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“So, what next?” Dylan asked, back to his usual, enthusiastic self now that he didn’t have to find something nice to say about what he clearly considered a deprived childhood. “Squirt guns, bottle lift, or Whack-A-Mole?”
“I haven’t had much luck with the bottle games so far. Maybe Whack-A-Mole?”
“I can take care of Gen while you play,” Dylan offered, magnanimously.
Abby almost smiled at his solemnity, but he held the leash so carefully, took the role so seriously, she held back.
“It helps if I imagine the mole is someone I hate.” Scott handed her the heavy mallet.
Abby’s mind flashed through several options: Tom Cunningham, a girl in high school who had made fun of her hair once, then it froze on one face. No, she didn’t—couldn’t—hate him.
Her breath caught.
What did it say about her that Will’s face came to mind?
Anger bubbled up, providing a reason, but she squashed it down, as she always did. She didn’t hate Will for leaving her. She didn’t.
She shook herself. “Who do you hate?”
Scott’s brows drew together, and his eyes turned stormy, then they flicked to Dylan, and he took a conscious breath. “Maybe someone I really don’t like, then.”
She nodded, forcing her mind back to Tom. “Okay, go.”
Scott hit the button to start the game and Abby watched for the little mole to poke its head out of a hole. When it did, she smacked it down again. A moment later, it popped up in another hole, and another. Then, two moles popped up at the same time.
Abby’s arms shook by the time she missed enough to end the game. She handed the mallet back to the person manning the booth and turned to Scott but paused at the look on his face. “What?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head, and his expression cleared. “You’re very intense when you’re concentrating.”
Abby frowned, unsure how to respond. Was intense good or bad?
“Here you go, Miss.” The person behind the counter held out a small stuffed toy. “Your prize.”
“I won a prize?” She turned toward Dylan and Scott. “It’s...”
“Hideous,” Dylan supplied, then flushed, eyes dropping to the toes of his sneakers. “Sorry.”
A peal of laughter escaped Abby, and she forgot to wonder what Scott’s words meant. “I suppose it is. Here, Gen, want a new toy?”
She wiggled it at the dog, who sniffed it, sneezed, then shook herself all over.
Scott chuckled. “I think that might be a no from her.”
“I think you’re right.” Abby tucked the unidentified stuffed animal into her backpack.
“Here, Abby.” Dylan handed Gen’s leash back to her.
“Thank you.” She wrapped the leather around her hand, then ruffled his hair gently. He leaned into her touch before leaping ahead of them, leading them on to the next game.
She met Scott’s eyes, his expression unreadable again. She swept her hand over her hair, smoothing back the small tendrils that had come loose while she played Whack-A-Mole, then smoothed her shirt as well. She darted a glance down the midway at the other people coming and going, then peeked back toward him.
“You okay?” Scott asked.
Abby chewed her lip. “What’d you mean earlier, about me being intense?”
He shrugged. “You’re... driven. You want to succeed.”
“Doesn’t everyone?”