Bright Before Sunrise(55)

She’s laughing. Like a kid laughs—a full-abandon belly laugh—and it’s contagious. Finally she emerges from the water, breathless and dripping, wringing out and finger combing her hair. “I must look a mess.”

I watch her cross the lawn. The wet dress is glued to her from collar to hem. She tugs at it self-consciously, but when her hands move, it re-sticks to her skin. Good dress. God, why would she ever straighten hair like that? It looks like sex, like she’s just had it or wants to.

I almost forget to answer her … “No. You don’t.”

She flicks some water at me, pairing the action with a smile that makes looking away crucial.

This girl.

I can’t pin her down. Every time I want to dismiss her: with the dog, with the pizza, with Digg, she surprises me.

Tonight’s been insane. And this side of midnight doesn’t seem any more logical. Any minute now things will fall back into their crap patterns. I mean, things haven’t actually changed. Paul’s still a pretentious snot, I’m still stuck in Snob Town till I leave for college, and Brighton … she’s still Brighton.

So we shared a night and a sprinkler and a few conversations? It hardly qualifies me as her friend. I bet there’s a sign-up sheet to be her sidekick that stretches three months into the future.

Behind her, the timer on the sprinkler moves to off with a click; the streams of water fade to a dribble. Somewhere else in the park, another sprinkler will be turning on. If we chase down that sprinkler, spend the whole night going from one to the next until we’ve exhausted all options, can I stretch out this moment?

She’s still rubbing the makeup under her eyes—completely unaware that its smudges are hot. Completely unaware that she looks like a guy’s dream right now. It’s all I can do not to touch her—just to put a finger on her damp cheek or bury my face in those curls, slide a hand along the back of her dress, and pull her to me.

God, I’m as bad as Digg.

A cheesy pop song ringtone cuts the air and both our heads swivel toward her purse sitting on the ground at the base of a tree. “It’s got to be Amelia.”

She’s not in a hurry to get to the phone before it goes to voice mail, so I’m not either.

“Don’t answer it,” I say. Then, realizing it came out as an order, elaborate: “We’ve had a few minutes where neither of us is annoying the other—I don’t want you to answer that phone, talk to someone from Cross Pointe, and have it ruin everything.”

“How would that ruin—” She’s cut off when the phone starts to ring again. And I’m glad to be spared this explanation. I was already far too honest.

The pop song cuts out, and there’s a brief silence where we stare at each other. Her head is tilted like she’s puzzled, and I just want to know how I get to keep this version of her. Not the please-like-me plastic girl from earlier, but this one with mysteries and layers and—

We each take a step closer at the same time.

We’re interrupted by a third repetition of the ringtone. It cracks the moment and our eye contact.

“I have to get it. She’s not going to stop calling until I answer.” Brighton shakes off her hands and then looks at them. “My phone’s in the outer left pocket, can you grab it? You’re less drippy.”

Girls’ purses are like holy ground. Carly freaked if I looked in hers, even to do something simple like grab her cell phone or take out her lip gloss. And I remember vividly a Mom lecture from when I was eight. “‘Go get my purse’ does not give you permission to go in my purse,” when all I’d wanted was a piece of gum for my baseball game.

I stick a tentative hand in the pocket, waiting for the objection. There isn’t one, and I pull out her cell. It’s no longer ringing. I hold the New Voice Mail screen out to her.

She tries wiping her hands on her dress, but they just come away wetter.

“I’ll hold it for you,” I offer.

She laughs and nods. “Seven, five, three, one.”

Her password? She’s sharing it without a moment’s hesitation. I punch the numbers on the screen, then hit the button to retrieve the voice mail. She twists her dripping hair over her other shoulder and steps closer. As I extend the phone toward her, my hand grazes her cheek. She smiles at me.

As the message begins, she moves still closer. Another two inches and her head would be against my chest. I’m leaning in, my semi-wet shirt touching her dripping sleeve.

“Brighton? Baby?”

The voice that comes out of the phone is definitely not Amelia’s and I’m standing too close to pretend not to hear it.

It’s mom-aged, sentimental, and thick with alcohol. Brighton’s eyes go wide and she stiffens, her arm drawing away from mine.

“Auntie Joan just left. We were talking at dinner, and remember that Thanksgiving when you and your daddy decided to get up early and surprise everyone by putting the turkey in?”

I should give her privacy. I take a step back, so I’m holding the phone as close to her and as far from me as possible, but I can still hear the message. Bright’s eyes are closed now; her expression looks hurt, nervous.

“Only you put it in the pan upside down and forgot to take the giblets out before you put the stuffing in?” Her mother gives this sniffly laugh and blows her nose near the phone. “I miss him …”