Page 33 of The Art of Falling in Love with Your Enemy
Out of breath, I stop at the end of the dock as Brett slows down from holding a lead in his hand.
“Stay here, Zac, in case Chewie gets past me.” He nods his head at me like we’re in this together. “You’ll be the last line of defense.”
Bracing myself, I say a silent prayer that I won’t be steamrolled today by an alpaca, and watch as Brett approaches the out-of-control creature. In the lake just beyond where Brett stands, Etta treads water, keeping an eye on all of us.
Within a few seconds, Brett has the lead back on Chewpaca and is walking him off the dock, both his and the alpaca’s head hung low.
“Gosh, I’m so sorry.” He looks at me and shakes his head as he indicates to Etta coming out of the water. “Anyone have a towel?”
One of the guys having lunch had been sitting on the ground on a beach towel. He doesn’t even think twice before hopping up and racing to Etta’s side with it, wrapping it around her.
“Thanks,” she manages through chattering teeth before turning to look at Brett. “That was fun.”
Lucy, who I’d honestly forgotten about until now, pipes up from a spot she’d commandeered on the ground. Her eyes, full of faux-patheticness, meet mine. “I think I twisted my ankle.”
“I can help with that,” Brett chimes in beside me. He thrusts the lead in my hand. “Can you hold on to Chewpaca for me while I give this nice young lady an assessment?”
Lucy giggles as Brett kneels beside her, checking her ankle and leg for any signs of an injury. I’m pretty sure she’s got another kind of pain going on, one that requires more than a physical checkup. It’s also the kind I’m not qualified for, if you catch my drift…so maybe Brett will be.
Turning my attention to Etta, I put an arm around her shivering shoulders in an effort to further warm her up.
“Are you okay?” I say low enough so only she can hear me.
Etta nods. “I’m just cold. You guys go ahead with your bonding activities. I’m going to head to the cabin and take a hot shower.”
I keep an eye on her as she meanders over to her cabin and lets herself inside. Shaking my head, I turn my attention back to my team.
Life surely isn’t dull when you know Etta McCoy.
* * *
The rest of the day ticks along slightly better than the beginning. We conquer our Random Words of Kindness game, and after I catch Lucy laughing about Etta going in the lake, I have everyone make cardboard boats—for our spontaneous boat race for the McCoy Cup, a new event I’m proud of…even if its namesake never rejoins us at the lake for the rest of the afternoon.
When it’s time for dinner, Etta shows up. As I walk into the kitchen to start the grill, she’s already there making guacamole and salsa.
“I turned the grill on for you about ten minutes ago,” she says with a smile as she looks at me, pointing at the bowls in front of her. “Are you ready for some Wholly Frijoles?”
“Is that a Mexican dish?”
“It was the name of a restaurant I loved going to in D.C.” She grabs an avocado, scooping it out and plopping its insides into the bowl in front of her, smashing everything together. “ ‘Loved’ being the key word there.”
The grill is set up outside the kitchen door, so I step outside and throw a few large pieces of chicken breasts on it before closing it and coming back inside. On the counter is a pile of tortillas.
“Can you get started heating those up?” Etta asks.
“Of course.” I turn on the stovetop gas burners and grab her pile of tortillas. “My college roommate showed me this method for heating up tortillas, and it’s one I’ve perfected over the years.”
A smile plays on her lips. “Oh really? So you think it’s some big secret to warm up your tortillas on a gas burner?”
Tossing one on the burner, I let it flip in the air once before it falls, then shrug. “Can anyone else do dinner and a show like I can?”
“That remains to be seen.” Etta chuckles as she grabs a few tomatoes and starts dicing them.
Making sure she’s watching me, I do a few more aerial tricks with my tortillas, including one where I toss it in the air and spin it in place, turning around to catch it and place it on the burner. When I look over, Etta rolls her eyes.
“I hate to be the voice of reason, but I feel like you may get hurt.” She’s about to say something else when a notification on her cell phone, sitting on the opposite counter, goes off. She walks over and stares at the screen before she closes her eyes and opens her mouth. Wide.
When she stays like that for longer than ten seconds, I tap her shoulder. “You good?”
