Page 52 of Playing with the Heartbreaker

“Come on. It’s out back,” he says, grabbing my hand again. My toes twitch in my shoes.

Out back? I relax a bit at that piece of information, but I’m still confused. I’m definitely not dressed for soccer, so what are we doing?

We walk around the house, the path lit by small lights nestled along its sides. Rhoads stops in front of a garden shed, whose Cardinal Ridge blue paint has started to chip. I noticed it when I was here studying, but I assumed it was for tools.

“Is this the part of the movie where you murder me in your garden shed? Because I’d be very embarrassed to die looking like Dorothy.” A nervous laugh escapes my throat.

“Nooooo.” He spins the padlock, his fingers moving automatically. He probably could unlock that thing in his sleep. “But for the record, I like your outfit.”

The lock clicks, and Rhoads removes it, pushing the door open and stepping in first. He flips a switch, and light bathes the space. I take a hesitant step inside. My mouth drops open in a gape so large I could probably swallow a soccer ball.

Dozens of snow globes sit on a wall of shelves to the left. Scattered tools on the long worktable render the wood beneath almost invisible.

“Welcome to my workshop.” Rhoads holds his arms out.

“This is incredible.” I approach the wall of sparkling orbs. My memory jumps back to that morning at Stuff ‘n’ Things, his cart full of glitter and glue. “You made all these?”

He shrugs, but his shoulders are stiff and unsure. “I like crafts, remember?”

I wander over to a shelf to examine the finished snow globes. “How did you get started?” I pick one up. Inside it, a tiny ballerina holds her leg straight up, a beam of light illuminating the hand-painted highlights in her hair. Bits of red petals puddle at her feet.

“Honest answer?” Rhoads rocks back on his heels, his hands shoved inside his pockets. He’s nervous. Which, I have to admit, is not a look I imagined on him. It’s adorable.

“Always.”

He takes a deep breath. “My therapist recommended I do something with my hands. To channel my emotions. His words, not mine.”

“Oh.” That isn’t what I’d expected.

“I was dealing with some hard stuff, and my mom made me go. Honestly, I’m glad she did. It’s made a huge difference.” He smiles, a genuine expression, and closes the distance between us. “This one’s from my sister’s first ballet recital. Danielle was maybe six at the time. If you ask her about it now, she’ll tell you she remembers falling down during the group number and crying until her nose got stuffy. But this is what I remember. Here. Shake it.”

I hesitate, the globe heavy in my hands. It feels wrong to mess up the perfection. Like eating one of the intricately decorated cakes on display in Sugar & Spice’s bakery window.

“It’s okay,” Rhoads laughs. “That’s what you do with snow globes. You shake them.”

I turn the globe upside down and upright once more. Red petals swirl around the ballerina as she, too, tumbles through the liquid. “You don’t glue the pieces in place?”

“Nope. They never fall the same way twice. It’s the same with memories. They’re moments frozen in time, but memory is imperfect. Every time we shake the globe, we affect how the pieces fall. Sometimes they land upright. Sometimes they don’t. It’s always different. There’s always a chance she’ll land on her feet, even if, like Danielle remembers, she didn’t originally.”

The petals finally settle at the bottom, creating a soft pallet for the ballerina as she lands on her side. I hand the globe back to Rhoads, and he places it on the shelf.

I’m curious now about the others. Which memories they hold and why, especially the one with the bikes I saw in his family’s den. But I decide to wait and see what he’s ready to share. “I’m glad you listened to your mom. Telling the truth is brave.”

Another shrug. “Sometimes it’s easier when you don’t know the person. You don’t care as much if they judge you. Telling the truth to someone you care about is way harder.”

He’s right. That’s why I didn’t tell my parents what really happened between me and Graham. I’ve been afraid of what they’d say. That my dad will say, ‘I told you you’re too young to date,’ and my mom will ask what I did to push him away.

“You are a constant surprise, Rhoads Simpson.”

He blushes and takes a step toward me. “Thanks for not being weirded out by this.” He gestures to the room. “I don’t usually bring people in here.”

Telling the truth to someone you care about is way harder.

“You’re welcome.” Not trusting my quickening heart, I search for a way to diffuse the desire to kiss him. But it’s strong. So strong that I inch closer, my eyes locked on his. The air crackles with possibility, a Big Moment in the making. What will happen if I let my guard down, if I just take a chance?

At that moment, I find the clock on the wall. My throat squeezes tight in panic. “Is that broken?”

Rhoads flicks his gaze toward it, unconcerned. “Half past midnight. Nope, that’s right.” He flashes his phone screen toward me, the glowing lights confirming my worst fear.