Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 107453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Still, that nagging voice doesn’t let up. But with Ledger enrapt in the tour, now’s not the time to ask them about their adventure lists. Instead, I grab the winery postcard from my bag and thrust it at Dev. “It’s not the same as offering to be my honeymoon tribute, but I wanted to get you a little something,” I say.
He takes it, his smile spreading slow and pleased as he regards the image on the front—a grape harvest. “This is an awesome gift.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s just—”
“Nope. I love it.”
My heart beats a little faster. Maybe this is his daily dose of good. “Why do you collect them?”
“I started when I was, I dunno, thirteen or fourteen. We’d just moved back to California from Minnesota,” he says, jogging my memory. He was born in San Diego, moved to Minnesota, then returned to Northern California. “And I’d had a run of bad games. I was trying to get my footing in a new place, and then I grabbed a postcard from a road trip to Monterey and my gameplay started to turn around. It felt like a good sign.”
“And it has been?”
“I haven’t looked back since. So yeah, maybe it has. Maybe if I collect enough, I’ll get a cup.”
There’s that ambitious side of him rearing up. It’s so strong in him, maybe just as strong as the side that’s upbeat and kind.
I wonder how hard they war with each other.
When the tour ends and we head to the town gift shop, I find him another postcard, then I grab a book—a brief history of ghost towns for Ledger. After I pay surreptitiously, I sneak both into my bag. As we head out the door, we weave to the side, ducking out of the way of family photo hour. A girl with long black braids strikes a playful pose near the porch railing as someone down the stairs takes her pic. A young blond boy stands on the porch of the museum gift shop, likely flashing a grin at his mom who’s down the six or seven wooden steps, snapping a shot of him in front of the old town sign.
“I want to grow up to be a ghost in a ghost town,” the kid declares.
“Or maybe a person who visits ghost towns, Travis,” the mom offers as she lowers the phone.
“Nope. I’m going to be a ghost. I’ll be one for Halloween,” he says, then heads for the steps. But he smacks his forehead. “I forgot my candy.”
A whirling dervish of energy, Travis spins back around, races into the store to grab his nearly forgotten sugary goods, then with half a Nerds Rope in his hand, he barrels out of the shop seconds later right as we reach the steps.
The tornado of a child scurries past us, flying toward the stairs.
But he trips on his laces. He tumbles face-first toward the step when a big hand reaches out to grab his arm, the other grabbing the railing hard so they don’t topple down together.
I gasp.
A second later, Dev lets go of the railing, sets that hand on the kid’s shoulder, then yanks him upright.
I breathe again as the goalie places the kid safely on his feet.
“Did he just…?” I can’t even finish the sentence my heart’s beating so fast.
“He sure did,” Ledger says, awed, too, as the mom rushes to her son.
As she flings her arms around Travis, she thanks Dev profusely. “I’m so grateful. I can’t tell you how grateful I am,” she says, words coming in a rush.
The kid turns around, squeezing the Nerds Rope. “And my candy’s safe as well.”
“Travis, thank the nice man,” the mom says.
“Thank you, nice man,” Travis says, and after a few more thank-yous, she turns around to go, her arm draped around her kid.
The hair on my arms is still standing on end when Dev turns and meets my gaze at last.
I’d expected a no big deal smile, or a right place, right time quip. Instead, he’s shaking out his left hand and grimacing.
32
I SEE PLAYS
Dev
I’d like to find the person who invented splinters and give them a piece of my mind.
“What the—” I bite off the rest of my words as I jerk my gaze away from Aubrey’s careful, methodical work on my hand.
I can’t even look. That makes it hurt even worse.
We’re at the car in the mining town parking lot, the driver’s side door open. I’m side-saddling the seat, and she’s bent over my hand like a good nurse, working out all the evil pieces of wood from my palm. Before she began, she swiped my palm with an antibacterial wipe from her bag, then cleaned the tweezers too. Even though it’s afternoon, Ledger’s holding his phone, the flashlight on, to help Aubrey see every single awful piece of it.