38. Will
38
Will
I don’t normally consume myself with guilt. What is it about Alice Taylor that has me feeling guilty three days after I told her to stop taking care of all her mother’s problems?
Seriously, the woman wasn’t even mad at me. She’s twenty-six years old; she can do what she wants with her money and for her mother. But then I am four years older, with greater mistakes in my back pocket. Maybe I do know more. Maybe she should listen to me.
Either way, I have guilt for questioning her, for telling her what to do. For making her share when I don’t.
Which is why I am standing in the middle of a soccer field, in a suit, paying a waitstaff an obscene amount of money to serve and feed us. Us—if Alice ever arrives. Maybe she’s changed her mind, and I will be eating on this field alone.
Angelic laughter sounds behind me, north of the goal I’m staring at. “What is this?”
“Alice,” I say before I’ve even turned around.
“What are we doing?” She shakes her head, strutting toward me. “Your text said to wear a dress, no heels, and meet you at 1700 Lake Tesoro Boulevard.” She peers around at the green field—the one I had to talk the high school coach into letting me use. I made a very nice contribution to their high school soccer team fund. “I thought we were meeting at a restaurant. This is the high school.”
I tilt my head and lift one shoulder in a shrug. “Billy’s still building his stadium.”
She stares at me. “What is this, Will?”
“This is dinner in my favorite place with my favorite girl.”
Her right brow lifts.
“Too soon?”
Alice’s lips quirk up in a small grin. “Nah. You can call me your favorite girl. I promise not to let it go to my head.”
I walk toward her—her pink dress cinches at the waist and hits at her knees. Tan sandals strap around her feet. Her hair hangs down over her shoulders, rustling in the light breeze. She is perfection. “Maybe you should—let it go to your head, I mean.” I lace her fingers on both hands through mine and lean down to peck her lips. “I like you, Alice Taylor. A lot. And I’m sorry I judged your actions the other day. I love that you want to help your mother.”
Her eyes are closed and her chin lifts as if waiting for another kiss. “Will.” She breathes out a laugh and blinks her eyes open. “I’m not mad at you. I thought I made that pretty clear.”
She’s right—she did. I know she isn’t angry. But then, maybe I have more filling me with guilt than I’ve let on, more than judgments I’ve made about her mother taking advantage of her. Because, let’s face it, Sandra isn’t the only guilty person in Alice’s life.
And yet—how am I supposed to share my secret? I’m not sure I can at this point. And telling Alice something she’d have to lie about the rest of her life—that doesn’t feel right either.
So, I draw her over to her chair, pull out the seat, and help her into it. I lift my head to the food truck parked yards away, in the parking lot of this soccer field, and give one nod.
An hour later, I’ve fed my girl, and I’ve got a soccer ball at her feet. With my hands on her hips, I adjust her stance. “Use the side of your foot,” I tell her, glancing at the goal in front of us.
“That thing is huge,” she says, eyes on the goal. “If I miss this, from this close, will you break up with me here and now?”
I chuckle under my breath. “Ooo, jury’s out. Better not miss,” I say, her back to my chest, my head bent next to hers.
We are eight yards away from the goal—closer than even a penalty kick. She isn’t going to miss.
Alice taps the ball with the side of her foot—just like I showed her—and we watch as the ball slowly rolls over the grass. If I’d never touched that ball before, I might have thought it made of lead. It rolls over the green at a snail’s pace. Athletics isn’t Alice’s thing. She’s made that very clear.
So, we watch as the ball slowly rotates over the grass, until it comes to rest in the corner of the net. She laughs. “Goaaaal,” she sings as if she were a true soccer fan.
Alice spins around, her hands lifting to adjust the tie at my neck. Goosebumps sprout over her arms from the evening air. September is right around the corner, just a couple weeks away, and Tesoro cools down quickly in the fall.
“Here,” I say, slipping out of my jacket and placing it over her shoulders.
She glides her arms through the sleeves, her eyes drifting closed. “Thanks.” She tugs the collar of the jacket closed, dips her chin, and breathes in my suit coat.
“We haven’t known each other long?—”
“Almost four months.” Her eyes find mine, and I wrap an arm around her back, pulling her close.
“And I know we haven’t been together all that long.”
“Eight weeks, if you count our weekend in Denver,” she says, blue eyes glassy and bright.
“Right. Eight weeks.” Has it really been only a few short weeks? I swallow. “I should probably just be quiet.”
She tilts her head, her hands flat on my chest. “When are you going to learn that I want to hear everything you have to say?”
I lift my brows. “Everything?”
“Everything.”
I dip my head to hers. I’m not sure my heart has ever felt this way before. I loved my parents. They were good people, good to me and to others. I remember loving them. I remember that feeling. This is like that—but different. This is like that—but new. It’s like loving them and yet it’s not.
I’m not sure, given any amount of time, that I’d ever be able to adequately explain my feelings for Alice.
With my forehead pressed to hers, she lifts her chin, pressing her soft, gentle lips to mine. Strawberries —my new favorite fruit.
“I love you, Alice,” I whisper.
Her lips pull up in a grin. “I love you too, Will.”