Page 12 of End Game

He shoots me a warning, but I ignore it. “I love you, Finn. I do. And I appreciate your looking out for me. I have no plans to get tied up with Branch in any way. I’m not an idiot, okay?”

He pulls me into a quick hug and smiles. “Good. That makes me feel better.”

“What does?” Branch asks, walking back in the room.

“Nothing. See you two later.” Finn tosses me a final look before nodding to Branch as he walks out. The front door opens and closes, and immediately, the air shifts and pulls.

Branch sits back down at the table, having changed into a pair of soft, faded jeans and a plain white t-shirt. “So, what’s the plan tonight?”

“Don’t you have contracts?” I ask, sitting down and pulling the newspaper up in front of me.

“No. I just told him that so he would leave. I got them done days ago, before I ever came up here.” He flicks the paper, making it pop. “They still have printed papers up here?”

“Yes. Isn’t it sweet? A man brings it to the end of the driveway every afternoon. Finn must’ve brought it up.”

I scan the front page, the headlines all centering around the Linton County Water Festival. Pictures of carnival rides, horseshoes, food trucks, and bands performing on the bed of a semi-truck span the entire first three pages.

Suddenly, I get an idea.

Setting the paper down, I look at Branch. “When was the last time you went to a carnival?”

“A what?”

“You know, with rides and elephant ears and lemon shake-ups?”

“High school?” he guesses. “Maybe? Maybe middle school. I don’t know. Why?”

I scoot my chair back and grin. “Get ready. We’re going to the Linton County Water Festival.”

“We are not.”

“Yes, we are,” I giggle.

“Why?” he groans. “Those things are for kids, not adults.”

“Okay,” I tease. “When did you become an adult?”

He dips his chin and looks at me through his lashes. “Really, Sunshine?”

“Oh, come on. Stop being difficult,” I say, taking his hand and pulling him to his feet. “Go get a hat and whatever else you need and let’s go.”

He tries to have a standoff with me, but it doesn’t last long. Before I’m even close to giving up, he stomps up the stairs. “God, you’re infuriating.”

“Just get your stuff and get back down here and no one will get hurt.”

Branch

“You have that all over your face.” I brush a spattering of cinnamon and sugar off her chin. “If we weren’t in public, I’d just lick this off you.”

“Good thing we’re in public then,” she says, bringing the plate to her lips. She tears off a huge piece of cooked dough and shoves it into her mouth. “You’re good, but not this good.”

“If you weren’t so pretty, watching you would be disgusting,” I laugh.

She shrugs, not giving a fuck what I think.

We stroll through the park, where the Water Festival is in full-force.

White Christmas lights are strung over the street that’s been shut down for the occasion.

Vendors hawking trinkets line the right side, food stands fill the left.

Up ahead is a bank of games and carnival rides and one very loud cover band that’s doing a shitty job of covering classic country music. It’s kind of amazing.

The air smells of fried food and is filled with laughter and music. It reminds me of being a kid and the music festivals in Tennessee. I’d start begging to go right after school, and if I was lucky, we’d trek down there on Friday night for a few hours of running amok.

Layla takes a few steps off the road and dumps the remaining elephant ear into the trash can.

She pauses to help a little boy get a red balloon out of a tree, the string a touch too high for the kid to retrieve.

She stands on her tip-toes, halfway hopping into the air until she comes down with the end and holds it triumphantly out to the boy.

Watching her interact so easily with the child, just as easily as she did with the veteran that welcomed us into the festival, is a sight to behold. She talks to them like they’re old friends, and by the time they’re through, they probably are.

She saunters back my way, dressed in a pale purple summer dress that hits just above her knee. She could fit right into this little town as another PTA member or woman working the table for the local church. She could fit right in, but she’d stick out. She’s the most beautiful woman here.

Before I can really do much damage with my imagination, she reaches me. “You having fun yet?”

“Oh, I’m having a ball,” I sigh.

“You love it. You know you do.”

“Yeah, maybe I don’t hate it.” Glancing down, she’s looking up at me with a knowing smirk. “Fine. It’s fun. All right? You happy?”

“Yup.”

“Good because?—”

“Lemon shake-ups,” she breathes, her eyes twinkling. “Come on, Branch. I need one.”

“You do not. You just ate a pound of dough smothered in sugar. If you have any more, you’ll go into diabetic shock.”

She stops in her tracks and very carefully lifts her chin. “Tell me again I don’t need one.”

The lights dangling overhead appear to make her glow. Her blonde hair shines like a halo . . . then you get to the look on her face. That’s different. That begs you to push her because she’s willing to throw back.

Not many girls are like this. Most would ask to go to a fancy restaurant or to have box seats at a concert.

Lots of the women I know would have on killer heels and a face full of make-up and do whatever I said and half of what I didn’t.

Not this one. I’m not one hundred percent sure she brushed her hair today.

She’s an enigma, one I can’t wrap my head around quite yet.

“Get me one too,” I say finally.

“That’s what I thought.” Winking, she trots off to the stand.

I stay back, hovering near a telephone pole, and watch her order two drinks.

The man shaking the white plastic cups is obviously enchanted with her.

He smiles too wide, leans in too close, and I’m not even sure he takes her money.

But by the time she’s back to me, all I can think about is the grin she’s wearing and the way her eyes are lit up like a carnival ride.

“Here,” she says, thrusting a cup at me. “These are amazing.”

The cold, sweet, and slightly bitter drink hits my taste buds. “Wow. This takes me back.”

“This is my ‘must get’ thing at festivals,” she admits, leading me down the street. “My mom got me hooked on these as a kid. She always made my dad buy her one, even if the line took forever.”

“That was me with candy apples. I used to love the shit out of those.”

“We’re going to get you one.”

“No, we aren’t,” I laugh. “The season is getting ready to start. I can’t be eating total crap.”

As if I haven’t said a damn word, she sidles up to another stand with a green awning. “One candy apple please.”

“Sure thing, madam.”

We watch the guy pluck a cherry red apple from a tray and wrap it in plastic wrap. He hands it to Layla while I pay. She gives it to me as we walk away.

“You’ll thank me later,” she promises.

“The way your legs look in that dress, I hope so.”

“Ha. Ha. Ha.”

We walk slowly through the streets, stopping for a brief minute to listen to the band and watch couples dance to the music. Everyone from little kids to old people in wheelchairs are clapping their hands, some are whistling, others are talking with the people around them.

I stand next to her and take it all in. There’s something so pure and relaxed about this that I can’t quite make it out. People don’t act this way anymore. Places don’t have this feeling of camaraderie. It’s amazing this even exists.

Then I look at her, dancing with an old man in a pair of bib overalls to an old Waylon Jennings song. She’s chatting him up as he does his best to lead her in a little circle. There’s no doubt he’s having the time of his life.

The band plays the final few notes and Layla kisses her partner on the cheek. Catching me watching, her cheeks turn the faintest shade of pink.

“Sorry,” she says. “That’s Peck’s uncle. He’s like a million years old and the sweetest old thing in the world.”

“Don’t be sorry. That was nice of you.”

“I love it here,” she sighs, looking around. “Doesn’t being here just make you feel nice?”

“That’s the sugar talking,” I joke as we start towards the games.

“It is not.”

“No, you’re right. It is nice here. I’m actually having a good time.” I bump her with my shoulder. “Thanks for bringing me.”

She looks at me out of the corner of her eye. “Thanks for coming.”

“Like you gave me a choice.”

“True, I didn’t. But I had a suspicion you’d like this.”

“Really? Do I come across as the guy who likes kiddie rides?” I whistle through my teeth. “I need to work on my reputation.”

It’s her that bumps me this time. “No, asshole. But you do come across as a guy who needs to be reminded every now and then that it’s okay to just chill out.”

“I chill out all the time.”

“I think you misunderstand the term ‘chill out,’” she says.

“It’s an easily understood term. I don’t think you can misunderstand it.”

She side-eyes me. “It doesn’t just mean relax or not work out for a day. It means to have fun, take it easy, you know? To kick back and enjoy yourself.”

“Well, I ‘chilled out’ a lot lately then,” I grin. “I’d like to ‘chill out’ like that again.”

“I bet you would . . .”

Stopping in the middle of the street, I shake my head. “And?”

“And what?” she giggles, turning to face me.

“And you wouldn’t?”

“I didn’t say that. I just didn’t reply.”

“And . . .”

“And, yes, Branch. Once you play me in a game of Skee Ball, I’d love nothing more than to ‘chill out’ with you.”

“Skee Ball? Are you fucking serious?”

“Dude,” she says, pointing a few yards over. “It’s the best game of all time. Except maybe Plinko. But I’ve never actually gotten to play that.”

She takes off without me and I just follow along, shaking my head.

“Where in the hell do you get this stuff?” I ask, wrapping an arm around her neck and pulling her close to me. “Plinko?”

“I watched The Price is Right every day growing up. My mom would record it on our VCR because it was on right before her soap operas. I wanted to put that chip down the ramp and watch it bounce.”

“Sounds kinky,” I shrug.

“You can put your chip down my ramp and watch me bounce when we get home.”

“Damn it, woman. I’m going to be Skee Balling with a hard-on now,” I say, letting her go.

She laughs, her voice catching the attention of the game attendant. He takes my money and gives us tickets and we find two booths side-by-side.

“This is serious,” she says, rubbing her hands together. “No talking. No bumping. No interfering with the other person’s game whatsoever or you’re disqualified and your chip remains in its slot the rest of the night. Got it?”

It’s my turn to laugh as my balls come crashing down the ramp. “You’re a woman after my own heart.”

“No, I’m a woman who wants no part of your heart,” she deadpans. “I want your blood right now and your cock later. Keep your heart.”

“I think I just fell in love.”

She rolls her eyes and counts us down and we begin the most epic game of Skee Ball Linton has ever seen.