* * *
—
“Why?” she’d asked; that long-ago front lawn. “Why are you sorry?”
The street had all gone dark.
“Oh, you know, I should’ve come over and helped you unpack the other day. I just sat there.”
“On the roof?”
He liked her already.
He liked her freckles.
Their positioning on her face.
You only saw them if you really looked.
* * *
—
Now Clay navigated, to a place well clear of our father.
“Hey,” he said, he looked over. “Can you finally show me your tips tonight?”
She curled in more intensely, but let him get away with it. “Don’t talk to me like that. Be a gentleman, for God’s sake.”
“Tips, I said, not…” His voice faded, and this was all part of it, each time at The Surrounds. It didn’t matter that Saturday night was the worst time to ask for betting advice, since all the big races had been run and won that afternoon. The other, less prestigious race day was Wednesday, but as I said, the question was only a ritual. “What are they saying down at trackwork?”
Carey half smiled now, happy to play. “Oh yeah, I got tips all right. I got tips you can’t even handle.” Her fingers touched his collarbone. “I got Matador in the fifth.”
He knew that despite being happy to say it, her eyes were close to tears then, and he held her that extra piece tighter—and Carey used the momentum, to slip down, to put her head upon his chest.
His heart was out of its gate.
He wondered how hard she could hear it.
* * *
—
On the lawn, they’d talked on. She was getting onto statistics.
“How old are you?”
“Pretty much fifteen.”
“Yeah? I’m pretty much sixteen.”
She stepped closer then, and nodded, just slightly, toward the roof. “Why aren’t you up there tonight?”
He quickened—she’d always had him quickening, but not in a way he minded. “Matthew told me to take a day off. He yells at me about that a lot.”
“Matthew?”
“You might have seen him. He’s the oldest. He’s good at saying Jesus Christ.” And now Clay had smiled, and she took the opportunity.