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"Coffee table. I'm extremely clumsy."
He tilts his head and stares at me with doubt painted on his face. "You don't seem to be the clumsy type."
"Little known fact. I can barely walk straight."
His eyes plead with me to tell the truth, which I don't. I can't. God, this is torture.
He takes a deep breath and wipes below his bottom lip with his thumb. I can see him struggling with being logical and being turned on at the same time.
The breath he takes comes out in a slow hiss as he trails his fingers from the front of his hair to the back. "Let's uh, just…"
I've confused him and I feel bad for not being honest with him, but I can't tell him my dad caused them.
He climbs off the bed and roughly pushes through the lights. First, he returns to the picture of the triathlon winner. Then he gazes out the glass of the balcony door. I know he's debating pressing me about lying.
I scoot back on the bed and lean back against the headboard. I pull my knees up and wrap my arms around them.
"If someone hurt you…" His voice is quiet and restrained, but the swaying fairy lights betray the tension in the air.
I want to tell him the truth. I want him to comfort me, but I can't. "I swear it was the coffee table."
"And pulling your hair?"
"I have a sensitive scalp. Always have."
He nods but his back is stiff and he's not looking at me. He's processing this and deciding how to handle it. I need to change the subject so I start rambling.
"It's pretty lame to have a picture of someone else winning a triathlon. Isn't it?"
"What?" He pushes the lights out of the way and starts walking back toward the bed.
"I mean who does that?"
"You've never entered a triathlon? Even a short one?" He looks so good in his torn jeans and black tee, it's hard to concentrate.
"Nope."
"Where do you bike?"
"Um, at the gym."
"You don't ride a real bike?"
"No."
"Let me guess. Run on the treadmill? Swim in an indoor pool?"
Uh oh. He's figuring out all my secrets. "Weather and stuff."
He laughs and sits next to my hip on the edge of my bed. The strain has left his voice and body. He's found something to tease me about and he's narrowing in on it.
"Triathlon is a road bike and run with an ocean swim," he says.
"I know."
He reaches out and takes my hand from around my knee. He holds it gently in both of his and it warms my cold fingers. "You show up tomorrow at Callihan's Beach. I'll have a bike for you and we'll run on the sand."
I have to gulp down the massive lump in my throat. Is he asking me on a date? "You want to run and bike tomorrow?"
