Playing Hurt - By Holly Schindler Page 0,74

this way, trust me.”

Brandon glares at Chelsea. “I don’t get to play one more gig, but she gets to do God-knows-what with—”

“Can it,” Chelsea interrupts. “I think you’ll live.”

Brandon’s face hardens, and her parents eye me. And here I am without a fishing pole, or a digital camera, or a Mae West. But right now, Chelsea and I only have a few more hours left. And I can’t waste time caring how it looks when we race out of the lodge, jump in the cab of my truck, and take off without a single alibi.

“It’s like some cruel joke, the way time flies,” Chelsea says as we walk down a creek toward the edge of the lake. Her hand’s warm in mine, but her words are cold in my chest.

“Come on,” I say, using a couple of rocks as stepping stones to cross the creek and leading her into a field covered with wildflowers. They’re gorgeous—almost as pretty as Chelsea is tonight, her yellow hair streaming across her tan shoulders.

“You know,” I add, pointing at the closest orchid, “the moment these flowers finally reach full bloom is the same moment they start to die.”

“Cheery,” Chelsea says. “Thanks.”

“You started it,” I tease. “With all that talk about time flying.”

I reach out and snap a stem.

“Hey,” Chelsea moans. “That’s not a lady slipper, is it? What happened to all that do-not-pick-under-penalty-of-law stuff?”

I show her the head of the dried-up daisy I’ve pulled off.

“Just when you meet someone special and start to get close, wham. Vacation’s over. The moment you find something beautiful,” she goes on, staring at my dead flower, “time’s up. Got to move on.”

“But the thing is,” I say, twirling the black bud, “just because a flower isn’t going to be around very long doesn’t make it any less special when it does bloom—I mean, you plant flowers knowing they’re not going to be around forever, right?”

She squeezes my hand. “Are we going to talk in flower analogies all night?”

“I think I’m being very poetic and touching. Only took me two years to figure this out. And you,” I add. “Two years, and you.”

“And a waterfall,” she whispers.

She wraps her arms around my waist, stoops a little to tuck her chin into my neck. “You make me feel strong,” she murmurs.

“Well, you know, that’s how I planned the whole thing. I meant to launch myself off that ATV. I had that dislocated shoulder in here all along.” I tap the side of my head.

“Mmm-hmm,” she says. “Sure. Seriously, though. Strength doesn’t just have to do with the physical stuff, with how many miles you can run. How much weight you can bench press. I get that, too. Took me a year, almost. A year—and you.”

She lifts her head and juts her chin out, her lip wiggling a little. “So, I told you,” she says, clearing her throat. “I told you I didn’t need any promises. But I think I’ve changed my mind.”

“Good,” I say, pushing a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear. “It’ll feel good to make a promise to you.”

“Promise me,” she says, looking me square in the eye, “that from now on, there won’t be any more living timidly. Not like you did these last two years. No more hiding away from anything that scares you. From here on out, you’ll—get out there and devour life.”

“Only if you will, too,” I tell her.

“Of course.”

“To never living timidly,” I say.

“Sounds like you’re making a toast,” she giggles.

But instead of the two of us clinking glasses, I bring my mouth to hers—sweet and strong.

Our kiss lingers, neither one of us wanting to let go. When we do finally come up for air, Chelsea’s eyes wander past my shoulder, across the landscape. Almost like she’s trying to memorize what it looks like.

“They’re looking for mates, you know,” she says with a grin, pointing into the grass. “The lightning bugs? They blink to kind of hit on each other.”

With my arms around her waist, I lower my face toward hers again. Just before I close my eyes, I notice that the fireflies are settling deep into the grass, turning their lights out for the night.

Love found.

Chelsea

handling skills

The ring of a cell phone wakes me from the nap I’m taking in the back seat of the Explorer. I rub my eyes, still trying to hang on to the dream I was having of walking down Main Street, weaving between the booths at Willie Walleye Day, staring down at our hands—mine and Clint’s—and