Page 19

Oh, I remembered the lake, alright. I remembered that last summer in town, and the day me, Coop and a couple of friends stole a rowboat tethered by the jetty. We headed onto the water and laid low in the hull so the crazy bird watchers wouldn’t spot us. They were always hanging around whenever we were out to have fun. We bobbled around for a while, drinking beer and talking about girls, when Ro poked her soaking wet head unannounced over the side.

She’d swum out to find us. Coop wanted to send her right back, but she refused. She’d dragged out a backpack loaded with beer cans from lord only knew where, so we’d let her stay. Who knew beer cans floated? We’d spent the entire afternoon in the bottom of that boat, drinking, playing poker, and laughing until sunset.

By the time we got back to shore, it was dusk, and Ro had had her first taste of beer. Probably more of it than she should have. Coop had a date, so I’d seen Ro home. Even held her hair when she’d vomited in the neighbor’s hedge. I’d held her upright as she fought waves of nausea and I covered up for her when I finally got her home. I made sure she got into bed okay. Just like any big brother would.

But that day, and that night, was the first time I’d seen Rowena as anything other than a little sister. The memory of her reaching out for me as I tucked her into bed stayed with me. Her heavy-lidded eyes glazed with something other than booze.

“Brody, are you ready?”

My head snapped back to the present. Ro stood beside me, skates slung over her shoulder, their faded, pink wheels a little discolored. “Your skates are pretty old.”

She chewed on the inside of her cheek. “They were Mom’s.”

My gut plummeted. Awesome. Just nominate me for the Nobel sensitivity prize. Reaching out, I touched her arm,fingertips brushing her soft skin. “I’m sorry. I guess it never gets easier.”

She stared at my hand, and I counted her breaths. Four.

Her mouth opened to speak, but a tinkling, followed by a clatter and a nudging at my back, demanded my attention. I whipped around to see two beady, rectangular eyes staring back at me. A goat? It stood on the rock bench behind me. It had to be the one I’d seen the other morning. Today, it had on a yellow sweater, but before I could ask why, it bit into my sweatshirt, chewing down hard.

“Winston!” Ro squealed, grabbing the material and pulling hard. After a few tugs, the animal loosened its grip and let out a strangled bleat.

“Er, why is there a goat here? In the park?”

Ro chuckled. “Oh, that’s just Winston. He loves to hang out here. Maybe it’s the height of the benches. Must remind him of the mountains or life in the wild.” Her infectious grin had me smiling.

“He doesn’t look very wild. And he has terrible taste in knitwear. Yellow isn’t his color.” Winston ground a hoof into the stone behind me, and his nostrils flared as if annoyed we’d removed his meal. “Is he getting angry?”

“No. You just have to know how to handle him.” She ran a hand through the shaggy hair on his head.

“Who owns him? He just seems to wander around. Like the town is his own petting zoo.”

“Ha! We have one of those, too, now. It’s especially for animals on the more portly side.”

From the earnest look on her face, I guessed she wasn’t kidding. “I’m not even going to ask.”

Ro turned to leave, and I followed suit, sticking my tongue out at Winston like a toddler. My sweatshirt was expensive.

“Nobody knows the actual name of his owner. He runs the auto shop,” she said over her shoulder. “Nice guy.”

“And what’s with all the sweaters? I’ve seen two, and I haven’t been in town long.”

She grinned. “Winston has a substantial wardrobe. His dad is a member of the Dirty Hookers.”

“The what?”

“Keep up. It’s the knitting group I belong to.”

“Knitting group?”

Ro looked at me and rolled her eyes. “Yes, silly. Like I told you. I crochet. And also help Mrs. Woodcock run the group. It’s fun.”

My lips trembled as I tethered up the grin I wanted to unleash. “Just like I said, you’re going to be old before your time. This town is sucking away your youth.”

She looked at me from under her lashes, and my gut tugged low.

“I mean it. You should be out raising hell, Ro, not picking up dropped stitches.”

We were almost at the road now, the grass giving way to asphalt. We waited for a rusty old tractor to roll by before we crossed.