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"Look at that sunset," I say to Percy, who's standing there sweating, looking all tawny and unwashed and golden. "It's ... perfection." Maybe the only thing I've been missing this whole time is just some good lighting.
"Quit being a girl."
I punch him in the arm as hard as I can—"Fuck you, prick"—and I laugh the way a dude would laugh.
He grimaces and rubs the spot where I nailed him. But he doesn't hit me back. We walk off the courts into Riverside Park and head east toward the streets. Percy puts his arm over my shoulder like I'm his personal moving armrest, and I look up at his face. If I were someone else, how easy it might be to kiss him. If I could trade in my athleticism for beauty, just for a little bit, just to see what it's like.
He starts telling me about the new book he's reading by some French nihilist he's just discovered. With my arm around his waist, I can feel his lungs expand and contract with the rhythm of his voice. We've been through a variation of this routine before. He will want me to read it so he can have someone to talk with about it. And I'll read it, partially because I'm genuinely interested but mostly because I like talking to him. Because the world rains arrows and honey whenever he's near me. Painful and sweet.
Excerpted from The Falconer by Dana Czapnik . Copyright © 2019 by Dana Czapnik . Excerpted by permission of Atria Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Judge a man by his questions rather than by his answers.
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