Page 72 of Play Me
His brows pull together atop his sunglasses. “What’s that mean?”
The sun is warm on my face as I watch the greenery slide past my window. I’ve already said more to him than I usually tell people—and verbalized it in a more genuine way, to boot. For some reason, I don’t feel the squish of my stomach, warning me to stop talking, though. It’s probably because I don’t care what he thinks of me. It’s actually nice just talking without hyperfocusing on every single word leaving my lips.
“I mean that I moved out of my father’s house at seventeen,” I say, sagging into the seat. “Found a studio apartment that I could afford in the Pliny Building and finished the last couple of months of high school.”
“Your dad let you move out at seventeen?”
“Let meis a creative way to say it. Hey,” I say, sitting up, “is that a covered bridge?”
I lean forward as we approach the red structure with a black roof. It’s wide enough for two lanes of traffic to pass each otherand not much more. Beneath the bridge is a slow-moving creek bubbling and meandering through the landscape.
“Yeah,” Gray says, slowing the truck. “Welcome to Sugar Creek.”
The tires rumble across the wooden boards of the bridge as we travel over it, the sound echoing, bouncing off the graffiti-stained walls on either side. Black birds line the rafters and watch us like little silent inspectors deciding whether we’re worthy to visit the town or not.
“This is like a movie,” I say, squinting against the sun as we pull out of the tunnel.
“Or a book for those of us with imaginations.”
I smack his shoulder playfully. He chuckles, his dimples dotting his cheeks. Those little dents trigger a wave of warmth throughout my body, and I look away before he can see the heat in my face.
We pull into the village with neat homes and manicured lawns spaced out perfectly from one another. Some of them have white fences, others have window boxes filled with beautiful flowers. Nearly every house that we pass has a porch swing, and all of them are adorable.
Gray rolls down our windows, stretching his arm out of his to wave at a middle-aged woman sweeping the sidewalk. The fresh air filling the cab is sweetly scented. It’s a balm to my perpetually overstimulated nervous system.
“That was Amanda LaRoche,” Gray says, pulling his arm back inside the truck. “I went to school with her daughter.” He points at a small brick building with black shutters. “That’s Doc Buckley’s office. He’s delivered most of the people in Sugar County at this point. He used to come to the elementary school every winter dressed up like Santa Claus.” Gray starts laughing, looking at me with a sparkle in his eye. “My buddy, Brooks, ended that when we were in fifth grade. He fished his keys outof his pocket. Then when the staff was looking for them later, he held them up and said, ‘I found these, but they can’t be Santa’s because they have a tag on it for Doc’s office.’”
“What a little shit,” I say, laughing, too.
He turns the truck down a road to our right, and I can’t help but notice how relaxed Gray seems. The pinch that usually lives between his eyes has magically disappeared, and the muscle connecting his neck to his shoulders isn’t flexed. His lips press together as if he’s holding back a grin. He’s less devil, more devilishly handsome. I can’t decide whether I like it or hate it.
“What isthat?” I scoot to the edge of my seat and try to focus on a blur racing from the post office to the fire department. “Is that …” I narrow my eyes. “A cat with three legs?”
“Yup. That’s Blooper. He had an unfortunate accident with Biscuit Jones’s lawnmower probably twenty or thirty years ago.”
“Um, I don’t think cats live that long.”
“Maybe not average cats, but Blooper isn’t average.”
“Oh, of course not,” I say, giggling.
“I mean it.” He stops at a sign and then turns left. “Half of the houses in Sugar Creek have a cat house outside for him in case he stays the night. Everyone keeps food and water out for the little guy. When the weather is bad, he holes up with the firefighters.”
“Why doesn’t someone just take him in?”
“Someone tried once upon a time, but legend has it that Blooper fought a ghost, tore down all the family’s curtains, and pissed on everything they owned. No one else has been ballsy enough to try to capture him again.”
I huff. “I’d try it, the poor thing.”
“You would, huh?” He smiles. “I’d like to see that. One feral animal against the other.”
“You’re such a jackass,” I say, turning away so he doesn’t see my grin.
Gray slows the truck and stops at another sign. It’s more of a roll-stop since no one else is around, and we turn onto a street on a slight slope. Hanging baskets hold flowers cascading down the streetlamps with whiskey barrels sitting below. There’s a flower shop, Piper’s Pizza, and a small building on the end with a sign reading Brew Ha Ha.
“Is that a coffee shop?” I ask, laughing.
“Cheesy, huh?”
