Playing Hurt - By Holly Schindler Page 0,71

can get away,” I tell her. I glance up to make sure the front desk is still empty, that no one from the dining room is heading into the lobby. When I’m sure we’re good and alone, I search her eyes. They curl into a smile as I lean forward to let my lips graze her cheek.

“How about,” she says, playing back, her lip running along my jaw, “bowling?”

“Bowling?”

“Yeah, a rematch.”

“I don’t think so,” I tell her, running my fingers along the V-neck of her blouse.

“Drive-in got another classic movie playing?”

“Chelse—”

“Okay—how ’bout that rain check?”

I squint at her, shake my head. “Rain check,” I repeat, not quite understanding.

“Remember? When Mom showed up at the cabin? And you told me ‘rain check’?”

“You want to go night fishing,” I mumble, but I can’t laugh, not with my entire body threatening to explode.

“Meet me at my cabin. Seven o’clock,” she says. “Brandon’ll be at Pike’s by then. So will Mom and Dad.” Her voice trails off and her eyes spark as she flashes me a crooked grin.

“Just make sure,” I tell her, “to duct tape Brandon’s strap to his Marshall this time.”

Chelsea

score

Sure you don’t want to come?” Dad asks for what must be the eighty billionth time.

I shake my head.

“You and I could go out to the patio at Pike’s. Horse rematch. Come on,” he pleads. “That band of Brandon’s gets a little—”

“—bit better every single time we go,” Mom interrupts. “And it’s our last chance to hear the Dwellers play. You sure you want to miss out on that?”

You really have no idea how much I want to miss out on that, I think as I try to play it cool, nonchalantly waving them all goodbye.

And then I’m alone, in a quiet cabin, waiting for Clint. And waiting. Fidgeting.

I sit on the couch, stare for a moment at the spiral notebooks Mom’s stacked on the coffee table—I open one and start thumbing through, flipping past all the recipes she’s been tweaking. When I get to the blank pages at the end, I drum my fingers awhile. Hate the empty sound they make against the paper. Just for something to do, I pick up the red marker Mom’s been using to edit her recipes and draw a giant heart on the page.

As I run the marker over the heart, quickly coloring it in, I can hear the now familiar sound of the waterfall in the distance. It pulses like the blood in my ears.

My mind races as I begin to cook up a plan, a way to make sure Clint and I won’t be interrupted this time. A plan to make sure the wild, excited rhythm of my body—the rhythm that drums every time I see Clint—will get a chance to beat within the world’s most perfect setting.

I flip through the rest of the notebook, drawing a giant red heart on each page and quickly coloring it until I hit the last blank sheet. On this page, I write a quick note.

Mind churning, I rip all my pages from the notebook. I grab the comforter off the twin bed in my room, fold it up, and tuck it under one arm.

I hurry out the door, shutting the screen on the note I’ve just written, and hurry down the front steps. My entire body is throbbing as I tuck myself into a thick patch of leaf-covered branches and wait for Clint to make his appearance.

When he shows, he’s rushing. Probably faster than he’s supposed to. He hurries up the porch steps, knocks on the door. Takes off his cap and smooths his hair. Raises a fist to knock again when he sees my note. He snags it and reads the message I scrawled for him:

Follow the hearts …

He darts for the porch railing as if to jump it, then pauses, obviously thinking better of it (probably remembering the doctor’s warnings about reinjuring his shoulder—don’t I know what that’s like). He hurries down the steps.

I spear my first heart page through the lowest branch of a tree just beside the path stretching toward the waterfall. And I start to make my way up the trail, spearing pages of red hearts onto the lower limbs of trees. I look over my shoulder to see what kind of progress Clint’s making. But I keep moving forward, even while glancing back, keeping myself in the cover of low-hanging limbs. I’m not quite ready for him to see me.

He keeps making motions with his hands as if to tell