Playing Hurt - By Holly Schindler Page 0,58

like I mucked up your life? But Mom starts hollering about Clint being at the door, so Dad just disappears, like he always does, every morning.

We all disappear, each of us hurrying out of the cabin and heading off in our own direction. Brandon’s guitar case whacks against the porch railing as he passes Clint. “Hiking,” he mutters one more time before heading off to the lodge to practice.

But who can care about Brandon or Dad—why let their judgmental crap ruin such a beautiful day? I can’t, not when the Minnesota morning has bloomed like a gorgeous lady slipper. Not when I’m dipping into the shade of a cluster of trees, Clint’s black hair brushing my cheeks and his mouth working its way around my neck. “Let’s go to the waterfall,” he murmurs in my ear. “The one behind your cabin. We’ll be completely alone there. Promise.”

But we’re halfway to the trail when my phone, which I’d pocketed that morning just to prove to Brandon that everything really is fine, goes off. How is it that it suddenly works? And why now?

The text is from Gabe: turn phone 2 read, he’s typed, 8. When I follow his instructions, the “8” becomes “∞.” Eternity.

The message instantly gives me an off-kilter swing in my stomach. And I don’t want to ruin my first view of the waterfall by climbing this hill filled with anything but sheer excitement.

So I grab Clint’s arm and drag him even deeper into the shade. Push him teasingly, tug him down into the tall grass.

We tangle our bodies in the summer wildflowers. When Clint rolls me onto my back, all I can see is the way the sunlight puts a hot, metallic sheen in his black hair. But when I glance past his hair, my eyes land on some familiar small purple blooms dangling just behind him, their yellow tongues hanging out: a vine of bittersweets. The kind that grow by the mill back home.

It’s almost like Gabe’s planted them there on purpose—to remind me that Minnesota is not the last word. That I will still have to go home.

Stupid Gabe. Stupid bittersweets. I close my eyes; all I feel is Clint.

Clint

tactics

Greg!” I shout, banging into the dining room of the lodge. “You don’t need the Minnow tonight, do you?” The Minnow, the small skiff that Greg, Todd, and I bought together a couple of summers ago.

Putting down his burger, Greg wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “What for?”

“Night fishing,” I say.

“Why aren’t you using one of Earl’s launches for that?” Kenzie’s voice calls out. I turn to find her standing in the doorway of the lodge gift shop, eyeing me skeptically.

Greg stops chewing for a while to eyeball me, too.

“Because I have—such a small—group—signed up, checking out a launch is ridiculous,” I explain. But my voice is too high, and I’m too fidgety. I’m a crappy liar.

Greg shrugs, like he doesn’t care that I’ve served him up a bunch of bull. “Sure,” he says. “She’s tied to the dock closest to the lodge.” He crams the rest of his burger in his mouth.

“Haven’t seen you at Pike’s lately,” Kenzie tells me as she comes into the dining room. The gift shop door sighs as it falls shut behind her.

Greg stops chewing again, looks up at me from the corner of his eye.

“What?” I say. “It’s not like that means something. Greg’s sitting here eating some crummy old cheeseburger instead of letting my mom feed him.”

“Brandon hauls me up to the stage as soon as I walk in the door,” Greg says around a full mouth of food. “If I don’t eat now, I don’t get any dinner.”

“Everybody asks about you when you’re not there,” Kenzie presses. “At Pike’s, I mean.”

“Well, you know—keeping the paying customers happy’s a full-time-and-a-half job,” I say stupidly.

To prove my intentions, I disappear through one of the staff exits into a supply closet. Burst back into the dining room carrying a couple of poles. I try to make a big show of the poles, jiggling them around before rushing outside. I race right past the Minnow, the early evening sun staining the lake orange, and head straight for cabin number four. I do plan to take Chelsea out on it—but fishing’s not the goal. I’m thinking more along the lines of a beautiful woman under the moonlight, and long kisses with no one around to catch us.

Chelsea throws the door open before I have a chance to even knock. Her