Page 73 of The Guy in the Alley

He grinned faintly and scooted up on the bed. “I already told you what I want.”

I rolled my eyes and walked out of the room. It’d be a cold day in hell before I put on a Sox tee and posed for a picture.

* * *

Chip was feeling pumped by the time we arrived at Polk Bros Park by Navy Pier, and I couldn’t lie. The music, the freaking T-shirt weather, and the view breathed life into me too. The green slope was lined with parents and dancing organizers of the event; there were big balloons, food vendors, a DJ on the stage, and colors everywhere. The part of the lawn near the finish line was an explosion of colors from that powder they threw over the kids when they completed their race.

I could give Sarah a lot of shit, but she was an amazing mother. She was always bringing Chip to events like this one.

She’d already texted me twice with reminders to take a ton of pictures, but as I spotted one of the two organizer tents, I noticed they offered photos for…holy shit, fifty bucks?!

Uh, I had half a mind to call the cops, ’cause that was highway robbery.

I scratched my forehead, then turned my ball cap backward.

So, blurry photos on my phone or professional pictures that robbed me blind?

“Where do I get my number, Uncle Trace?” Chip looked around, then started jumping in place and pointed up the slanted lawn. “Here they come! They run so fast!”

Aw, fuck it. He was worth it. I was splurging today.

I looked up toward the gaggle of maybe twenty kids running down the lawn, and the DJ scratched the turntables and boomed out, “Here come all the winners!” Parents cheered, and the staff got the dust cannons ready.

The run was a quarter-mile long and probably started on the other side of the tree line. I’d have to make sure to score a good spot where I could see Chip. He was a fast little shit, and I didn’t wanna miss the moment he ran through the dust. Or when he received his gold medal that was made out of chocolate.

Uncle Trace liked chocolate too.

“Let’s go get your number, chipster.” I ushered him to the other side of the finish line, and we ended up in another line.

I had no complaints, for once. Except for the price tag on that photo package. Christ. But otherwise, it was a good day. Unseasonably warm, over seventy degrees, which was promised to last for a whole day before we dropped to sixty and rain for a week, and the skyline was obviously a highlight too.

I felt my phone buzz in my pocket and assumed it was another text from Sarah.

Huh. It was from Ben.

Is there room for one more?

Was he here? I glanced around before I responded to him.

Of course. Where are u?

“Right behind you, kid.”

Shit. I spun around, only to come face-to-f… Face-to-sternum with Ben. Delicious-looking Ben in jeans, a beater, and an open flannel shirt. He only wore flannel when he was working on something handymanly. Was that a word? It should be.

“It’s Ben!” Chip declared cleverly. “Hi, Ben. I’m gonna run and get color powder in my face!”

Ben’s faint smirk morphed into a smile as he glanced down at Chip. “Well, I couldn’t miss it. Are you excited?”

“Yuh, super! Oh, this song!” Chip instantly turned to me and held up his arms, and I laughed and picked him up. Which didn’t happen every day anymore. But yeah, we had this song.

We didn’t even know the language, but it was a club-worthy remix of an African artist’s song, with a fast beat, tribal fusion, saxophone that Chip pretended to play like a pro, and lyrics we could sort of lip-sync to.

We bobbed our heads to the beat, and I didn’t exactly stand still. I had to put some oomph into each dance move Chip performed seated on my hip. The boy went all in with his hands in the air, his whole body shimmying.

I smirked. “Take it away, sax player. Here’s your solo.”

He was ready. Fuck air drummers and air guitar players—Chip beat them all with his air sax.

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