Autumn
“Let me get this straight.” Ruby said. “We’re here to support Wes, in order to hang out with Connor?”
“And to make a sober appearance,” I said. “I need to make up for getting so drunk last weekend.”
“You weren’t that drunk. You weren’t pee-on-a-pile-of-clean-laundry-thinking-it’s-a-toilet-drunk.” Ruby shook her head. “God, remember that poor girl at Marty’s party last year?”
I giggled. “I think she transferred out of state the next day.”
“Smart move.” Ruby adjusted her designer sunglasses as we walked in the brilliant sunshine toward the track at Richard F. Garber field. Instead of her usual slouchy, weekday wear, she wore jeans and a cream-colored V-neck blouse that revealed just the right amount of caramel skin.
By contrast, I felt a little prim in a baby blue sundress that buttoned up to my neck. But I burned easily and was already wearing enough one million SPF sunscreen to over-power my perfume.
“Anyway,” I said. “I was sloppy at Yancy’s. I need to make a better impression.”
“On Wes or Connor?”
I shot her a look, which she shot right back.
“I ran into Weston at the bakery last night,” I said.
“Oh?”
“We hung out a little while.”
“And?”
“And I like him. I like talking to him.”
“You two did look pretty chummy at Yancy’s.”
“Not my type,” I said. “He’s a little…too dark for me.”
“He looks pretty golden from where I’m sitting,” Ruby said, lowering her sunglasses and squinting over the field.
I followed her gaze and found Weston in his white and purple Amherst gear, warming up with his teammates. The opponents from Tufts, Wesleyan, and Williams were scattered in their own groups farther away.
The Amherst teammates talked and laughed, except for Weston, who stood apart, stripping out of his warm-up pants and jacket. Underneath, he wore a white running tank and purple shorts, revealing the long, lean lines of his body. His muscles flexed under bronzed skin, perfectly outlined by the tight contours of his running uniform.
God, he’s beautiful.
“You sure you’re not here for that?” Ruby asked. “Because I am so here for that.”
“Jeez, Rube,” I said, not looking away.
“I’m talking about the whole team, not just Wes. Damn, I just became a track and field groupie.” She flapped her hand at the men stretching long limbs. “Look at them. And soon they’ll be running and leaping and sweating…”
I laughed, grateful for the cool breeze that wafted over my cheeks as my gaze ate up Weston.
“Yep, he’s a looker, that Wes,” Ruby said. “But you’re right—he’s got a pretty good scowl going on. Or maybe he just has a bad case of Resting Asshole Face.”
“That’s not a thing. And he’s a good guy. But he’s—”
“Not Connor.” She grinned. “Speak of the devil. This should be fun.”
I turned to follow her gaze. Connor was taking the bleacher steps two at a time to meet us. He wore jeans, a T-shirt, and lightweight jacket that all looked like they’d come straight off a runway.
“You made it!” Connor’s wide-open, carefree smile lit up his entire face. “And wow, you look amazing.”
Vowing not to make a touchy-feely fool of myself again, I offered my hand. “Nice to see you.”
Connor’s hand swallowed mine, and then he pulled me in for a hug.
I lived for a good hug. One that made me feel safe or comforted. Edmond de Guiche had been my longtime hug dealer, but as I was enveloped in Connor’s strong arms, suffused with his cologne and the warm scent of his skin…
Not fair, I thought, as my body started to melt against his broad chest.
He released me and stepped back to give Ruby a shoulder squeeze. “So glad you came. Have we seen our champ out there?” Connor shaded his eyes, scanning the field. “Ah. There he is.” He clapped his hands together a few times, then cupped them over his mouth and yelled, “You’re my boy, Blue!”
Weston’s head came up and he scanned the crowds. He found Connor, gave him the finger, and then his eyes found me. I offered a little wave. Weston held my gaze a moment then went back to his stretches.
“The old Turner charm,” Connor said, laughing.
“How come he doesn’t hang with his team?” I asked.
“Weston doesn’t work or play well with others.”
I frowned.
“Don’t feel sorry for him,” Connor said. “Wait ‘til you see him run.”
A warm feeling spread through my chest at Connor’s obvious affection—and proud smile—for his friend.
The Amherst coach huddled up his team. Weston stood at the periphery, hands on his hips, listening but not participating, when the team broke with a loud, “Gooo Mammoths!”
The first race was the 60-meter dash. Weston lined up with eight other racers, one of them an Amherst teammate. I found myself at the edge of the bleacher, biting my lower lip as the runners crouched at their places, working their fingers onto the track. In unison, they straightened their legs, hands still on the ground. The air tightened in that few seconds before the gun went off. When it did, the tension cracked. The runners took off and we cheered them on.
Nine men raced alongside each other, a mass of long legs. Weston pulled out in front immediately, and within seconds the race was over. His teammates clapped hands and swatted butts, but only one said something to Weston. He nodded in return, hands on hips and breathing hard but not heavily. I imagined if Connor were on the field, Weston would end up with a bear hug whether he wanted it or not.
The scoreboard lit up with names and times.
Turner, W. AMHERST ………………… 6.97
The second place finisher had a time of 7.14.
“Holy crap,” I said.
Connor beamed. “The world record is 6.39. My boy is fast.” He cupped his hands over his mouth again. “Way to go, T!”
Weston didn’t smile, but he didn’t give Connor the finger again either.
Connor turned to me. “Want something to drink? Lemonade?”
“That’d be great, thanks,” I said.
He leaned around. “Ruby?”
“Please.”
I reached for my little pocketbook. “Here, let me…”
“I got it,” he said. “Sit tight. We have some time before Wes races again.” He started to rise, then sat again. “Before I let one more second go by, I want to say you look really pretty today.”
A warmth spread through my chest. “Thank you.”
He stepped over us to the stairs and headed down, waving at someone to his right, pausing to talk to someone on the left. This part of the bleachers wasn’t even half full for these prelim races—maybe sixty spectators—but Connor seemed to know everyone.
Ruby leaned into me. “I need to tell you something, Auts.”
“What?”
“You are sooo pretty today.”
I shoved her off. “Shut up.”
“That boy has moves on top of moves.”
“You think it’s all an act?”
“No, but he’s like one of those track guys—he’s put in a lot of training, honing his craft.”
“He’s sweet,” I said.
“He’s definitely the most popular guy here.” Ruby jerked her chin down to the field. “Can’t say the same for Wes.”
Weston was off by himself again, sipping from a water cup and watching the next event—the 800-meters.
“So maybe he’s an introvert,” I said. “No crime in that.”
“Says the reformed introvert. By the way, I’m so proud of you. I mean, two social events in two weekends. That’s a record right there.”
I laughed and leaned back on my elbows, turning my face to the sun, trusting my layers of sunblock. A cool breeze took the edge off the heat. Connor came back with lemonade and popcorn. We talked easily, laughed a lot and overall, the day couldn’t have been more perfect.
The track crew finished setting up for the 110-meter hurdles and Weston lined up with nine other racers.
Connor leaned in close to me, his outstretched arm pointing to Weston in the outside lane, closest to us. The scent of his cologne filled my nose and his stubble brushed my cheek.
“Watch him,” Connor said, his voice low and gruff. “Most hurdlers take four steps between each hurdle, but a few can take only three. Wes takes three, which gives him an even bigger advantage.”
I turned my head slightly. Connor’s chin nearly touched mine, and our eyes met. This close, the green facets were stark and clear. His gaze moved from my eyes to my mouth. My heart pounded at his pure masculine perfection and my heartache for Mark suddenly seemed to belong to another person.
The moment broke apart by the announcer telling the racers to take their marks. Connor smiled faintly and we both turned our attention to the field.
“Let’s go, Wes!” he bellowed.
The racers lined up, crouched, and took off with the gun.
“You see it?” Connor said excitedly. “He takes three steps…”
I tried to count but Weston was so fast. His legs a windmill blur before unfolding to take the hurdle. Left leg stretched, the right tucked under him, landing each time with perfect grace into the next three steps. He never once broke rhythm. Other hurdlers knocked the fences down, but Weston cleared every one and won the race. I didn’t have to look at the time to know it was at least a half-second faster than the second-place finisher.
Ruby, Connor and I cheered, and then Connor leaned into me again.
“Three steps. He’s unbeatable.”
His smile was infectious and the way his eyes held mine…
Slow down. You just had your heart broken and you’re already climbing back onto the ledge, contemplating another jump.
I gave myself a shake. This was precisely why I should have stayed home. I couldn’t do casual. With his popularity and arsenal of moves, Connor probably didn’t want any kind of serious relationship.
And my romantic heart didn’t want anything less.
I returned Connor’s smile and faced forward. The rest of the afternoon, I did my best to keep our conversation floating along surface topics: music, majors, and college life. But with every one of Connor’s smiles, every laugh, every casual touch, I felt the pull that whispered for me to take the jump—that the fall was exhilarating. But I remembered all too well how hard and unforgiving the ground could be.