Free Held: A New Adult Romance by Jessica Pine Page A

learn how to float."
     "The only thing I'll learn is how to sink."
     Amber laughs. "That's the art of floating, dummy. You just have to forget how to sink."
     She makes it sound so easy, but I've been sitting here for too long. If I stay here much longer they'll want to know what's up. "I have to go."
     "That's a shame. I kind of like your company."
     "Me too." I reach out a hand and she takes it. Her skin is smooth and still greasy with sunblock. Her fingers seem very small in mine. She's looking at me with something like expectation, but I don't dare move closer. I still remember the way she went flying from my touch the first time we met.
     "Can you get back here?" she asks. "When your shift is over?"
     "Yes," I say, a tiny word that swallows the world in that moment. Everything takes on a new glow of possibility.
     "Good. Maybe we can have that drink?"
     "I'd like that."
     My radio crackles and she lets my fingers fall. Back to work.
     
    When I come back later the doors beyond the pergola are open and I'm looking into a living room - kind of off-white with pretty dark red accents. The couches are low and modern and in the middle is a long coffee table. When I get closer I see the whole back wall is some kind of fabric - like suede or something, and the delicate red flower design is actually embroidered, with sequins and glass beads that catch the light.
     Amber appears from behind a door, a lit candle in her hands. "Hey," she says, exhaling as if she was making a great effort to keep herself together. She looks amazing. I don't think I've ever seen her wearing make-up before. Her eyes look enormous. She sets the candle down on the table. "Citronella," she says. "I don't know if it really keeps the bugs away, but it can't hurt to try."
     "I didn't realize there was another room here," I say.
     "Yep. Actually this is kind of a special occasion." She smiles and folds her arms tight again, her hands on her elbows. "It's the first time I've been in here since...well...since I got sick, I guess. Can't very well invite you into my bedroom for a drink, can I?"
     I feel my face turn hot. "No. That might not be a great idea."
     "I didn't mean it like that. It's not really presentable in there. Laundry, books. Crap everywhere. I'm kind of a pig - never really got properly housebroken." She picks up a throw pillow and gives it a quick shake before setting it down on the couch. "Please - sit down. Make yourself comfortable."
     "Thanks." Her hair is loose around her shoulders. She's too-thin in a straight little black dress that comes down to her knees. I want to ask her about the scar, about why she's hiding herself away, but that wasn't the deal. I want her to tell me only when she wants to tell me.
     "Is wine okay?" she asks. "I don't really like beer."
     "Wine is great. Thank you."
     This is terrible. This afternoon I thought we were easier with one another, more relaxed, but now my spine feels like a steel rod. We're not talking - we're just making polite noises at one another.
     She pours out two glasses of pink wine and passes one to me. "Zinfandel," she says. "Kind of training-wheels stuff, but I'm a cheap date these days. I hope it's okay." She sits beside me and holds up her glass - she's trying so hard to play the perfect hostess but the ripples once again give her away.
     "You're shaking," I say, as our glasses clink.
     "I know. This is big - for me. Huge, actually. Isn't that stupid? I walk into a different room and it's some kind of progress."
     "Amber, it's not stupid at all."
     "It is. You don't have to pretend I'm not a freak."
     "You're not a freak," I say. "You've obviously got some things going on. That's all."
     "You're very sweet," she says.
     I laugh it off. "Nah. Not really. But if you ever want to talk...you know."
     She reaches out and gives my fingers a quick squeeze. "I know. Thank you."
     We sit there in stiff silence for a while. I watch the light play on the surface of the