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  Ethan spreads my legs apart, and his other hand slides beneath the lace waistband of my panties, slipping down to rest against me, against the pulsing warm center of my body.

  And then I can’t think. I can only feel. The brush of his fingers against me. Over and over. Perfect. So absolutely perfect. His lips on my back, my neck, his arm tight across my waist. I move against him, my body seeking his touch, my legs trembling from the impossibility of staying upright while his hand moves against me, while I move against his hand.

  “Fuck,” he groans, and the sound of his voice makes me weak, makes me wish that stainless steel weren’t so goddamn slippery. “You feel good. So fucking good.”

  He holds me hard against his body, his fingers coaxing me, making my breath come faster, making my whole body tremble.

  I can’t stand how good it feels, like a miniature sun is burning inside me, radiating through my every cell. Like I’m about to go supernova.

  And then I do.

  He slips a finger inside me, and heat rushes through every part of me, the delicious intense pulse of it almost knocking me off my feet. It rolls through me in wave after wave, sharp and overpowering, almost painful but the opposite of pain. My body can’t stop moving against his fingers. Every part of me craves more, and I’m drenched in this place of dizzying, gorgeous surrender.

  “Holy shit.” I want to kiss my own hand in gratitude for being part of my body, with blood and nerves and skin. I’m only upright because he’s holding me upright, because I only exist where I connect with his powerful arm, his skilled, beautiful touch.

  My breathing slows, and his hand slips out of my panties to join the other one resting against my stomach. “Thanks,” he replies, and I can imagine his slow, satisfied smile, which may very well be my undoing.

  I turn in his arms. His hands plunge into my hair, and I rise up on tiptoes to kiss him, to tongue all my pleasure and gratitude into his body, to give him a little bit of what he just gave me. We kiss and kiss for what feels like hours but like no time at all, like there will never be enough time to taste him, to know all there is to know about his lips against mine.

  My fingers move down his neck, trailing across the sturdy “V” of his chest, slipping down the contours of his stomach to the button on his jeans.

  “Now you,” I say, so hungry with the need to touch him that my fingers are clumsy.

  “Not yet, Curls,” he tells me, and before I know it, he’s lifted me off my feet, like I’m nothing. His hands settle beneath me, and my legs come around his waist. I wrap around him, and he kisses me again, then starts to carry me toward the living room, his lips still pressed against me so we’re clumsy, bumping into the walls.

  “What are we doing?”

  I feel his smile against my own, and then he settles me on the couch. Vaguely, I think we should probably go to his bedroom, but most of me doesn’t care. I just want more of this. Want to swim in it.

  “First, I think we need to get you out of the rest of your wet clothes,” he says, with mock concern. “And then I’ve got a few ideas.”

  Chapter 44

  Ethan

  Q: What’s your favorite hangover cure?

  Ethan?” Mom knocks on my bedroom door. “Time to wake up. It’s six o’clock.”

  “Sleep. My head . . . needs more sleep.”

  I sound like Frankenstein. With strep throat.

  “It’s six p.m., Ethan. Your head’s slept all day.”

  “What time?” My face is mashed against my pillow, and I can’t lift it. I think they may have become one. I peer at my window, seeing the fading daylight through the blinds.

  “Are you decent?” my mom says, cracking the door open. “Guess not.”

  “Geez, Mom.” I drag the sheet higher so it covers my ass. “How about some privacy?” I say, but I’m used to living in a family where nothing is sacred.

  Mom looks from the clothes I wore last night piled on the floor, to the bottle of aspirin on my nightstand, with the same analytical blue eyes as Chris. “Looks like you accomplished your goal of making yourself sick.”

  She waits for a beat, and I know she wants me to talk to her. She wants to know what’s going on, but I’m about ten years past the point of telling her. What I want to tell her is that I’m fine, but I can’t do that, either. Lying to people you care about is fucked. I thought so even before Alison.

  “I’m a goal-oriented kind of guy,” I croak.

  She laughs. “I just ordered pizzas and Matt’s on his way.”

  I push myself onto my elbows, riding the swells of a monstrous headache as I try to figure out who Matt is. Then it clicks. “Coach Williams is coming?”

  “He’s not your coach anymore. You can call him Matt now. He’ll be here in half an hour—and he’s bringing his wife, Tricia.”

  I have no idea how my former coach found out that I was home, or why he’s coming to the house, but it’ll be good to see him. I feel myself crack a smile—which makes my mom smile—which gives my mood an honest boost.

  “You called him?” I ask.

  “Maybe I did, but he was the one who invited himself over. Now get your butt into the shower. I’ll make you a vanilla milk shake and a grilled cheese.”

  Half an hour later, I feel halfway human as Matt and Tricia Williams step into the house with a bottle of wine for dad and a bunch of sunflowers for mom.

  My parents hug Matt, and then I do, which feels more normal than weird. He’s my peer now, but it’s something I’m still getting used to.

  Four and a half years ago, he came to this house to recruit me and stood exactly where he is now. His brown hair didn’t have any silver in it, and he wore a UCLA soccer sweatshirt instead of the Air Force Academy one he wears now, but other than that, he doesn’t seem to have changed at all. His vibe is still pure calm and positivity—the kind that quietly seeps into the people around him. Two minutes into his visit, and I already feel it.

  Tricia is very pregnant, and I hear a steady flow of excited questions from my mom, who disappears with her into the living room. Dad, Matt, and I settle in the family room, where an MLS soccer game is playing on the television.

  Soccer’s a small world. Matt coached or played with a couple of the guys who sprint across our flat screen, and I know a few of them, too, so for a little while, we talk about them and the game while Dad chills in his recliner, listening. Then Matt asks about LA, and I catch him up on Jason and the rest of the guys.

  “I’ve got a youth team I’m coaching,” I tell him. “They play Saturdays too, so I can’t always make it to the pick-up games, but I see everyone almost every week.”

  “You’re coaching a team?” my dad asks.

  It’s the first thing he’s said since we sat down.

  “Yeah. Boys. Under nines. It’s basically a squad of puppies, but they’re good kids. We’re seven and one right now. And I just added a kid who’s going to make us unbeatable as soon as I get him to buy in.”

  Matt leans forward and sets his beer down on the coffee table. “What’s stopping him?” he asks, genuinely interested.

  “He came in late, so getting him integrated with a team that’d already bonded pretty tight wasn’t easy. The main thing, though, is a confidence issue, but I think I’ve got a handle on that.”

  Matt and my dad fire off tons of questions about Parker, so the whole damn story comes out, from Raylene to bowling night. For reasons unknown to me, my dad laughs his ass off when he hears I had to go on dates for work, but Matt only becomes more interested, asking me questions about the other kids on my team, and then about Parker and Raylene.

  “So you got through to him?” he asks. “The team outing worked?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to work with him since bowling night, but I think so. I want to get him out a few times a week to work on his finishing skills.”

  “Can I make a suggestion?” Matt weaves his fingers together— a familiar cue, telling me he’s about to say something he believes with conv
iction.

  “Of course.”

  “Don’t work with him privately. If you’re going to work with him outside of practice, bring Tyler or one of the other boys out too. The last thing Parker needs, I’m guessing, is to feel like he’s being singled out.”

  I sit back, absorbing the wisdom of his suggestion. “Thanks. I’ll do that.”

  Matt smiles. “You’ve done the hard part already, Ethan. That’s just a minor point.” I shrug, trying not to grin like an idiot over his praise. “So, how’re the law school plans coming?” he asks. “Last we spoke, you were getting ready to study for the LSAT?”

  “Right . . . LSAT,” I mutter. “I haven’t had a chance to get to it yet, with work and coaching.”

  We’re quiet for a few moments, watching the television, but I know both Matt and my dad are focused on me. Their attention makes the blood rush to my face. My sole preoccupation becomes not fidgeting. Just staying calm.

  “Ethan, I was thinking about something on my way here.” There’s a serious note in Matt’s voice that makes my heart beat faster. “I had my squad work with a specialist this year. Mike McCarthy. He’s a psychologist who focuses on high-level athletes. The guy was incredible. Every single one of my players made massive strides in their training and game performance after working with him. Unfortunately for me, he’s leaving Colorado.”

  There’s a pause, and I know I’m supposed to fill it. So I do.

  “Yeah? Where’s he going?”

  “Out your way, actually. USC. He’s starting a new graduate program there. Masters and doctoral degrees in sports psychology. I’ve told him about your interest in psychology and your playing history. Mike thinks you’d make an ideal candidate for the program. I’d be happy to put you in contact with him if it’s something you think you might be interested in.”

  My lungs stop working for a few seconds. I stare at the television, trying to get my breathing to become unconscious again.

  “I appreciate the offer, Matt. But—”

  What can I say? My bank account is hovering at a hundred and thirty bucks right now? It wasn’t the plan?

  Think of a reason, Ethan. Think of one decent goddamn reason to turn down his offer that doesn’t have to do with money or pride.

  I hear the front door open and close. “Pizza!” Chris yells.

  A stroke of luck. Matt picks up his beer and quietly leaves, but my dad stays back.

  “Ethan.” He stops me with a hand on my shoulder, then he waits until he knows I’m really listening. “Do me a favor, son. Think about what Matt said?”

  It’s the favor thing I can’t say no to. Of course I’m going to do whatever he asks when he says it that way.

  “I will, Dad,” I promise. Then I make a break for the bathroom.

  I need to get some cold water on my face before my head explodes.

  As I turn the corner into the hallway, I run right into Chris.

  “Sup, bro?” His smile is so big, it looks painful. “How’s your day going?” He holds up my cell phone. “Because it’s about to get so much better.”

  “You little shit.” I lunge for him, but Chris dodges and slams into the wall, almost knocking down a framed picture of us skiing.

  “Who’s Mia and what did you do to her?” He’s shouting and laughing, and I have never had a clearer goal in my life. I catch his shirt and get him in a headlock, snatching the phone away. Then I pull up my texts and read Mia’s message.

  Holy Mother of God.

  I read the two lines again, but Chris swipes the phone out of my hand. He tears into the dining room. I’m right behind him, but it’s too late.

  “Dear Ethan,” he says, embellishing words that are perfect just the way they are. “I wish I remembered more of our magical night. I’m pretty sure you rocked my world. Love, Mia.”

  Laughter explodes from my mom and dad. Matt puts his arm around Tricia and grins. I can tell he’s at least trying not to lose it.

  “Thanks, Chris,” I say. “Real cool of you to share that with everyone. With my coach.”

  “I’m not your coach anymore, Ethan. Anyway, by the sound of it, I’m the one who should be getting pointers from you.”

  Tricia rests her hands over her huge stomach. “I think you do just fine.”

  “I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” my dad proclaims, like he’s making a public service announcement. “You know what they say. Like father, like son.”

  And here comes the cliché part of the night.

  I catch my brother’s eye across the table. “You’re going to die, Chris. As soon as I have the energy, your life is over.” Then I drop into a chair and prepare myself to answer a million questions about Mia.

  “Ethan, what are you doing?” my Mom says. “Don’t be rude. Go text her back!”

  Matt nods. “Prudent advice.”

  “Keep making me proud, son.” Dad barely gets the words out before he’s in stitches again.

  Chris tosses my phone across the dinner table. I catch it, and I’m out the door, in my room, and texting Mia in less than two seconds.

  Ethan: Hey, Curls. Just saw this.

  Ethan: I spent most of my night remembering what we did. Remembering you. You rocked my world too.

  I drop onto my bed, kick off my Nikes and stare laser beams at the phone. Thankfully, her response comes right away.

  Mia: You remember?

  Ethan: Most of it.

  Ethan: Enough to know I want more of you.

  No answer.

  No answer, no answer, no answer.

  Finally, it comes through.

  Mia: What about work? What about Alison?

  Ethan: Mia

  Mia: Yes?

  Ethan: I want YOU.

  Another pause. Then,

  Mia: You keep rendering me textless.

  Mia: And I want you, too.

  I stare at those words for a few seconds, my heart doing double gainers in my chest. It takes all my willpower not to call her, but it wouldn’t be a quick conversation, and I don’t want to say what I want to say on the phone, anyway. And, as understanding as my parents and Matt seem to be about the situation, it’d be rude to spend the rest of the night in my room on the phone with Mia instead of with them.

  So I go to plan B.

  Ethan: Need to see you. ASAP.

  Mia: When are you back?

  Ethan: Tomorrow at 6. Feel like picking me up at the airport?

  Mia: YES.

  Ethan: All caps yes?

  Mia: !!!YES!!!

  Ethan: OK. One more thing.

  Ethan: Send me a picture of you.

  I stare at the phone until the picture pops up.

  Mia lies on her bed, and the light is all golden and soft, like it’s coming from the lamp at her bedside. Her dark hair spills over the soft pink pillows around her, and what I can see of her shoulders is smooth, bare skin with only the thinnest black strap of a tank top or bra. Her green eyes shine with anticipation, and yet her smile is mellow and sultry—and inviting as hell.

  She looks like she’s at the point of smiling, and at the point of asking me to rock her world, and I know I’m past the point of going crazy for this girl.

  Damn.

  I know I’ll be staring at this picture all night. Imagining a thousand different scenarios, all of them starting with this moment, and ending with her quivering and saying my name. There’s no doubt about that. But right now, I need to get back downstairs. So I send her one last text.

  Ethan: You’re beautiful, Mia. I’ll thank you for this tomorrow.

  Chapter 45

  Mia

  Q: Who taught you about true love?

  In some alternate world, I’d be able to walk around like a normal person without bumping into furniture. Or I’d be able to focus on my poor Nana, who’s having a good day for once but whose words wink in and out in my mind like fireflies.

  Thirty minutes until I leave to pick up Ethan.

  That is literally the only thou
ght I seem able to hold on to today. Of course, I started with twenty hours until I pick up Ethan, which has rendered the day useless in pretty much every arena. Like I had to keep checking to make sure I put on pants before leaving the apartment today.

  Twenty-nine minutes, and Ethan likes you in just panties.

  Or out of them.

  Shut up, brain.

  I drift into my mom’s studio, where she’s stretched across her chaise, backlit by the sun and holding a photographer’s loupe up to a contact print. I notice she’s only polished one set of toenails—exactly the kind of thing I might do today.

  “What’re you working on?” I ask, though I know I won’t remember a thing she tells me.

  Twenty-seven more minutes. . .

  “New series,” she says, handing me the sheet and the loupe.

  I sit on the edge of the chaise and bend toward the sunlight to get a better look. The images are raw: simple photos of people I don’t recognize, along with close-ups on some of their features—a flat pink scar against glossy brown skin; a trace of feathered lipstick above a full upper lip. There’s a starkness and an intimacy to them that’s so different for my mom. Quiet compared to the bold, exaggerated work she usually does.

  I tell her so, and she smiles. “I like change. That’s why I keep telling you to play. The artist you are at twenty-one isn’t the same as the one you’ll be at forty. Or sixty. It’s important to be curious and open. Not fret so damn much.”

  Today, that angst feels miles away. Ethan’s coming home. We’ll be together. And I definitely do plan to play.

  I hand her back the sheet. “What drew you to this new idea?” I ask. “Or, like, to these particular people?” Part of me feels excited for her to make new discoveries and take new paths in her art. And part of me feels sad to think that part might not include me.

  She smiles. “I just follow the light. All of these people had a kind of glow. From the inside. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yeah.” Ethan has that, I think. Bright and intense, like the flare of a match in the dark.

  “You’ve got it too, my darling,” she says and cups my cheek.

  Nana appears in the doorway, carrying a hinged brown leather box. Settling into a stiff-backed chair, she says, “She’s right, you know.”