Lullaby of Love by Lucy Lacefield Read Free Book Online Page B

bruising? What am I saying—she’s not one of my teammates! Jesus! Why am I so nervous?
    I twist my wrist to look at my watch out of the sun’s glare. 7:00—ish. It could be a minute or two fast or slow. If it’s slow I may have already missed her by now; it was about this time that I clobbered her yesterday. For that matter I don’t even know if she would show up here the very next day, what with classes Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Tuesday, Thursday, most of them. Being here’s a roll of the dice.
    . . . I’ll risk it.
    Not even my dreams could escape the thought of her. I tossed and turned all night, getting up once to saunter into the kitchen and get a glass of water. They came one after the other. . .  she was there in the stands waving the school colors as I crossed the finish line. . . and with Kate laughing at my mishaps, as I took joy in seeing them smile together. . . I saw her sitting with me on the porch swing back in Kansas 50 years from now—looking the very same way. . . and I saw her in my bed, softly breathing, asleep in my arms.
    I sit the coffee on the sidewalk beside the bench. My hand’s started to sweat a little, maybe from just clinging to it for the walk here, or from my nerves that seem to be running way too high. Anyway, if she does finally let me touch her hand and introduce myself, I don’t want her disgusted by the warmth.
    I rub my spread fingers up and down on my jeans. The hardness of my thighs being pressed against this bench, squeezed into heavy denim, makes me glad to get down to the stadium and change into shorts. I roll my head around one time trying to shake away any obvious unease. And take a deep breath in and out.
    Just as I get a little centered, I hear a glass door clang shut from up and around me, and footsteps for the first time since sitting here. . . but coming from the building. . .
    Not knowing if it’s her, I don’t want to walk out to the end of the stairs as if I’m presenting someone with a bouquet of coffee for the being the first person to walk on them this morning.
    The heightened anxiety in me comes rushing up and I turn. . . and I can’t help the smile that controls me immediately.

 
     
     
     
9
     
     
    shay
    His smile.
    I find myself smiling too before looking away to say good morning to a fellow grad student passing at the bottom of the steps.
    As I turn back, he’s picking something up off of the ground. I’m glad that he’s approaching me; I feel a little frozen in place.
    “Hi.” He’s just as gentle looking as he was yesterday, even in all of the commotion.
    “Hi.” I feel for the strap across my shoulder and slide my bag down to my side.
    “I brought you a coffee to make up for spilling yours. I’m sure sorry about running into you. Are you alright?” He steps closer and offers me the cup. There’s a bag taped to the top of it with little disposable creamers and packets of sugar. The thoughtfulness almost makes me feel lightheaded, as if I’m in a dream state. As much as I wanted him to be here, I can’t really believe that he’s standing across from me.
    I reach for the cup, my fingers lightly grazing his. Now I’m fully alert. “I’m fine, really, not anything a couple of aspirin couldn’t help,” I nervously manage half-truthfully. My body still reminded me this morning of the remnants of pain in some places. “Thank you for the coffee,” I say, looking up at him. His eyes connect with mine, and in them I can see all of the flecks of colors that make up hazel, in the softest eyes I’ve ever seen on a man. And for a moment I feel compelled not to shyly turn away, not instantly, like I would normally.
    “I’m Dane,” he holds his hand out. A thousand thoughts race past in one second, but not one of them this time telling me to resist the invitation.
    “. . . Shay,” I say, sliding my hand into his. The length of his fingers cradles my hand in one soft, fluid motion and he gently releases it.
    “It’s nice to