Page 82 of Foul Territory

“It’s not the first time someone’s called me that,” she says, and her eyes widen at her admission. She’s talking about me—well online me—I’m the one who called her trouble.

“Do you know how many times I got grounded because of one of your wild ideas? Two whole weeks for sneaking down to that private lake,” I say, to get her mind off of what we've talked about online. I'm not ready to fess up to that yet.

“Maybe you should have done a better job at not getting caught,” she says, smugly. “You didn’t have to go with me.”

I scoff. “You say that like I had a choice.”

“I never forced you.”

Stuffing the last bite of my sandwich in my mouth, I wipe my hands with the courtesy wet napkin the restaurant provided. I place all my trash back in the bag and then lean back on my hands.

Sydney daintily picks at her nachos until she creates the perfect bite. Her hair is pulled back in a high ponytail and tied with a silk, pink bow that matches her blouse.

“You wouldn’t have to force me. You still wouldn’t. Tell me what we’re doing next and I’ll be ready to go.” If I knew she was ready to hear it, I would tell her I'm not talking about tonight. I'm talking about forever. Is it North Carolina? Fine with me. My bags are already packed.

The sun is moments away from setting behind the trees. Reaching behind me, I grab my backpack. I dig around until I find the tiny battery operated lantern.

“You thought of everything,” she says, closing up her container of food and placing it in the bag with mine.

“I didn’t really know what to expect. I wanted to be prepared.”

She tips her head back and looks up into the branches of the tree. “I love these trees. Sitting under the branches like this…” her voice trails off as if she’s afraid to finish the thought and admit it reminds her of us.

“They remind me of the trees in my backyard.” I maneuver myself so my back is leaning against the tree trunk. “We met under those trees all summer. Every day was a new adventure. One look at you in your favorite worn down overalls and I knew the answer would be yes. It didn’t matter what you had schemed up. I was in,” I share the memories that still haunt us both.

Her head drops into her hands and she groans. “Those overalls were so ugly.”

“They were cute with all the patches you had sewn on them.” I poke her arm.

“I had to do something. They kept getting holesin them.”

“Because you were climbing trees and jumping off rocks all the time.” A slow, cool breeze floats between the branches. They swing back and forth as if they are being manipulated by invisible fairies setting the mood.

“What else did you bring in your bag?” She nods to where it’s sitting beside me.

“Come over here and I’ll show you.” I smirk. It’s a cheap shot but I have to take my chances when I can if I want to get her close.

“You’re not playing fair.” Her arms cross over her chest, she squints one eye, and her lips purse.

Holding out my hand towards her I wait for her to make her decision. My palm grows clammy and my pulse quickens. I swallow as my eyes bounce from her hand to mine silently willing her to take hold of it.

When she does, my chest deflates, expelling a breath, and I guide her toward me until she is resting against my side. “I’m playing to win.” My lips press against her forehead over her curtain of curly bangs.

Reaching into my backpack I pull out what I hope is my smoking gun. The proof that Sydney has been, and will always be the only woman for me.

16

SYDNEY

The sound of strangers strolling through the park silences the moment he places a copy ofThe Princess Bridein my lap. Not just any copy but one of the original covers from the seventies.

“My mom had it packed away. When I told her I wanted to read it, she went up into the attic and pulled it out for me. I know I shouldn’t have written in it but I didn’t want to forget.” His eyes glaze over watching as I trace my finger over the cover.

My heart beats hard against my chest and my palms are slick with moisture. I have to wipe them off on the blanket before I open the cover. “What did you want to remember?”

“All your favorite parts,” he whispers. I can’t even bear to look at him. If I do, I know I’ll kiss him. That might be the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.

Slowly opening the book, I turn the pages over until I reach the first chapter. With a blue ink pen he has crossed out the name Buttercup and written in mine right above it in scratchy handwriting.