Chapter 17
“Victory tastes sweeter than my orange mocha,” I say, resting my head on Gabe’s car’s seat. It’s late afternoon and I love the hue of the sun and how it tints the high school’s athletic fields, the weathered bricks of the campus, and especially Gabe’s hair and skin with a golden outline.
Watching him, I feel warm, happy, and safe. “Thank you for helping me with my bucket list. I had an amazing time with—” I catch myself. I was about to say you. My cheeks warm. “I had an amazing time hanging out with everyone.”
His lip twitches. “Same. Can we confidently check off ‘art lessons’ and ‘team sports’ from your list?”
I open my app and ceremoniously put a check next to the two items and turn to him. “Good job, partner. We’re making some serious progress on my list.”
He makes a show of rubbing his back. “I think I’m going to need sandpaper to get all this paint off.” I beam. Thanks to our strategy, I was shielded for most of the game, whereas Gabe took the hits for us.
“At least my portfolio’s shaping up,” Gabe says, tapping the camera gear beside him on the trunk bench. “You, in war paint, pelting people like a war goddess? That’s money. They should give me a college scholarship off that footage alone.”
Apparently, he had set up a camcorder to record part of the game.
I laugh, the image flashing in my mind—me nailing Kyle square in the chest and the surprised and angry look on his face. Nothing has ever felt so satisfying.
I cover my face with my hands. “Oh my goodness. If the press got ahold of that video.”
“This is officially top secret.” As Gabe pretends to hold his camera possessively like he’s carrying the nuclear codes, I suddenly remember my talk with the twins about his time at the newspaper. “Speaking of material…what happened with you and your school newspaper?”
The smile on his face wanes. “I was on staff freshman year. I was interested in photojournalism. I broke a big story about a bully.”
“A bully? Sounds important and helpful. I think journalists are brave, especially when they catch the bad guys.”
“I got some important people in trouble.” He runs a hand through his hair.
“Everyone was happy—no, happy is not the right word. Everyone was impressed and said I could have a future as a photojournalist. But I didn’t like the limelight.
I didn’t like the idea of investigating other people’s dirt.
” He stops and looks out the window. “And then shortly after, my dad got in that accident. And I just stopped.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. I feel bad having triggered unhappy memories for him. I take a deep breath. “Thanks for sharing that with me.”
“I realized I prefer being behind the camera as an artist, not a journalist.” He exhales. “I don’t know if that makes any sense. It’s just, my heart wasn’t into the news. I wanted to tell my own stories through art.”
“I’d rather be behind the camera too.”
His eyes hold my gaze and his lip quirks.
“Hold that pose.” He reaches for his phone and takes a picture of me.
He shows me his screen and it’s me still with war paint under my eyes and my cheeks flushed from running on the field, the afternoon sky a golden hue.
“I’m going to use that as my contact photo for you,” he tells me.
“Abigail Cary-Alzona and her authentic self—thoughtful, strong, and beaut—” He stops mid-sentence. “And in beast mode.”
I exhale. Was he going to say beautiful? Am I glad he stopped himself or disappointed? Either way the tension has turned to full-blown awk. I fake cough. “How about some selfies?”
He looks relieved to change topics and slides next to me, holding up his camera. We laugh and take a few, including one where we make duck lips at the camera.
“Now those are the money shots,” he says.
We grow silent, as we must both realize at the same time how close we are.
His arm is wrapped around me and I’m leaning against that strong chest of his.
Not even an inch closer and we’d be in prime make-out territory.
My heart races as I stare at his mouth, not far from my own.
Am I about to check off another bucket list item?
Gabe clears his throat. The sound snaps me back to reality and I scoot away. “I have a few errands. Festival stuff,” I mumble.
“Me too,” he says, turning on his ignition. “How is festival stuff going?”
Meanwhile, my heart pounds. Were we about to kiss? And maybe more confusing, did we both want to? “I’m making progress. Found a potential sponsor. You know me, I’m checking off my list.”
“Right, great.”
“Progress. Progress. Progress,” I say too loud and too quickly.
He turns onto the main road. I try not to stare at the unreadable emotions on his face. Is he upset? Is he glad we didn’t kiss?
He glances nervously in my direction. “I know you’ve got a million things going on, but I’ve got another idea for Operation Bucket List. Tonight. If you’re in.”
His gaze holds mine and my heart thumps as I nod before I can talk myself out of it.
But even as I smile, the question hums beneath the surface. What are we, exactly? Acquaintances? Friends? Something more? How could it be more when the clock is ticking down—when I know I’m leaving at the end of the month?
Whatever this is…it’s fleeting.
And maybe that’s what makes it so impossible to ignore.