“I double dog dare you to prove it.” Both in and out of the bedroom.
Bryson digs out a couple of bills and starts in on a pitching adventure that seems to span hours even if it is only a few minutes. I laugh my ass off as he struggles to knock the bottles down, only managing to knock one or two from the top at a time.
“I think you should aim for the bottom,” I say.
“I am.” He looks bewildered that his technique is failing and so miserably at that.
“Here let me try.” I take one of the weighted beanbags from him, and the top bottle doesn’t even budge once I hit it. “Hey, this thing is rigged. I nailed that sucker. Those things must weigh forty pounds each. It’s never going to work. It’s impossible.”
Bryson pinches his lips together. He washes those sky-born eyes over mine and gives a tiny grin.
“You make everything possible, Baya.” He hands over another dollar and steps back with his ammo locked and loaded like he’s about to throw the most important pitch at the world series. “This one’s for you, girl.” He heaves the beanbag at the poor defenseless bottles, and all three of them explode backward like a nuclear detonation.
“You did it!” I squeal.
“Youdid it.” Bryson wraps his arms around me and lands a warm kiss over my cheek. My stomach flutters. It cycles up and down as if we were on the most harrowing roller coaster, and it feels like bliss.
The man behind the counter hands me an oversized giraffe that glows the most obnoxious color known to man—bright neon pink.
“I think I’ll put this in my old dorm, right on my bed. You think Jeanie will notice?”
“What? You can’t part with her. We’re practically parents now.” He gives my ribs a slight tickle as we head back down the midway. “We’ll have to take her wherever we go and get a sitter while we’re in class.”
A soft laugh streams from me as I slip an arm around his waist.
“We should name her.” I lay my head on his shoulder, and, oddly, I can feel his body go rigid beneath me. I glance up, and his eyes are fixed straight ahead, his face bleached out pale as a paper white moon. “I said we should name her.” I jostle him by the waist in an effort to pull him out of his trance. “Hey, are you okay?”
A tall, lanky guy makes his way over with a girl in spiked heels that dig into the dirt each time she takes a step.
“Well if it isn’t Bryson fucking Edwards.” His dark eyes look serious—no smile. He offers Bryson a knuckle bump, and he’s slow to reciprocate. “How’s it going?” His gaze drifts over to me. I can feel his eyes wandering over my features, sizing me up before glancing at the overgrown animal tucked under my arm. There’s something familiar about him, but I can’t quite pinpoint it.
“It’s going.” Bryson loosens his grip over me until his arm falls to his waist.
The boy holds out a hand in my direction. “I’m Grant.”
“Baya.” I offer a firm shake. He holds my gaze, heavy as anchors, until finally the hint of a tragic smile breaks through.
“It’s really nice to meet you, Baya.” His eyes sweep the ground a moment.
The girl at his side picks at the cotton candy in her hand, and, for the most part, ignores the entire exchange.
Grant cuts a look to Bryson that says something just beneath the surface. “It’s nice you’re doing good—moving on with your life. Not everyone gets that chance.” He shakes his head as they make their way into the crowd.
Bryson blows a breath through his cheeks as if he had been holding it the entire time.
It hits me why he looks so familiar. “That was about that girl in the picture, wasn’t it?” He had the same dark hair, same serious eyes.
“That was her brother.”
Bryson and I head to the truck.
He doesn’t say anything all the way home.
By the time we get back to the house, there’s a seam of tangerine sky melting over the horizon. I decide not to push anything on the subject of what I’m presuming is his ex-girlfriend. Something tells me she was never a notch on his wall. But a part of me wonders if he’ll ever be ready to talk about her—if deep down I really want him to.
His phone buzzes as soon as we hit the house, and he examines it with a widening grin on his face.
“You win the lottery?” I tease, landing the giraffe on a stool in the entry.
