couldn’t take that chance.”
I hate that he’s right. I hate that what he’s saying makes perfect sense. But what I hate more than anything is how much I want to just throw my arms around him and tell him both of those things.
“You can’t fall for someone you’re lying to,” I whisper instead.
“Please don’t say that.” His words are so quiet; I wish I could lean forward. “I never meant to lie to you. I was supposed to be playing ball this summer. I was supposed to be training and there were people interested, people who were showing up at my games, who were making promises. Crazy promises. And then the accident. And it was decided the best thing for me would be to be out of sight for a while, skip the summer. We used the excuse that my parents wanted to ensure I wasn’t forgoing academics and so I was in summer school. But really, the idea was for