Page 10 of The Long Haul

Tapping her nose, I agree with a, “Spot on.”

“Did you just boop me?”

“Not if you didn’t like it.” Covering his hands with his eyes, Carson spreads two fingers and peeks out through the space he created. As if he’s scared of my response. The longer I delay answering, I hear exaggerated sniffles coming from him. “Put me out of my misery, woman,” he pleads.

Cracking up, I tell him, “I did.”

“You did didn’t?”

“That just made my brain hurt.”

“I’ve got the cure for what ails you.” Then he shifts his feet, pretending to be Scooby and Shaggy, even throwing in a zoinks for added effect. I hear laughter from the direction of the kitchen, more than likely due to his arrival there, and smile. When he’s back, a mug in each hand, he gives a slight bow. “I come bearing gifts.”

“That smells delicious.” Getting to my tiptoes, Carson being a good deal taller than me, I frown at the fact I can still see liquid under the marshmallows. “Peasant. There should be no chocolate visible,” I mutter. “Good help is so hard to find.” Tsking, I raise my voice a smidge and mock holler, “Guards! Off with this head.”

With absolute awesome comedic timing, the door opens, Carson’s dad, and his brothers, Damon and Vincent, enter, stomping their shoes on the mat to rid them of the snow I didn’t know had fallen.

Carson sets his mug down, then lifts his hands, using them as shields to protect his throat, as they remove their outerwear. “Stay back,” he jokes, dropping a hand to grab me and thrust me in front of him.

“Hey!”

“Every man for himself,” he says, winking when I turn to glare at him.

“I’m a woman, dork.”

“That you are.” Is that interest in his eyes?

Can he see the same in mine? I know I shouldn’t get attached, or even entertain the idea that anything could come of this, but is it so bad to want just this one thing for myself?

Is it really for yourself when he believes you’re Aubrey Simcox?

What’s really in a name?

The truth.

Hater.

“I’m glad you noticed.”

What are you doing?

Ignoring you.

“I’ve noticed a lot about you.”

“I’ve noticed the tree isn’t finished,” Damon chimes in.

“We won!” Vincent crows.

Glancing at Mr. Jenkins, expecting him to be the voice of reason, is a mistake. “Losers,” he cackles, using his thumb and index finger to make an L which he holds against his forehead. The other points at me and Carson with no small amount of smug attached.

“You distracted us on purpose,” I accuse him. Then lift my own index finger and inform him, “See! I can’t point, too.”

“So there,” Carson tacks on.

“We won fair and square,” Damon defends their victory. “First dibs is ours.”

Still holding my hand, Carson slowly backs away from the trio. In my ear, he whispers, “On my mark. Run.”

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