Free A Hundred Summers by Beatriz Williams Page A

the world sort of fades into the mist.” He shrugs dismissively.
    “But you’re so good at it.”
    He shrugs again. “Practice.”
    “That forward pass, the touchdown, right before you were hurt. I don’t know a thing about football, but . . .”
    “A lucky toss. The receiver did all the work.” He looks down at his plate and swipes up a trace of yolk with his toast.
    “Are you upset about your leg?” I ask, softly.
    “Well, yes. My last season. Stupid luck. Or rather stupidity, because I should have known . . . But that’s the game, you know.” He looks up. “Touchdown one moment, almost crippled the next. Anyway, I mind a lot less right now than I did yesterday.”
    We finish our breakfast. Nick insists on paying the check. He leaves, I notice, a large tip for Dorothy. We walk back out into the chill damp air, and I pull my collar tight against my neck. The street is busier now, filling with Sunday traffic. I look up at Nick, tall and impervious in a dark wool overcoat. He turns to me, and his face is serious again, almost hesitant. “What now?” he asks.
    “When do you have to be back?”
    He looks at his watch. “Half an hour ago. Team meeting. But I don’t think they were expecting me. Anyway, Pendleton will cover for me. Say I was too doped-up or something.” He taps the tip of his crutch against his cast.
    “Still, you should get back. You must be exhausted.”
    “Do you want me to go back?” His breath hangs in the cold air.
    “No. But you should, all the same.”
    He holds out his arm for me, remembers his crutches, tucks them ruefully under his shoulders. “Then I’ll drive you back to your dormitory.”
    We drive in silence, the way we drove into town, unable to put the sensations between us into words. But it’s an easier silence this time, and when we stop briefly at a signal, Nick picks up my hand and gives it a squeeze.
    He pulls to the curb with my dormitory just in view ahead. Like me, he doesn’t want the eyes of a hundred girls pressed against the windows, watching us.
    “Does it hurt?” I ask, nodding at his leg.
    “It’s all right. I took some aspirin.”
    “How do you move the clutch?”
    He shakes his injured leg. “Very carefully. Don’t tell the doctor on me.”
    “You were crazy to come. I hope it heals all right.”
    “It’s fine.”
    Again the silence between us, the car rumbling under our legs. Nick fingers the keys in the ignition, as if weighing whether to cut the motor. “I hate this,” he says, staring through the windshield. “There’s too much to say. I want to hear everything. I want to know all about you.”
    “And I you.” My voice is fragile.
    “Do you, Lily?” He turns and looks at me. “Do you really? You’re not just playing along, humoring me?”
    “No, I’m not. I . . .” My heart is beating too fast; I can’t keep up with myself. I shake my head. “I can’t believe you’re here. I was hoping I’d get the chance to see you Saturday. Budgie said I could return your jacket then, that it would be my excuse for coming up.”
    “Budgie.” He shakes his head and takes both my hands. “Why are you friends, anyway? You couldn’t be further apart.”
    “Our families summer together. I’ve known her all my life.”
    “That’s it, I guess. Don’t listen to her, do you hear me, Lily? Be yourself, be your own sweet self.”
    “All right.”
    He lets go of one hand to brush at the hair on my temple. “Lily, I want to see you again. May I see you again?”
    “Yes, please.”
    “When?”
    I laugh. “Tomorrow?”
    “Done,” he says swiftly.
    I laugh again. The coffee is racing in my veins, making me giddy, or maybe it’s just this, the sight of Nick, handsomer by the second, gazing at me so earnestly. How could I ever have thought that Graham Pendleton’s face was more beautiful than his? “Don’t be ridiculous. How are you going to be an architect if you don’t go to your classes?”
    “I’m not going to be an