But instead, I get a sudden urge for Elton John.
CHAPTER EIGHT
REED
12 years old
Jack chuckles at the sound of heavy grunting behind us.
“I’m gonna go help your old man with those fishing poles.”
I nod, watching him walk away.
My first impression of him was all wrong. After my dad’s tent compliment, he got right back to work. But not Jack. He sat across from me—him in his camp chair and me on the seat of a soggy picnic bench—just observing the fire.
A broken branch hanging limply from a pine tree catches my eye. It hooks near the end like a walking cane, and I move closer to inspect it. The branch is just high enough that I have to press up on my toes to reach the torn section. Bits of bark flake off as I grab on to it and give it a tug. It doesn’t budge.
I jog over to the truck for my backpack. The guys are too busy untangling some fishing line to even notice I’ve left my spot by the fire. I pull my birthday present free, excited I’ve found a reason to use it.
When I make it back to the tree, I use the blade to saw at thebranch until it snaps free. I fold the sharp end of the pocketknife back into the handle and tuck it in my pants, then make my way toward the firepit. With the raw end of the stick exposed to the flames, I jab into the kindling. Ashes sputter a couple feet off the ground and then float down to die inside the steel circle.
“Reed, don’t play with the fire,” Dad warns.
A glow outlines their bodies in the shadows where they set up camp chairs on the opposite side of the fire.
He couldn’t have brought them ten feet closer?
I acknowledge his warning with a single nod, but he turns back to Jack so quickly I’m not sure he saw. It pisses me off.
I jab the tip of the branch through the hot embers, sending a bigger log at the bottom tipping over. Sparks lift toward the sky and then fizzle out.
“Reed!” he barks again before reaching for a beer and tossing one to Jack. He pops the top open in his lap and takes a long, lazy pull from the can. He turns to his friend to tell him something else, and they both start laughing.
Why the hell did he bring me here?
If fire was an emotion, it would take the form of my anger.
I fight to control it as my chest pumps up and down. I glare at them both through the flickering haze, completely missing the moment my stick catches fire. The flames creep up the shaft and lick at my skin before I fling it out of my hands and onto a bed of pine needles.
In seconds, the whole campsite is burning.
Present Day
“You want to tell me why I spent an hour and fifteen minutes sitting next to an old woman instead of my son?”
My father trails behind me as I haul our luggage awayfrom baggage claim.
He can’t see it, but I smirk at his disgruntled voice. “You met Dolores.”
He grips me by the arm to get me to look at him. “No, no.Metwould have been ‘Hi, how are you?’”
He extends his hand as if reenacting the formal way in which he wanted that greeting to go. This time I let him witness my amusement. Unpretentious, nonchalant, spontaneous—all words I’d use to describe the woman who ditched her baggage with a stranger and left behind her ticket. Butformalis not one of them.
“Instead, I got Betty White on steroids,” he vents. “I was the kind Samaritan who volunteered to play the piano at her nursing home and ended up listening to her hip replacement saga and how much it affected her sex life.”
I chuckle at his made-up scenario. “Sounds like her.”
We clear the double doors and my steps slow. Even though it’s been at least ten minutes since we parted ways, I find myself searching for chestnut-brown hair.
