Chapter 4 Nighttime Breeze
Nighttime Breeze
Connor
She has a boyfriend, dumbass. No matter how many times I’ve reminded myself of this little fact over the past week, it has not staunched the incessant pounding in my heart every time I see her. Or, if I’m being honest with myself, sometimes even when I’m not in her vicinity.
Her hand in mine as I lead her into the middle of the fray is like exposed wire. Shocking and dangerous.
I turn to face her, the silver ice cream cone necklace around her neck catching my attention for a moment before returning my gaze to her emerald eyes.
They are darting all around as NSYNC’s “Bye Bye Bye” surrounds us.
I don’t want her to be nervous, so I drop her hand to shoot my right arm in front of me, closing my hand to the beat in the signature dance style for this song.
Yes, I’m aware of how dorky it is, but my plan works.
A laugh bubbles out of her. I tuck it away for safekeeping as I let my own laugh spring free.
She starts to dance. Graceful, fluid motions that make my chunky sway look like an elephant next to a gazelle. But then, when the melody comes back around, we both do the move together, laughter ping-ponging between our glistening bodies. She’s so beautiful it hurts.
Friends. We can be friends. I want to get to know her. Just because she’s with someone doesn’t mean I shouldn’t follow this pull I feel toward her, right?
A flash of pain lances through my stomach. I don’t want to be anything like my father. I can’t be the reason a pair is ripped apart.
As I take a purposeful step back, her movements slow and the corners of her lips fall. She studies me, brow creased as we continue dancing.
“Wanna get some air?” she asks, leaning in so I can hear her. Lavender assaults my senses. She smells divine.
“Sure.” I nod, gulping.
As we make our way outside and sit at the base of the house’s concrete steps, the sounds of the party fade. The night air has a breeze, which cuts the lingering heat of the day. I take a deep breath. Friends.
No harm in getting to know her better. “What are you studying?” I ask.
Her eyes widen for a moment, like she’s surprised I’m asking. “I’m pre-occupational therapy,” she states, the words devoid of emotion.
“What made you decide that path?” I keep the conversation going.
“My dad, mostly.” She sighs. “He’s a very successful divorce lawyer, and he’s always pushed me toward ‘greatness.’” She accompanies the last word with air quotes.
“I don’t know. I picked it arbitrarily. Something that pays well for the least amount of higher education.
Dad math.” She draws her thumb’s cuticle into her lush mouth.
I reach out to gently remove it, and she startles at my touch.
“Shit. I shouldn’t have touched you without your permission,” I blurt. “I saw you biting, and I didn’t want you to hurt yourself.” I run a hand along the back of my neck, my entire body feeling hot with embarrassment.
“No, it’s okay. I…I tend to rip apart my fingers. Especially when I’m thinking about my dad’s expectations of me. It’s good that you stopped me.” She shakes her hand like she can shake off the need to pick at her cuticles and turns toward me. “What are you studying?” she asks.
“Business.” I pause before continuing. Involuntary tears prick at my eyes, but I don’t let them fall.
“I want to own my own coffee shop one day. My grandpa…” I let out a breath.
“He loved coffee. Straight black. We’d have a cup together every morning.
He was always encouraging me to do anything I wanted. ” I bite my lip.
“Was?” she asks, so softly I almost miss it—lost in a sea of memories.
“Yeah, he passed away this past summer. It was sudden.”
Her hand wraps around my forearm. She doesn’t say anything, but squeezes, leaning in so the sides of our bodies are completely flush.
The gesture is unexpected, but extremely appreciated.
My whole body warms. It feels right. When she leans back, she says, “I know you’ll have the best coffee shop one day. ”
She barely knows me, and yet her belief in me is like a rod along my spine. I feel taller, supported. Her eyes find mine, soft and genuine. Butterflies erupt in my stomach. I knew she was special.
Before I can say anything else, the Swim House’s front door flings open.
Maisie jumps up beside me, and I instinctively follow her, putting a hand to the small of her back.
A woman—Angie, I realize—strides through the door like she owns the place and homes in on the point of contact between me and her roommate. I drop my arm.
“There you are,” Angie says, much too loud for the quiet permeating the evening.
Maisie sways, and I’m suddenly worried she might be feeling the punch’s effects. “Ang!” she exclaims.
“I was looking everywhere for you.”
Maisie blushes. “Sorry, we ’cided to grab some air. You know parties aren’t my thing, and—” Her stomach rumbles, and she grips it, her eyes pinched shut.
“You okay?” I ask, bending to her eye level, hand finding her back again.
“Maisie?” Angie asks when Maisie doesn’t respond. She’s now bending over, hands on her knees.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Maisie says, shifting toward the grass in the front yard.
“Shit,” Angie and I say in unison.
I gather Maisie’s hair away from her face and rub soothing circles over her back while she does just that.
When she’s through, she stands back up, wiping the corner of her mouth with her palm. Her cheeks are red and her eyes glassy.
“I can carry her home. I promise I’ll get her there safe,” I say before thinking about it.
Angie’s eyes narrow for a moment. “I don’t know…”
“It’s okay, Ang,” Maisie encourages. “Go back to the party. Have fun.”
Angie looks once more between Maisie and me before taking a relenting step back. “Fine, but if you need me, I’m a text away, okay? I can be home in five minutes.”
“I know,” Maisie says, reaching out to squeeze Angie’s hand. The motion nearly knocks her off balance, and I steady her by the elbow. Maisie’s eyes find mine again, and she tries for a smile, but it comes out a bit of a grimace. I need to get her home.
“Is it okay if I pick you up now?” I ask.
“You really don’t have to—”
“I’m not letting you walk when you feel so terrible,” I say.
“Okay.” She nods.
“I can pick you up now?”
“Yes.” The corners of her lips curl. I reach down and scoop her up, one arm supporting her back and the other under the crooks of her knees. Her arm naturally finds its way around my neck. “Thanks,” she whispers.
“You’ll feel better after some sleep,” Angie says. “Let me know if you need anything.” She looks at me. “I’m trusting you with her. Don’t make me regret it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say. “Where do you guys live?”
“Right over there.” Angie points toward a series of clustered buildings. “Building 203. The tallest.”
“The one that looks like a middle finger,” Maisie adds, chuckling to herself.
Her goofiness during this time of distress throws me off guard, but it also makes her all the cuter.
“Middle finger, 203, got it,” I say and turn to head toward the building.
Maisie’s head slowly makes its way toward my shoulder. When it lands, my skin burns at the contact. I’m very reactive to her, but I contain it, not wanting to jostle her too much, so she doesn’t get sick again.
When we reach her building, I walk through the—thankfully—automatic sliding glass doors.
When I peek down at Maisie, I realize she’s asleep.
Knowing that she feels comfortable enough with me to not only let me carry her home but also to fall asleep makes the pounding in my chest double.
I hate to do it, but I nudge her awake with my nose to her hairline.
“Maize, I need your room number.” Maize. I like the way that sounds.
Groggily, she says, “11B.”
I navigate down the hall until we’re outside her door. There is a small whiteboard pasted to the front with “Maisie and Angie” written in blue marker. I shift to gently set Maisie down on her feet, but she quickly wraps her arms tighter around my neck. I pull her back into me. “You’re okay,” I say.
“Sorry about that. I felt like I was falling.”
“I should have warned you before I started to set you down,” I reassure her.
“That shouldn’t be necessary.”
“You’ve had a rough night,” I say.
“It hasn’t been the worst,” she says, cheeks flushing again, and I’m not sure if it’s from the alcohol sickness this time.
“Is it okay if I set you down now?” I ask.
“God, yes, sorry.”
I set her down, and the absence of her is palpable. I hand her my phone. “Here, save your number, then I’ll text you. Just in case you need anything tonight.”
“You don’t have to do that.” She bites her lip, and my attention clings to the movement. One day, we’ll have a first kiss. I have to hope that that’s true.
Friends, I chastise myself again.
“It’s my pleasure,” I counter.
“Okay.” Her shoulders scrunch up in a shrug, and it’s so cute. She takes my phone, entering herself as “Maisie Diver,” like I would forget who she was. I immediately change it to “Maize,” then text her.
“Thanks for getting me home. I think I can take it from here. They should put a warning label on that jungle juice.” She laughs, but there isn’t any humor behind it.
“Happens to the best of us,” I assure her. “Feel better. Text me if you need anything—I mean it.”
“I will, promise.” She nods, then puts her key in the lock and opens her door. Over her shoulder, she says, “Good night, Connor. I’m really glad you were there tonight.”
“Me too, Maize. Me too.”
And then she’s gone. I loose a breath and run a hand through my hair.
I’m in deep shit.