Page 24 of Leo and His Love Bunny

She has done the same. We stare at each other over the coffee table, over our rows of airplanes, over the friendship that seems to have settled between us.

I like her. I really do. She’s cute and funny, and she wants to do right. I can tell that much, and she has a moral code that is based on a solid foundation and not just on the shifting winds of whatever society thinks is right. Ireallylike that. It’s hard to do. It’s hard not to waver back and forth, believing that whatever you’re doing at the moment is right, but instead denying yourself and what you want, not changing what you believe to make something that you used to think was wrong right.

That’s what our society does today, and it bothers me. Anything could be right. Anything could be wrong, it just depends on who’s thinking about it and what they want. That’s not for me. I need something firm. A firm foundation to build my life on, otherwise it’s all just shifting sands.

No one can build anything strong and dependable on shifting sands.

Regardless, I zero in my focus and all of my attention on the paper airplanes in front of us.

I fight a grin as Nora holds my eyes while she slowly reaches for the notebook beside her, pulls the pen out of the spiral binding, and rips a page out.

All the paper that she has given me so far was drawing paper with no rough edges, so this is something different. I keep my face impassive, although I’m wondering what in the world she’s doing.

She sets the paper flat between us, puts the pen in her left hand, and writes my name on the top line, underlines it, then draws a vertical line down, and then writes her name and underlines it.

She gives me a little grin, but her eyes are narrowed. “To keep score.”

I like it. Every competitive instinct in me is on fire, scorching, but it’s all in a good way. It’s not because I want to crush this woman and walk away a winner. It’s because I love the thrill of the game. And I love even more the thrill of her across from me.

I get the feeling that’s the way she is too. She’s enjoying herself, determined to win, yes, of course, but also having the time of her life.

This is my kinda girl. The kind of girl who has a paper airplane contest for fun, in a serious and competitive way, but still fun.

She lifts a brow. “You first.”

Well, all right then. I’ll go first.

I look at the far wall and try to find something that will be challenging but doable.

I point to the top corner of the window. “Top corner, stick.”

I’m not sure I can do this. The hospital where I learned to do this well was an older hospital, and not everything was completely square. More because of settling than because the craftsmanship was shoddy. At least that’s what I tell myself. Regardless, I spent hours throwing paper airplanes at the corner of the window and trying to get them to stick.

There was enough of a crack there that if I hit it just right, I could.

Her mouth has gone to an O, like the idea of getting a paper airplane to stick in a crack in the window had never occurred to her, and she wants to argue with me and tell me that it’s not possible.

But of course she doesn’t. She has that competitive instinct as well. I can see it in her eyes. It pours gasoline on my fire.

I look at the corner window, make some calculations in my head, pull my paper airplane back, and note that she does not watch my biceps while I do it. Her eyes are glued on the corner.

Probably because she doesn’t want to distract herself, at least that’s what I tell myself. It makes me smirk. Perhaps that’s why my airplane hits the corner but does not stick.

Or maybe this apartment building is built better than I thought.

Regardless, her eyes slide to mine, and our gazes meet, acknowledging the fact that I hit what I was aiming for but failed to make it stick.

The lesson is not lost on me, but I don’t go down that rabbit hole right now. Instead, I lift my chin a little, a challenge, a go-ahead signal, alet me see you do itkind of thing without saying a word.

She understands perfectly, smirks just a bit, and picks up her airplane.

Interestingly, she chooses one from the middle. They all look the same to me, and I would have thought she would have picked up the one on the end, but she doesn’t.

She has a technique, a nice follow-through, and she looks more like a baller than a hockey player as her forearm thrusts, her wrist flicks, and her airplane flies, straight and true, directly to the corner. And sticks.

She watches it for a good four seconds before she turns her head back to mine, her brows lifted, inquiry on her face, like she is asking if that is good enough.

I pick up the pen and put a tally mark in her column.

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