Page 257 of Waiting Game

I stare around the picture-perfect town and shake my head. “We both see something different.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean this place is adorable.”

“No way. It’s a dive.”

“A dive?!” I shriek, twisting to gawk at him. “It’s gorgeous.”

“It’s old-fashioned.”

“Cute.”

“Boring.”

“Quaint.”

“Slower than frozen maple syrup! It’s a backwater, babe. You don’t have to be polite because you’re afraid of hurting my feelings.”

I blink at him. “I’m not being polite. Your perspective’s skewed. I do have a question though.

“Hit me with it.”

“Where are the pigeons?”

“The pigeons?”

“Yeah. You know, the birds!”

“What birds?”

“It’s named after pigeons!”

“No, it’s not.”

“It is!”

“It’s not.” He snorts. “Pigeon was this old fucker who conquered something or other.”

“Informative.”

“I don’t remember what he did. Killed someone, colonized something. You know the drill. He was a piece of shit who didn’t deserve to have a town named after him.But, there’s some satisfaction in knowing all he amounted to was you thinking his town was about birds.”

His smugness deserves a kiss. As well as a shove.

“Hey! What’s that for?”

“Being annoying and cute at the same time.”

That makes him smugger!

He starts us walking again, leading us past the tiny ‘Pigeon Creek Herald’ offices to the not-so-tiny ‘Cole Korhonen’ rink and onto a tinier bakery—Harold’s Baked Goods—where I get proof that Cole’s a legend in town.

The customers both gawk at him and whisper around him. He’s so used to it, though, that he doesn’t appear to notice.

As he buys us some water, hot chocolate, and a couple pies he calls butter tarts from a guy called Harry who’s limping around with a cane yet moves faster than Cole when he’s on the ice, he asks, “Skewed in what way?”

I don’t answer until I’ve guzzled half my bottle of water. Not because I’m drinking, but because I’m thinking.

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