Chapter 35
LEONORA
My mother went to bed hours ago. The house is dark except for the kitchen light I left on, and I’m sitting on the front porch in my pajamas like some kind of Victorian heroine waiting for her soldier to come home from the war.
Ridiculous.
I don’t care.
The rental car door opens and closes. Footsteps on the path. And then he’s there, standing at the bottom of the porch steps, looking up at me.
He looks exactly the way he did the first time I saw him without a helmet: dark eyes and the kind of face that makes people turn their heads without knowing why.
He’s also holding a six-pack of beer and a box of donuts.
“What,” I say, “no flowers?”
“You’re not a flowers person.” He climbs the steps, sets the beer and donuts on the porch railing, and stops in front of me. “You’re a ‘I just got a professional tryout and I’m going to pace around my childhood bedroom for days’ person.”
“I’m not pacing.”
“You texted me seventeen times today.”
“I was excited.”
“You were spiraling.”
I open my mouth to argue. He kisses me instead.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
“You made me drive for five hours.”
“You could have flown.”
“I wanted to see the country.”
“In the dark?”
“I wanted to see you.”
I pull him inside.
We end up in the kitchen because it’s the warmest room in the house. My mother left a note on the counter that says There’s soup in the fridge and I like him with a little smiley face that makes me want to die.
Zane reads it over my shoulder.
“She likes me.”
“She hasn’t met you yet.”
“She likes me.”
I shove his shoulder and he laughs.
“Are you going to stand in your mother’s kitchen all night,” he says, “or are you going to show me your room?”
“It’s my childhood bedroom.”
“I know.”
“It has posters of horses on the wall.”
His eyebrows go up. “Horses?”
“I was twelve.”
“Leonora Shaw, I didn’t think you’d be a horse girl.”
“I will end you.”
He grins. “Show me.”
The room is exactly as I left it - which is to say embarrassingly teenage. The horse posters. The bed with the quilt my grandmother made. It’s too small for two people but we’re going to make it work anyway.
Zane closes the door behind him and takes it all in.
“You really liked horses.”
“I was a child!”
“You’re blushing.”
“I am not.”
He crosses the room.
“You know what I remember about that night?” he asks.
“Which night?”
“The first one. When you came back to my apartment. I remember you were wearing this jacket - red and blue, satin. And you had glitter on your collarbone.”
He reaches me, his fingers finding the spot he’s talking about, tracing the line of my collarbone, near where the scar from the Showcase is.
“I wanted you before Halloween. I just didn’t know how to have you.”
“You have me now.”
He kisses me again, and this time it’s not slow. My back hits the door. His hands are under my shirt, on my waist, on my ribs, finding the places he’s learned in all those nights we’ve stolen.
“Your mother,” he says against my throat.
“She’s a deep sleeper.”
“Leo-”
“Zane.” I pull his face up to mine. “Don’t make me wait anymore.”
He pulls my shirt over my head, and then his is gone too, and I’m pressing against him, skin to skin, the cold air raising goosebumps everywhere he’s not touching.
He walks me backward toward the bed.
He lays me down on the too-small bed, the quilt scratchy beneath my back, his body warm and solid above me.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
“I’m proud of you.”
“I haven’t done anything yet.”
“You showed up.” He kisses my forehead. “You always show up.”
Then he kisses my mouth, and I stop thinking about tryouts and short lists and all the ways this could still fall apart.
There’s only him. Only this.
His mouth traces down my throat, my collarbone. His hands find the waistband of my pajama pants, tug them down, slow, deliberate, watching my face the whole time.
I pull him down and roll us over so I’m on top, so I’m the one looking down at him for once. His hands find my hips, fingers pressing into the muscle there, and the sound he makes when I move against him is something I want to bottle and keep.
“Leo-”
I press my hand against his mouth, shutting him up. Then I take my time. The way he does - slow, patient, savoring every sound, every shiver, every moment he catches his breath.
When I finally sink down onto him, his head falls back, his hands tighten on my hips, and he says my name like it’s the only word he knows.
Afterward, we lie tangled together, the quilt kicked to the floor, his arms around me, my face pressed against his chest. His heartbeat is still fast. So is mine.
“Hey,” he says eventually.
“Hmm?”
“When you make the team-”
“If.”
“When.” His hand traces lazy circles on my back. “When you make the team, I’m going to be at every game I can get to. I’m going to sit in the stands and yell at the refs and embarrass you in front of your teammates.”
I laugh against his chest. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s a promise. And one more thing,” he says.
“What?”
“When you score your first professional goal - and you will - I’m going to be the first person to text you. Even if I’m on the ice. Even if I have to bribe someone to hold my phone.”
“That’s very romantic.”
“I’m a very romantic guy.”
I kiss him again, and the world outside and all the ways this could still go wrong - fades to nothing.