Bright Before Sunrise(56)

Finally Brighton snaps out of her embarrassment trance and grabs the phone from my hand, but it slips through her wet fingers and falls to the ground. I back away to go wait by a bench. She reaches for it and fumbles, hitting speakerphone instead.

“Oh, baby girl—I wish you were home. Some of your tea and a chat would be so perfect right now … but Evy says you’re out—”

Finally she presses the right key and shuts the damn thing off.

I’m bracing for an awkward exchange, watching her take deep breaths and smooth her dress down with white-knuckled fists. Her face, when she finally lifts her chin, is blank. Even if she doesn’t look as giddy as she did three minutes ago, she looks serene. It’s got to be an act, but I’m not going to call her on it.

“Where should we go now?” she asks.

“What?” I’m still amazed she looks so calm. Maybe because she knows my parents are divorced too, it doesn’t bother her that I heard her mom blubber. “Didn’t you want to go home?”

“We can’t get in your car like this.” She wrings a handful of water out of her dress and squelches her good foot against her flip-flop. “We’ve got to dry off at least a little. And I doubt we’re really supposed to be in the park after sunset. Is there anywhere good to go for a walk or sit and get some coffee?”

My own sneakers spray water through the toes as I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “But what about—” I point to her phone, feeling like a jerk for bringing it up.

“Oh, good point, I should text Amelia and tell her I’m all set. You’ll take me home, right? Eventually?”

“Eventually,” I echo with a grin. If she can ignore the voice mail, then I’m sure as hell not going to worry about it. “Hamilton doesn’t do froufrou coffee houses—and even if they did, it’s after twelve. Nothing much is open. But no one is going to bother us about a park curfew. Jeff and I used to come here all the time when we were younger. That’s how I knew about the sprinklers.”

Her people-pleaser smile melds into her real one as she looks up from her text and asks, “Did you really just refer to Bean Haven as froufrou?”

“Maybe I did— Are you going to argue with me? I only went there once. It was so pink. I tried to order a small coffee and the worker said, ‘You mean a teensy.’”

She’s laughing as I lead her to the path toward the playground. The playground Felix and Jeff had graffitied at twelve. I’d been too scared to even be their lookout. Their favorite curse words are still painted in runny letters on the bottom of the slide for all to see. It’s so rundown and beat-up compared to the eco-friendly, native-plant-landscaped parks of Cross Pointe. I wonder if Brighton’s noticing the cracks in the concrete, the weeds, or the broken swing.

I’ve never noticed them before.

Yet it was Cross Pointe that brought out my own graffiti artist—the first week after the move I’d gone so far as to buy the paint and everything. But when I’d stood outside the perfect shops on perfect Main Street with the can in my hand, I’d become as chicken as I’d been at twelve. Maybe if I could’ve painted something with social commentary, like Banksy does, but to just scrawl sloppy letters across the storefronts? I couldn’t even think of what to write. A swear, like an eleven-year-old showing off his cool factor? “I hate this town”?

In the end I dropped the spray paint into one of the trash cans spread out in even intervals.

“What are you thinking?” she asks. “You look so serious. Does this park have bad memories? Want to go somewhere else?”

“No, the opposite. See that field over there? That’s where my Little League team played. I practically lived there. I learned to ride my bike on these paths—my blood’s probably still on some of these tree trunks. I wasn’t very good at turning or braking.”

She laughs and follows my finger as I point out the landmarks of my childhood. “I’m sure you crashed just for the Band-Aids. I bet you were a tough guy even back then.”

Suddenly, it’s easy talking to her. I want to tell her more, show her more of my town. Redeem Hamilton from the first impression it made. I lead the way to the swings and hold one for her as she sits before lowering myself onto the next one.

“Before the divorce I used to live less than a block from here on Arroyo Court. Jeff, Sean, and I used to meet here to play catch. I kissed my first girlfriend—way before Carly—on the slide over there.”

“So you were a stud? You dated a lot?” She leans her cheek against the chain and looks over at me.

“Some. I don’t know about a lot. I had a few girlfriends before Carly.” She’s got this half-amused, half-preoccupied smile on her face, and it’s driving me crazy. I grip the chains tightly before asking, “What about you? Not that I’m keeping up with Cross Pointe’s gossip, but I haven’t heard about you and any boyfriends.”

The half smile locks in place, frozen in a look that’s supposed to be lighthearted and natural. I can read her better now; I know it’s not. She examines her hands, seems startled to find her nails green, then hides them in her palms and pushes off with her good foot. Her words get carried away with her swinging motion. “Sorry to disappoint, but there’s not much to hear.”

I stand up and grab the chains on both sides of her swing. Hold her hostage. “Oh, come on. Don’t give me that.” She has to know how guys look at her. Has to know she could have her pick of almost any guy in school. I refuse to believe she hasn’t played with that power.