Page 24 of The Unfinished Line

Well, wouldn’t she be surprised.

My focus snapped back to Dillon. She wasn’t mocking me.

“Uh—research.” My voice sounded tight and I wondered if she could see straight through me. For all of Sophie’s pep talk about being an actress, at the moment I was on track to receivea big green splat onRotten Tomatoesfor my inability to sound anything other than robotic.

“A new role?”

I nodded.Something like that.

She didn’t press me.

We caught a cab on Roosevelt Blvd. and headed downtown. I’d been anxious about seeing her again, worried I’d made an enormous mistake. I didn’t know this girl. She didn’t know me. I didn’t even know what I was expecting—or what I even wanted. I just knew I hadn’t wanted to leave it the way we did. And now, sitting beside her in the taxi, watching the sun sink closer to the horizon, I found her relaxed affability put me at ease all over again.

“You haven’t told me about your race.” I was glad to steer the conversation in a different direction.

She pulled her hat off, running her fingers through her hair. Sun-bleached. Salt-bleached. Chlorine-bleached. Whatever it was, I loved the color of it.

“Another day, another dollar.”

“That good, huh?”

She shrugged. “Nah, any day racing is good. It just could have been better.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that. I’d really hoped she’d win. Everything online had indicated she was a strong favorite amongst the field. There were a number of high-ranking athletes competing, but according to the articles I’d read, the fast, flat track had favored Dillon. The race, being offseason, hadn’t been televised or streamed, and the results hadn’t been posted by the time I boarded the bucket of bolts I’d flown in on.

“I’m sorry.”

She brushed off my sympathy. “Only one I’ve got to blame is myself.”

I would have teased that at least this time no crazy motorists had tried to turn her into a pancake, but I didn’t want to prolong the subject if she wasn’t happy with her results. I imagined her competitive drive didn’t handle losses lightly.

When the cab let us out downtown, the sun had dropped low enough for its golden orb to brush the cerulean water, turning the surface of the ocean into a mosaic of topaz glass. I’d learned on the ride over that Dillon had a destination in mind, but seemed in no hurry to get there as we strolled along the waterfront, comfortable in our intermittent silence.

“So when do you head for Sydney?” I asked, our steps slowing as we crossed a pedestrian bridge in front of the cruise ship terminal. A sign indicated we were approaching Mallory Square, where a small army of people had gathered to watch the sunset. Over the top of the crowd, I could see street performers on stilts and high wires, and pyrotechnic hoops being raised in preparation for an evening oceanside show.

Dillon stopped in the middle of the bridge, appearing as unenthusiastic as I was to enter the fray. The glint of a smile touched her green eyes as she turned to face me. “You remembered that?”

I was confused. “Remembered what?”

“That my next race is in Australia.”

“Oh.” For once it wasn’t my internet sleuthing that was at fault for my rampant mouth. She’d mentioned Sydney the first night we’d had dinner on the lanai at the hole-in-the-wall restaurant. Still, I could feel my color rising. It probably wasn’t normal to remember schedule details about a person you’d barely met. “I…” I stopped talking. I didn’t need to dig this hole any deeper.

Her smile broadened. “It’s nice, Kam-Kameryn. That you remembered.” She reached out, sliding her fingers between the strap of my backpack and bare skin of my arm, lifting it to slingover her shoulder. “The race is the first weekend of December, so I’ll head over a week early to get acclimated to the change in weather.”

“Oh, right—it’ll be winter on that side of the globe,” I announced brightly, my thoughts too focused on where her fingers had grazed my skin to stop my mouth from committing its blunder. As soon as the words came tumbling out, however, I was aware of my error. “Summer,” I corrected emphatically, “I mean—because, well,” I gestured around us, “obviously it’s winter here. Or, will be, after it’s not fall.”

Oh my God, Kam. Just stop talking. Clearly she didn’t need my sixth-grade geography lesson on hemispheres.

“I’ve generally found it to work that way—winter coming after fall,” Dillon teased, slipping her arm through mine once more as she turned our steps toward the growing crowd.

A schooner sailed by, the deck packed with party-goers on a sunset cruise. They waved and shouted and raised plastic glasses in a toast to the mob on land, who responded with an enthusiastic cheer of their own. It was loud and chaotic with far too many people, and my silent relief soared when I realized Dillon was navigating us away from the square, and down a lesser-populated brick road.

“Alright,” she said, stopping in front of a weathered two-story building with an old-fashioned ticket booth out front. Beside the door was a replica jaw of a megalodon, displaying the 276 teeth of the extinct shark, and above the blue and white canopy, a sign that readAQUARIUM. “You up for a little excursion?”

I glanced from her to the ticket booth, uncertain whether she had noticed the sign indicating they had closed for the evening.

“I think we might be too late.”

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