The Boy Most Likely To. Huntley Fitzpatrick

prime of my life. The height of my physical prowess. The golden age I look back on one day when I’m boring my own kids. But I can’t run like the wind. I can’t run like the breeze. Patsy could run faster, without needing an oxygen tank afterward. I slump down in the sand, falling first to my knees, then rolling to collapse onto my back, hand over my eyes against the early morning light, sucking in air like it’s filtered through nicotine.

       Gotta lose the cigarettes.

      “Need mouth to mouth?” asks a female voice.

      Damn, I didn’t know there was anyone on the beach, much less someone close . . . Alice. How long has she been watching me? I edge my hand away from my eyes.

      Ah, another bikini. Thank you, Jesus. If I’m gonna die of shame, at least I’ll die happy. This is one of those Bond-girl types, dark green with a lime green zipper down the front, a little belt cinching in the bottom, about three fingers below where her waist swoops in before her hips fan out. My fingers twitch, will of their own. I shove my fists in my pockets. “Definitely,” I gasp. “I need mouth to mouth. Right now.”

      “If you can talk, I think you’ll survive.”

      I lick my dry lips. “Don’t think I’m ready for the triathlon, Alice.”

      She does an unexpected thing, lying down next to me on her side, tilting toward me, sudden smile, curvy as the rest of her.

      “At least you’ve got your running shoes on.” She looks down at my feet. “No, you don’t even, do you? Who jogs barefoot?” Her toes tangle with mine for a second, then move away. She looks down at the sand, not at me, draws a squiggly line between us.

      “It matters?”

      “Traction, honey,” Alice says.

      “I thought that was only when you’d broken a leg. Navy Seals do it. So I’ve heard.”

      I wait for her to make fun of that, but instead she smiles a little more, almost undetectably, unless you’re looking hard at her lips, which I may be doing – says, “Maybe put off the BUDs challenge until you’ve built up more . . . stamina.”

      There are so many ways I could answer that.

      She moves closer; smells like I’ve always thought Hawaii would, green and sweet, earthy, sun and sea mixed together, smoky warm. Her greenish gray eyes, flecks of gold too –

      “You’ve only got one dimple,” she says.

      “That a drawback? I had two, but I misplaced one after a particularly hard night.”

      She gives my shoulder a shove. “You joke about everything.”

      “Everything is pretty funny,” I say, trying to sit up but sinking back, my back groaning. “If you look at it the right way.”

      “How do you know you’re looking at it the right way?” Alice’s head’s lowered, she’s still circling an index finger in the sand, only inches from brushing her knuckles past my stomach. The morning air is still and calm – no sound of the waves, even.

      “If it’s funny,” I wheeze, “you’re looking at it the right way.”

      “Yo, Aleece!” I look up and there’s that douche-canoe, her boyfriend, Brad, looming large, big shoulders muscling out the sun.

      “Brad.” She’s up, brushing sand from her swimsuit. He pats her on the butt, looking at me in this my territory way.

      Dick.

      “You’re late. Brad, Tim. Tim, Brad.”

      “Yo, Tim.” Brad, man of few, and strictly one-syllable, words. One of those guys built like a linebacker but with a little kid face, all rosy cheeks and twinkly eyes. To compensate, I guess, he has a scruffy, barely there beard.

      “So, Ally-pals,” he says to Alice.

       Ally-pals?

      “Ready?”

      “I’ve been ready for a while. You’re the one who’s late,” Alice says, sharply.

       Atta girl.

      She turns to me, running her hands through her hair, flipping it back from her face. “I’m training for the five K – Brad’s timing me.”

      “You’re a runner? How did I not know that?”

      She opens her mouth, like why on earth would I know anything whatsoever about her, but then looks down, tightens the notch on the belt of her bikini bottom. Which brings my attention back to her stomach, the belly ring, and I . . .

      Roll over onto my stomach.

      Brad clears his throat, arms folded, chin jutting. Got it, caveman.

      “I won’t hold you up,” I add. Alice shoots Brad an unreadable look, drops down on her knees, bending over me again, her breath biting sweet as peppermint candy. “Sneakers next time, Tim.”

      I’m panting, hands on knees, at the end of my first sprint. Sweat slides into my eyes, and I brush my hair back, try to corral what isn’t in my ponytail behind my ears.

      Brad uncaps the water bottle, hands it to me, stooping low to squint at my face. Then he says in a low voice, “You wanna tell me what that was about?” He jerks his thumb toward the distant figure of Tim, still collapsed on the sand, head on his folded arms.

      “What? Tim? He’s my kid brother’s friend. We were talking.”

      He rubs his chin. “I dunno, Ally. That’s all it was?”

      Two more sips of water, then I pour some into my hand, rub it over my face.

      Tim’s standing up now, shielding his eyes, looking toward us – then the other way down the beach. Now he’s sprinting in that direction, no stretching out, no slow jog to start, right into a flat-out run. Gah.

      “Ally?”

      “Of course that’s all it was.”

Chapter Seven

      Sam’s Club is no stranger to Garrett family meltdowns. Harry always loses it in the toy aisle, George is extremely sensitive about our ice cream choices, Patsy gets overtired and screeches. This time, though, the meltdown is all mine.

      “I think you’re taking this waaay too seriously,” Joel says, holding up both palms in that whoa, you overemotional woman way that makes me furious.

      I shake the papers at him. “It says two red, one-inch binders. Red. One-inch. I send you off to do that one simple thing. These are blue. Two-inch.”

      “So what?” Joel scratches the back of his neck, checking out a girl who’s smiling at him while daintily placing huge packs of glitter glue in her cart.

      “So, the school list says red. We get red. That’s what lists are for. So people get things right.”

      “Al, I don’t think this is about school supplies. You’re scaring Patsy. You’re scaring me.”

      “Good,” I snap.

      Patsy points at me. “Bad.” She’s scowling from her perch in the shopping cart.

      “Not you, honey. You, Joel. Maybe you need scaring, or some reminder of what’s really going on. Because you’re not around – not all the time. You don’t see how close everything is to – to –”

      “That’s what this is about.” My brother settles back against a wall of paper towels, tilts his chin. “Me not being around all the time. That you are.”

      “No,” I say. “Not that at all. What do I care if you’re moving in with your girlfriend and starting your training at the police academy when everything is up