Rebels Like Us

by Liz Reinhardt

  “Just fine, hanging out safe on home, fair and square.” I bat my lashes.

  He presses the bill of my cap back. “Walsh called you out, girl. Don’t you know when to quit?”

  “Never.” I wiggle to get off him. It’s hard to ignore how good our bodies feel pressed together. “I need to pee in the worst way.”

  “Breaking your seal this early? Sure you wanna do that?”

  “Who says this is early?” Once I stand, all the fluid in my body rushes to my bladder. I need to find a place five minutes ago. “Maybe I’m on my way out.”

  “We’re jest going into the third inning,” Doyle argues, and we both look at the field. A few seconds ago, it sounded like a vicious brawl was about to break out, but it resolved itself fast.

  I’m no detective, but I’d say the quick resolution had something to do with fresh cans of beer and Handstand Girl getting everyone to trade their mitts and bats and balls for a clumsy impromptu gymnastics exhibition.

  “Looks like baseball has been trumped by cartwheels.” I fix my cap and bob up and down like a toddler.

  “Cartwheels,” Doyle scoffs. His scorn doesn’t stop him from admiring the girls turning cartwheel after cartwheel in the prickly grass.

  “I should head home.”

  “Hell no. The night’s young. Even if those fools don’t wanna play ball like good ’mericans, you and I gotta do something. At least till the streetlights come on. You can’t go in before the kiddies do.” He tilts his head. “C’mon. I know a bunch of bushes you can go behind.”

  “No way.” I’m no prude, but I will happily walk the couple hundred feet to my street and use a toilet. “It was fun. I left your mitt right by Lonzo’s on the bench.”

  “All right. Lonzo’ll grab any stray balls and mitts and keep ’em till the next game. There’s a nice as hell bathroom right back there.” He points to a building that’s no closer than my house, but no farther either. “Whadda ya say… You wanna take care of business and watch the sun set with me?”

  It’s a simple question, and it demands a simple answer.

  But the longer I’m around Doyle Rahn, the more complicated even the simplest things become.

  ELEVEN

  “Lead on.”

  I’m not ready to leave him yet. Plus who doesn’t love watching the sun set?

  When we get to the low building, Doyle looks in both directions before he takes a key out of his wallet and opens the locked bathroom door.

  “You have a key to the neighborhood bathroom?”

  “And pool and weight room. And conference center. It’s all in the same complex.” He tucks the key back in his wallet and tosses me a shameless Artful Dodger pickpocket smile. “What? I like a clean restroom when I’m done tryin’ to keep all these scrawny suburban trees alive. The idiots always leave the key under the mat. Practically begging me to steal it.”

  “Criminal,” I declare. He bows like I gave him a compliment.

  In the bathroom I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, my dirty face streaked with sweat, my hair exploded out of my ponytail holder and hanging loose over my forehead, the little bit of mascara I gooped on this morning streaked under my eyes.

  If I’d been with Lincoln, I would have rushed to fix myself. With Doyle, it feels like this dirty version of me is just fine.

  That said, I still take a few paper towels and wipe the grit from my face, then rub my fingers under my eyes to smear the mascara into something resembling smoky eyeliner. And I pinch my cheeks the way my abuela always does to get some color.

  Because I like this reflection better. Hevi nais. I smile as I push open the door.

  “Ready?” Doyle offers me his elbow and we walk past the ball field full of amateur gymnasts. Half have devolved from cartwheels to forward rolls, the other half sip beer and watch the sun turn the sky rose gold.

  “You need another beer?” I ask to open the possibility of going back to his crew.

  “Nah. Two or three are okay, but I’m not about getting bombed.” He leads me around a turn and we walk past elaborately gabled brick-faced houses with dark windows and waist-high weeds, for-sale signs pitched in the yards. He motions for me to sit next to him on a porch railing. There’s a perfect view of the sunset from here. “This was pasture when I was a kid.”

  “Like cows?” I let my hair down from the ponytail, even though the air is still sticky. The slowly setting sun tricks me into thinking the unrelenting heat will let up. It never does. Day is like an oven with the light clicked on, night is the same oven with the light clicked off.

  “Like herds of cows. And some chickens. Not many trees though.”

  We look at the grass, stained setting-sun orange, and I try to imagine the idyllic presubdivision pasture scene.

  “Pretty stupid that they got rid of the pasture to build houses no one wants to live in anyway.” I flick my eyes over the rows of gold-hued houses, still clean and neat, but leaning another fraction of an inch toward decay every passing day.

  “To accommodate the Yankee swells.” He gestures to the neglected homes with a sweep of his hand.

  “Seriously with the Yankee stuff again?” I knew there was a whole Southern pride thing before I came here, but this is crazy. “When I told people I was moving to Georgia, no one talked about rebels.”

  Granted, the few people I did tell warned me about shitty school systems, poverty, and racism, which—honestly—seemed like accurate worries to me.

  “Maybe I should’ve said it different,” he amends. “They got built for the people from the North looking for cheap houses when the economy tanked. Guess no one sent them the memo that it tanked down here too.”

  “It may have tanked here, but it’s still way less expensive than New York City.”

  “Makes sense.” Doyle kneels down and inspects what looks to me like a weed. The gentle way he touches it makes me wonder if I’m wrong or if Doyle just loves things that grow so much, no green thing registers as a weed to him. “E’rybody knows city life’s expensive. Guess I never really thought about regular people living in big cities. Jest imagined lots of doctors and lawyers and stockbrokers.”

  “It’s not easy.” I grimace. “Our apartment wasn’t too bad because my parents bought it when the neighborhood was still up-and-coming. But jobs at my mother’s university were super hard to come by, and she kind of had to take what she could get. Down here, she’s the head of the American studies department. She was only an adjunct in the city.”

  “No kidding?” Doyle massages the leaves of the little brown plant like he’s trying to do plant CPR. “I didn’t know your ma was a professor. No wonder you’re so smart.”

  “I’m smart because I’m smart.”

  Guilt twists in my gut. I’ve been so busy being furious at my mother for uprooting us, I never considered what an amazing career move this was. We honestly haven’t talked about details a ton, but she mentioned the other professors are friendly—though it wouldn’t be hard for them to be nicer than the total jerks she worked with back home. She drives a car to work instead of battling crowds on the subway. Our generic house is so much bigger and nicer than our drafty, cramped apartment. We even have a pool. Talk about moving on up.

  I’ve been consumed with whining about how I’ve gone from heaven to hell (or at least purgatory), but this move has been the reverse for my mother.

  We wander off the porch once the horizon swallows the last pink rays of sunset, and I kick at some loose sidewalk cement, sidling so close to him, I can smell the tang of aftershave mixed with the sharp burst of sweaty guy and a general good, clean scent that’s just Doyle.

  “I guess people down here are bummed by so many transplants. I get how it could be weird.”

  “People here’ve been bummed ’bout change for the last three hundred years.” Doyle leads me through a backyard to my own fence. “Screw them if they say a Brooklyn accent’s like listenin’ to nails on a chalkboard.”

  “Who said that?”

>   But he’s already hopped the fence. I guess this is what we do now. Avoid kisses and jump fences all day long.

  He gives me a hand getting over and we weave around lawn chairs and potted palms to sit at the edge of my pool.

  “Nobody who knows what good-sounding really is. Now, me? Can’t get enough of that accent, myself.”

  His undeniably romantic statement hangs in the air as he peels off his shirt, unbuckles his jeans, and kicks off his boots. He’s in one sock with his belt loose in its loops when I finally snap out of staring at all of him, tanned and strong and surrounded by the buzz of tiny insects that must be biting him, though he’s not swatting them away.

  “What are you doing?” I ask around my suddenly fat tongue.

  “Swimmin’. Finally made a rich friend who has this big ole pool. Let’s use it.” He slides his belt off and drops it on his clothes pile as he nods to me. “Your mama won’t mind, will she?”

  I wonder if Mom’s in a wine coma. “Wait here. I need to get my bathing suit.” I don’t look when I hear the drop of Doyle’s jeans, even though I want to.

  Unfamiliar shadows spook me when I open the door and walk through the living room. I call out, “Mom?” My distorted voice echoes back off the vaulted ceilings.

  I’m primed for another confrontation. Worst case, Mom’s sprawled on the couch, an empty wine bottle twisting on the floor in a lonely game of spin the bottle. I rush to the kitchen and am temporarily blinded when I flick the light on. A Post-it is stuck to the fridge. “Went to the movies with the girls in the Italian department. Be home late. Love you. Mom.” She signed her name with a sloppy heart.

  “‘The movies’?” I mutter, fingers pressed to the note. “‘The girls in the Italian department’? Random. Guess I should be glad your date isn’t a kinky married freak.”

  I head to my room, wrestle into my red bikini, and ignore the empty couch and vacant kitchen as I fly out back and swan dive into the pool. Underwater, the fury of my racing thoughts is muffled into bubbles that erupt silently out of my mouth. I float to the surface just as Doyle cannonballs next to me.

  We tangle around each other underwater, his fingers jabbing my eye accidentally, my heel kicking his stomach without meaning to. Then we both push to the surface and break through, gasping out laughs and pressing our hair away from our faces.

  “You wanna race?” His voice is all cocky sweetness.

  “Again?” I bluff uncertainty to throw him off my scent, because I’m so winning this round.

  My abuela lives next to an apartment building with a gorgeous pool, and the doormen (who loves her and the fresh-baked deditos de novias she brings over) always let us use it while they gobbled up every single powdered-sugar-covered cookie.

  I am an exceptional swimmer.

  “Two laps?” he offers, like he’s afraid I’ll be winded after that.

  Snort.

  I bite my lip. It’s a total farce, and his self-assured smile tells me he buys it…hook, line, and sinker.

  Our fingers curl on the pool’s edge and we brace our feet against the wall as he counts back from three. I even give him a second’s head start because that’s how sure I am of my body slicing through this water like a hot knife through a big stick of yellow butter.

  The water caresses me, up and down, under and over my limbs until I’m part of every bubbling molecule. My strokes break through the water, strong and focused. When I pull out in front of Doyle, I’m jostled by his splashes, a last-ditch effort to gain on me.

  He can’t.

  I win and wait with my arms resting on the edge of the pool, cheek on my hand like I popped out of the water hours before him instead of seconds.

  “You some kinda mermaid for real?” Doyle ducks back under and tunnels through the wavering water until he’s close enough to grab my ankles and drag me away from the ledge. I have just enough time to hold my breath before I plunge down with him into the silent, cool underwater world where I’m strongest.

  We circle each other, splashing until I’m surprised the pool’s not half-empty, and brush up, silky wet skin on silky wet skin. It’s got to be exactly what swimming in a pool of electric eels feels like: disarming, jolting, and a little scary.

  When Doyle finally drags himself onto the concrete patio, he’s gasping. “Holy hell, Nes. You’re not tired?”

  I shake my head, catch water between my hands, and squirt him right over the heart. “I could swim for hours.”

  “I could watch ya swim for hours.” He links his fingers together behind his head and lies in a half-crunch position he has to know shows off every ab.

  And he has many.

  Six at least, each more glorious than the last.

  Even submerged in water, my skin burns and tingles like I’m standing under a heat lamp. “So, do I get my own four-wheeler next week?”

  His wide smile suffocates a full laugh. “Not ATVs, Nes. We’re going mudding. Trucks.”

  “You’re taking your truck out?” I swim between his legs. His boxer briefs are drying fast in the hot night, and, even though it’s ridiculous and rude to look, look I do. It’s hard not to when there’s a lot to see.

  “Sure am. Me, you, my truck.” He wraps his legs around my back, heels just above my tailbone, and tugs me so close, my arms rest on the hard muscle of his thighs. “Lots and lots of mud. Basically it’s as close to heaven as I can imagine.”

  “So, what’s the point of this again?” My voice is admirably even, considering how my heart attempts to kickbox out of my chest.

  “Point?” Doyle scoffs. “What’s the point of two innings of drunk baseball?”

  “That’s an excellent question, actually. What was the point of that?” I nestle against him and suck in a breath when his gaze drops down and follows the stray water droplets that skim underneath my bikini top.

  “The point? Fun, Nes. Damn, you need so much fun education, it ain’t even funny.” His heels pull against the small of my back and his knees squeeze my sides.

  “I know how to have fun.” It comes out as suggestive as I was afraid it would. I want to keep going, suggest we get wild, peel off our swimsuits, and jump back in the water where we could swim until dawn.

  I stop myself from making those suggestions.

  Lincoln pulverized my heart, and Georgia is just a blip on my timeline before I go home. The pulpy mess of an organ knocking around in my chest doesn’t need any more trauma at this juncture. I lock both feet against the side of the pool and push off with all the strength in my legs, breaking Doyle’s hold on me. He flops back like I shot him through the heart, and I do two laps, breaststroke, then kid myself into believing my heart is thundering from cardio, not Doyle.

  I drag myself out of the water after the third lap, my muscles on fire. He’s already fully dressed, his damp hair still pushed off his forehead.

  “You’re leaving?” My heart sinks like a stone chucked in the pool. He can’t stay here all night. I can’t sneak him in the way I used to sneak Lincoln in, and let him do things to me I used to let Lincoln do…but better. Possibly.

  Probably.

  The possessive way he looks at me, the honest things that spill so easily from his mouth, the way he touches me—respectfully, but with a wild undercurrent—all make me think being with him would be everything I never realized I wanted.

  My brain is a basketball dribbling against the inside of my skull.

  “I got some stuff to get done before we head out next weekend. I had to pull some major strings to get so many weekend days off, and my cousin’s making me pay.” He twists the Yankees cap so the brim is backward and looks at me like he wants to say something. At the last second his eyes shutter like he changed his mind. “C’mere.”

  I’m a puppet on his string. I don’t care; I just want.

  He wraps his arms around me and hugs me tight. We fit against each other—bumping knees, damp hips, freckled shoulders. “You wish on stars?”

  “Just look at them. And make up constel
lations that don’t exist.” My voice creaks.

  His blond lashes tangle at the corners when he closes his eyes. He leans in and rolls his forehead against mine. “I’m gonna wish.”

  “Okay.” I let my nose brush the prickly stubble of his cheek. “Isn’t it bad luck to tell?”

  “Nah.” He drags his lips slowly along my jawline until I whimper. “I wish…” He takes his time nuzzling the sensitive skin under my ear and whispers, “I wish I thought you lost that race on purpose.”

  “I didn’t,” I stutter, eyes closed, head tilted back, wanting to feel his mouth on my neck.

  “I know that. I wish I didn’t know, ’cause I’d’ve kissed you. But you got this plan to leave, and I don’t think I’m gonna be okay gettin’ left by you. Goddamn, I never wanted a single thing in my life the way I wanna kiss you right now.”

  Are my lungs processing air? Are my veins transporting blood? Are my organs functioning the way they should be, or are they failing me? All my body registers is the feel of Doyle’s hands, one spread wide on my back, his calloused palm warm and rough over my spine, and one tucked around my neck, his fingers laced through my hair, his thumb rubbing that tingling spot just under my ear.

  His hands pull away. His mouth follows. And I ache.

  My eyes flutter open as Doyle vaults the fence, and I listen to the thump of his boots as he runs back to his truck, away from me, toward the next time I wish was right now already.

  TWELVE

  I need to hash out every detail of this whole date/not date with someone I trust, but there’s a problem.

  I’ve been calling Ollie since Doyle left almost an hour ago, and she hasn’t answered me yet. Which is weird. No texts back, no videos of kittens stuck in tissue boxes or impromptu collaborative orchestras arranged by Austrians in old-world squares. Nothing.

  My secondary fear—which I fully realize is based on binge watching too many crime dramas—is that Olls is dead and no one knew how to give me the news gently, so it went undelivered.

  My primary fear—the one that claws me raw because of its probability—is that Ollie’s just busy. Too busy living her life. Without me.