The Girl Who Fell by S.M. Parker Read Free Book Online Page B

last year. We are both laughing, his two fingers in a peace sign behind my head. I drop my gaze to my bureau, to the framed photo of us when we were five, Gregg pushing me on a swing at Young Ones childcare center where we got bused after our half days of kindergarten. I remember how we’d play king and queen and pretend to live in our castle under the slide. He kissed me then, too. A peck on the lips because we were married and that’s what married people did. It’s almost impossible to believe my view of marriage and trust was ever that simple.
    â€œI’m heading over to Gregg’s.”
    A beat of silence. “Do you want to wait? I can go after work. You know, if you need support.”
    I do need the support. I have no idea what I plan to say, but, “I think I should go alone.” It’s never been hard to talk to Gregg. I’ve never had to prepare to talk to Gregg. I draw hope into my lungs that this time will be no different.
    â€œOkay, come by after. With chocolate.”
    â€œYou bet.”
    I shower, get dressed, and head out on my mission. I drive for nearly two hours and never even enter Gregg’s neighborhood. I start to understand why Dad took the easy way out via a note.
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    By the time I arrive at the park, Alec is waiting. Heat rushes to my face as he watches me pull into a tight parking space. Honestly, no one can understand the curse of Irish skin unless you live in it. I turn the keys, keep my eyes cut to Alec and his casual lean against his shiny robin’s egg blue antique Mustang. He’s wearing that secret smirk that I’ve come to expect.
    I wave. He nods. I move toward him, suddenly self-conscious about my body. My too long legs. My too curly hair. My nose that’s just this side of crooked. Why are effortless good looks always wasted on boys?
    â€œHey,” he says casually.
    â€œHey.” I go for casual too, hoping it doesn’t sound like I practiced this one-word greeting in front of my mirror a hundred and three times after hanging up with Lizzie this morning.
    â€œYou’re right on time. Two o’clock exactly.”
    â€œI’m punctual,” I say.
    â€œPunctual says a lot about a person.”
    â€œWhat does it mean when a person shows up early?”
    Alec just smiles, in a way I can’t read.
    So I look at his car. Cars are easy. I know cars. Dad used to leave issues of Classic Car magazine on practically every surface. He gave me and Mom quizzes when we were driving and he’d see the oncoming chrome grill of any car manufactured before 1972. I’ve been dragged to enough car shows to know this model anywhere. I swallow back the sadness that rises when I think of the July issue of Classic Car . The one that came right after Dad’s note. The issue that prompted Mom to cancel the subscription altogether. I can’t tell her the magazines keep coming, how I hide them in the back corner of my closet along with some of his other things.
    â€œSixty-seven fastback. With a three-ninety, right?” My voice inadvertently takes on the tone of grease monkey mechanics, men with toothpicks wiggling between their teeth. Why can’t I just be normal, be myself? But that’s the thing about meeting Alec here today—just seeing him makes me think there might be a whole other normal for me, one I don’t even know yet. I shift on my feet, my toes nervous with this uninvited newness.
    â€œUm . . .” He laughs. “Unexpected.”
    â€œWhat is?”
    â€œA girl who knows muscle cars.”
    A blush heats my face like wildfire combing underbrush. “My dad,” I say, as if that’s enough of an explanation.
    He nods, but doesn’t press for details.
    I feel a sudden need to thank him. For not prying. For not pushing.
    â€œI’m glad you came,” Alec says.
    â€œYeah?”
    He reaches a tentative hand toward me and I take it.