Page 33 of End Game
“If you weren’t so pretty, watching you would be disgusting,” I laugh.
She shrugs, not giving a fuck what I think.
We stroll through the park, where the Water Festival is in full-force. White Christmas lights are strung over the street that’s been shut down for the occasion. Vendors hawking trinkets line the right side, food stands fill the left. Up ahead is a bank of games and carnival rides and one very loud cover band that’s doing a shitty job of covering classic country music. It’s kind of amazing.
The air smells of fried food and is filled with laughter and music. It reminds me of being a kid and the music festivals in Tennessee. I’d start begging to go right after school, and if I was lucky, we’d trek down there on Friday night for a few hours of running amok.
Layla takes a few steps off the road and dumps the remaining elephant ear into the trash can. She pauses to help a little boy get a red balloon out of a tree, the string a touch too high for the kid to retrieve. She stands on her tip-toes, halfway hopping into the air until she comes down with the end and holds it triumphantly out to the boy.
Watching her interact so easily with the child, just as easily as she did with the veteran that welcomed us into the festival, is a sight to behold. She talks to them like they’re old friends, and by the time they’re through, they probably are.
She saunters back my way, dressed in a pale purple summer dress that hits just above her knee. She could fit right into this little town as another PTA member or woman working the table for the local church. She could fit right in, but she’d stick out. She’s the most beautiful woman here.
Before I can really do much damage with my imagination, she reaches me. “You having fun yet?”
“Oh, I’m having a ball,” I sigh.
“You love it. You know you do.”
“Yeah, maybe I don’t hate it.” Glancing down, she’s looking up at me with a knowing smirk. “Fine. It’s fun. All right? You happy?”
“Yup.”
“Good because?—”
“Lemon shake-ups,” she breathes, her eyes twinkling. “Come on, Branch. I need one.”
“You do not. You just ate a pound of dough smothered in sugar. If you have any more, you’ll go into diabetic shock.”
She stops in her tracks and very carefully lifts her chin. “Tell me again I don’t need one.”
The lights dangling overhead appear to make her glow. Her blonde hair shines like a halo . . . then you get to the look on her face. That’s different. That begs you to push her because she’s willing to throw back.
Not many girls are like this. Most would ask to go to a fancy restaurant or to have box seats at a concert. Lots of the women I know would have on killer heels and a face full of make-up and do whatever I said and half of what I didn’t. Not this one. I’m notone hundred percent sure she brushed her hair today. She’s an enigma, one I can’t wrap my head around quite yet.
“Get me one too,” I say finally.
“That’s what I thought.” Winking, she trots off to the stand. I stay back, hovering near a telephone pole, and watch her order two drinks. The man shaking the white plastic cups is obviously enchanted with her. He smiles too wide, leans in too close, and I’m not even sure he takes her money. But by the time she’s back to me, all I can think about is the grin she’s wearing and the way her eyes are lit up like a carnival ride.
“Here,” she says, thrusting a cup at me. “These are amazing.”
The cold, sweet, and slightly bitter drink hits my taste buds. “Wow. This takes me back.”
“This is my ‘must get’ thing at festivals,” she admits, leading me down the street. “My mom got me hooked on these as a kid. She always made my dad buy her one, even if the line took forever.”
“That was me with candy apples. I used to love the shit out of those.”
“We’re going to get you one.”
“No, we aren’t,” I laugh. “The season is getting ready to start. I can’t be eating total crap.”
As if I haven’t said a damn word, she sidles up to another stand with a green awning. “One candy apple please.”
“Sure thing, madam.”
We watch the guy pluck a cherry red apple from a tray and wrap it in plastic wrap. He hands it to Layla while I pay. She gives it to me as we walk away.
“You’ll thank me later,” she promises.
