Slide by Jill Hathaway Page B

reach over and stroke it.
    “So you used to live in Iowa City?” I try to make my voice sound sexy and throaty, but it actually comes out kind of squeaky.
    “Yeah. I was born here. Moved to Chicago when I was little. Mom wanted to come back. No offense, but I’m not a big fan of Iowa.” He smiles apologetically. His teeth are so white. Light blond stubble covers his square jaw. I want to feel it against my cheek, my lips. My proximity to him seems to have narrowed my focus, and all I can see is his face.
    “Not many people are,” I reply.
    Zane picks up a picture of me, my sister, and my dad.
    “What does your dad do?” He gestures to the photo.
    “He’s a pediatric surgeon,” I say. “Today he’s operating on some kid who was born with his bowels on the outside.”
    Zane shakes his head. “That’s pretty impressive. I mean, your dad’s job, not the baby with the guts on the outside.”
    “I know,” I say, a hint of bitterness in my words.
    “How about your mom?” We both look down at the picture in his hands, at the space where a mother should be, but isn’t.
    I’m a little surprised he’d be so bold to ask such a question when it’s clear my mom is either dead or off somewhere else, leading a life that doesn’t include me, but I remember him on his first day, telling me that his father was dead. It feels like a natural course for our conversation.
    “Pancreatic cancer. She died when I was eleven.”
    He nods, as though I’ve confirmed what he’d suspected. “That’s gotta be rough on a kid.”
    I peer into my coffee cup. “It was. I mean, it still is. It doesn’t help that my dad is gone all the time. I’ve pretty much become my sister’s parent. He didn’t even come home to help take care of her when we found out about Sophie’s death.”
    He makes a sympathetic noise. “I know what you mean. My mom hasn’t really been herself in years. Ever since my father died, she’s been living in her own little world.”
    “So how old were you when your father died?”
    “He killed himself when I was three.” The matter-of-fact way he says it shocks me into silence.
    “It’s cool,” Zane says, as if to reassure me that there’s no right response to that news. “I don’t really remember him. I was too young. I’ve got this picture of us, though—of him and me. He was pushing me on the swing. And he’s smiling really big with his mouth, but you can see in his eyes—he’s not happy. He did it about a month after that picture was taken.”
    Oh god. I wish I could undo this conversation, go back to the dreamy, wispy cloud I was floating on only moments before.
    My shyness has been torn away by the revelations that passed between us. I reach out and take his hand, lace my fingers into the spaces between his. His hand grasps mine.
    He sets his cup down and turns his head toward me. His breath is sweet despite the coffee, but it’s laced with something else—something like sorrow. He presses his lips to my mouth.
    Here’s the thing about the kiss. It’s full of everything I’ve been missing for so long. Connection. Understanding. Warmth. And it rushes through me so fast, I feel like I’m drowning. I can’t breathe. Without thinking, I push him away. His eyes fill with hurt.
    Immediately, I regret it. I open my mouth to apologize, but he’s already standing up.
    “I’ve gotta go.”
    He’s gone before I can protest. I melt onto the couch, gasping, realizing I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want to rewind time and return to that kiss. And it scares me. The fact that something so beautiful and tenuous is within my grasp terrifies me because I know that, at some point, I will just end up losing it.
    Hours later, I flip through the channels, trying to find something interesting enough to keep me awake until Mattie gets home. I should go upstairs and find my caffeine pills, but I feel stuck, like I’ve been glued to the couch. It would take way too much energy to climb the