I join him, taking a seat cross-legged. “Let’s play twenty questions,” I say, wanting to slap my hand over my mouth as soon as the suggestion comes out.
Colton grins. “Sure.”
He leans in and whispers into my ear, “I’ll never push you or make you uncomfortable, Sky. You can trust me.”
Even so…
“I’ll ask first,” I say.
He holds his arms out wide. “Ask away.”
“How long have you been playing football for?”
“My dad had me out in the backyard as soon as I was strong enough to throw a ball.” He laughs. “I remember sitting on his knee in our living room and watching games together. Some of my happiest memories.”
As he talks about how much he loves Sundays, I’m struck by how different our experiences were as kids. He probably sat and watched some of the same games with his father as I did with mine, and yet he’s smiling like he had the time of his life doing it.
“So your dad really loves sports?” I ask him.
His eyes cloud over, and I feel like I lose him when he says in a raspy voice, “One of his favorite things in the world. Outside of his family, of course.”
“Are you okay?” I say, reaching for his arm.
He relaxes as I run my hand down his muscular bicep.
“Yeah.” He shakes his head. “Sorry. Sometimes I get caught up in the past. What about you?” he asks, turning the tables abruptly. “How long have you been writing?”
I look down at the notebook I brought with us on our walk. “I’ve kept a journal off and on for years. But I started writing for the school paper in high school. I love it.”
“Is that why you wanted to play twenty questions?” he asks with a smile. “You like to interview people?”
I think about it. “Maybe so,” I admit. “I like getting to know what’s underneath a person. You know—who they really are.”
“Do people often surprise you?” he asks.
“All the time.”
“In good ways or bad ways?”
“Both.”
He nods and tucks a stray hair behind my ear. “Another question,” he says. “What’s your last name, Skylar?”
I choke on the sip of water I just took.
Colton pats my back until I stop coughing. “You okay now?” he asks.
“Yes. Sorry,” I say. “Wrong pipe.” I blurt out, “Rosewood.”
“What?”
“That’s my last name.”
He smiles. “Cool.”
“Colton…” I look into his eyes that are suddenly so close to mine.
“Yeah?” His breath brushes my cheek. It smells good, like mint.
