Page 16 of Kiss Me Tonight

Maine is the fresh start Topher and I both need.

“I like Giraffe Legs, I think.” Topher jerks his chin toward where his legs are powering the pedals. “It fits.”

At five-ten, I’m no shrinking violet. And yet, just the other day, Topher stood next to me in the kitchen, while he grabbed a bowl from the cabinet, and we were shoulder-to-shoulder. Give him another few months and he’ll shoot right past me.

I try not to cry. Life was so much simpler when I could push my baby boy around in a stroller all day and not worry about him driving us into a ditch.

“Left here into the parking lot,” I tell him, gripping the seat-belt strap a little tighter in preparation for the final leg of our whopping ten-minute journey. This morning, it’s felt like ten minutes going on a hundred. “Slow, Toph. Take itslow.”

Honk! Honk! Honkkkkkkkk!

Oh,crap.

A red Volkswagen Beetle powers toward us. “Right!” I shout, darting out a hand to yank on the steering wheel. “To the right.” My precious car cries its little heart out as it hurtles back over the yellow lane markers.

“Mom, we’re going to miss the turn—”

“Nope.” Blood pounds furiously in my head. Is this what it means to have a near-death experience? It certainly feels that way. “Keep going. We’ll make the U-turn up ahead.”

A pregnant pause. And then a hushed, “I didn’t mean to almost kill us.”

“I know, baby, I know. But I’m not kidding when I say I’m gonna have a talk with your Driver’s Ed teacher. Eight-hundred bucks, Toph. That’s how much I spent on those classes, and clearly the man can’t even explain to you proper turning procedures—right here, ease up on it. Slow . . . yeah, there you go. Now turn.”

Topher decelerates to a crawl, maneuvering into the turn at such a halted pace that my foot is pressing a gas pedal that doesn’t exist on the passenger’s side of the car.

I sip my coffee and pretend it’s something stronger.

Once in the parking lot, Topher breaks into a wide smile. “I did it! Right, Ma?”

“Yup, you sure did.”

If he hears my relief, he doesn’t call me out on it. He’s too busy bopping his head along to the rhythm of tires rolling over cracked gravel while he searches for a place to park. His hair flops across his forehead again, and, knowing that I’ll be in Coach mode for the rest of the morning, I push it back for him.

No matter the fact that he’ll be trying out for varsity at the end of the summer, he’s still the same little boy who used to beg me to throw the football around with him in the backyard when his dad was away at Steelers games and we were left behind.

He shoots me a crooked-tooth smile. It’s all joy, mixed in with a bit of restless energy.

His emotions are a mirror image of my own.

Adam mentioned over the phone last night that I’ll be meeting the new assistant coach today. At first, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of annoyance over not being able to pick my own staff like I’ve done at every school since I started coaching. But I’ve always been a firm believer in knowing when to make waves and when to hold your grievances close to the vest. With people like Stuart under the misguided impression that I feel entitled to lead the Wildcats because of the Levi name, now isnotthe time to rock the boat.

No matter what they think, I’m not some insolent brat ready to throw a temper tantrum because I didn’t get my way. I’ve spent yearsliving outside the Levi home base, where my surname meant jack squat—not to the school board or to the parents of the players or, even, to my own husband.

I’m an expert in biding my time and waiting for the opportune moment to strike. In the meantime, I trust Adam’s opinion. If he thinks this new guy will be a solid addition to the team, then I’m willing to rally behind the cause.

For now, at least.

Pointing to a row of mostly empty spots lining the pathway down to the fields, I murmur, “Right there. Careful of that truck, Toph.”

“I got this, Mom.”

“Of course you do, baby.”

Two seconds later, it’s clear to everyone involved that he does not, in fact,got this.

Instead of leaving enough space between the two vehicles, he cuts in close, no doubt trying to slip my Honda Civic between the parallel white lines, and bumps right into the parked truck.

Fun fact: two vehicles making it to second base releases the most godawful squeal you’ll ever hear.

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