Free How to Keep Rolling After a Fall by Karole Cozzo

doesn’t match up with the reality of him . From the waist up, he is strong and capable in every sense of the word.
    We are both quiet on the ride home, except for my directions on where to turn, but Pax speaks up at once when we pull up in front of my house. He lets out a low whistle. “Yeah. You’re rich.”
    It’s easy to come to this conclusion, staring at my huge brick house with the manicured front lawn, small mermaid statue, and circular driveway of crushed shells. But compared to the homes of the kids I used to go to school with, my house is nothing special. “A lot of the families who own businesses on O.I.… their houses are even bigger,” I say, hoping to downplay it.
    He laughs. “Sure.” He points to my room, where I’ve left a light on, purple curtains illuminated. “Is that your bedroom? The one with the little balcony?”
    â€œUm … yeah.”
    â€œYou have a balcony . You’re rich.” But then he taps the back of my hand. “It’s all right. I’ll try not to hold it against you.” Then there is one of those awkward little pauses, and he slaps his palm against mine. “Tonight was fun. Hope I got ya home in time so we can hang out again.”
    I take a quick breath. Impulsively, I hug him. It was such a nice feeling on the boardwalk, and it’s how I want to end the night before I walk inside. I feel close to him, and I like feeling physically close to him, too. He is surprised at first—I can tell from the way his body tenses for a second when I wrap my arms around his neck and lean close. But then he relaxes, and I feel his torso soften against mine. Seconds pass. The engine hums; the radio plays low in the background.
    I shift my face ever so slightly toward his, and his soft, even breathing ghosts over my face. It takes me back to the time on the beach, and I wonder how I keep ending up here … unless I really want to. If I shift a little further, I can—
    Pax pulls away before the thought can complete itself. There is an unfamiliar guardedness in his eyes, and his smile is tight and unnatural. “Get in there before you get yourself into trouble,” he urges me.
    Trying to recover, I force a smile. “Thanks for the ride. It definitely saved me.”
    He adds insult to injury when he answers, “Anytime, buddy.”
    I get out of the car and amble toward my doorway, feeling confused. I thought … I mean, I felt …
    But maybe I didn’t think or feel anything. Maybe I’m reading this all wrong. It’s probably the product of spending three months in isolation. I shake my head to clear it and walk inside. No one has waited up, which I’m relieved about, so I head upstairs to change into pajamas and wash my face before someone appears.
    Just before I turn off the light and crawl into bed, an incoming text message illuminates the face of my phone.
    Another fact about smiles …
    Brow wrinkled, I stare at my phone and wait. A second later, a photo flashes onto the screen. It is a close-up of my face, one he must have snapped while I was riding the pirate ship. I’m smiling, a smile that nearly splits my cheeks and lights up my whole face. I smile just looking at myself smiling.
    A second photo comes in. It’s a selfie of Pax at the base of the pirate-ship ride, the flashing red and blue lights of the Tilt-A-Whirl in the background. In it he’s smiling, too, smiling so big it’s as if he’s riding the ride right along with me.
    Then the second part of his message arrives.
    Â â€¦ they’re contagious.
    My heart rate picks up, and I smile at my phone for ten minutes.
    Considering how we went back and forth between the friend zone and some other unknown zone all night long, I’m definitely confused about how Pax feels toward me. But if I’m being honest with myself? I have to admit that I’m not confused at all about how I