Page 39

Lyla

T he Play It Forward Annual Day is in full swing, and it’s loud, chaotic, and beautiful in that messy, meaningful way we always hope for. The bounce house is leaning slightly to the left, which feels like a metaphor for my entire emotional state right now—happy, but slightly off-kilter.

Kids are everywhere—racing in potato sacks, getting their faces painted, trying to bribe volunteers for extra snow cones.

I wipe sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand and scan the crowd. There’s Dan Marino, surrounded by a group of awe-struck dads, signing footballs and shaking hands like he’s running for office. A line of kids trails behind him like ducklings.

Cathy is nowhere to be found, unfortunately.

I’ve called her approximately 32 times since we got here to set up in the murderous hours of the morning and haven’t heard back.

Thankfully I was able—with the help of all the staff and volunteers—to pick up her responsibilities.

I don’t know how we pulled it off, but we did.

And then there’s Drake.

He’s running a football toss station, laughing as he over-dramatically dives to catch a foam football a six-year-old just lobbed at his shins. LJ is running the station with him, handing the balls to the kids in line. And he’s smiling. I repeat: he’s smiling .

Now that is a comeback story for the ages.

I watch them for several moments, soaking up the rightness of this moment—this event—this person who is Drake Blythe.

I can’t believe I kissed him. More than once.

And I need to tell Milo that we’re dating before he finds out from literally anyone else. The thought makes my skin crawl uncomfortably, but I recognize that this is part of my new boundaries in life—I’m saying no when I need to, but I’m also saying yes when I need to. And Drake is a definite yes.

I spot Milo near the dunk tank, wearing his trademark fanny pack, sunglasses, and mismatched socks. He’s holding a clipboard and sipping from a coffee cup that I’m 90% sure contains lemonade. It’s Milo. Logic doesn’t apply.

“Hey,” I say, dragging out the word.

He turns, his expression brightening. “Lyla! I was just about to come find you. Did you see that kid over at the tug-of-war? Built like a mini linebacker. I offered him a job.”

I squint up at him. “You offered a child a job?”

“Well, not officially. But if he still has that fire in ten years, he’s got a spot on our team.” He grins and takes a sip from his coffee cup that smells distinctly of sugary lemonade. “You enjoying today?”

“Yes. Kind of. Mostly.” I hesitate, fingers fidgeting with the lanyard around my neck. “Actually, I need to talk to you about something.”

His smile softens. “Uh-oh. That’s either a breakup tone or a confessional tone.”

I chuckle awkwardly—sometimes I can’t tell if Milo is weirdly insightful, or just plain weird. Probably both. “It’s the second one.”

“Alright then,” he says, pushing his sunglasses up onto his head. “Lay it on me, Smith.”

I take a deep breath, then spit it out. “I’m seeing Drake.”

“I see him too,” he says, pointing finger guns at Drake’s station.

“Uh . . . ”

“Ah, but you mean it in a deeper sense. You see Drake.”

“I mean that I’m dating him,” I blurt, feeling my cheeks reddening as Milo’s eyebrows rise. “I didn’t plan it, and I promise I’ve kept everything professional at work. I just . . . I didn’t want you to hear it from someone else. And I understand if this means that I might lose my job.”

“You would risk your job security for him?”

“I absolutely love Play It Forward and I really don’t want to lose my job.” I sigh, running a hand over my frizzy hair. The humidity is killer. “But if it comes down to it, I choose Drake.”

He stares at me for a long moment, then nods toward the football toss station. “You sure you’re not just in it for the foam football skills?”

I laugh, startled. “That’s definitely not it.”

“Well, good. That man needs someone who’s smarter than him. And you, my dear, are a galaxy.”

I blink. “That’s . . . oddly poetic.”

“I had half a protein bar for breakfast. Makes me strangely profound.” He takes another sip of his lemonade-not-coffee and shifts the clipboard under his arm. “And don’t worry about the dating thing. Love is the ultimate trump card of life.”

Strangely profound, indeed . “Thanks, Milo.”

He nods, then flips the clipboard open. “Also, while I’ve got you here and emotionally off-balance, I might as well hit you with something else. I talked with the board. Cathy’s not coming back.”

I blink. “Oh.”

“And we need someone to step up and take over Miami operations. You’ve been doing it already.”

“Oh, uh—”

He holds up a hand. “I’ve seen you, Lyla. All the slack you’ve been taking up from Cathy.”

I frown. “How did you know?”

“Never underestimate the omnipresence of a passionate person.”

What am I supposed to say to that ? “Right.”

“You’re smart, you’re passionate, you care about these kids. I’ve been watching you lead quietly for the last year. Now I want you to lead out loud .”

My heart is doing strange acrobatics. “You want me to . . . run Miami Play It Forward?”

“I do. Unless you’re planning on moving to Canada to pursue competitive snow sculpting, in which case I have a backup.”

I let out a breath that’s half laugh, half disbelief. “I’m not moving to Canada.”

“Good. Then it’s yours.”

He pats my shoulder, then walks away like he just asked me to refill the lemonade, not take over the Miami operations of Play It Forward. I stand there blinking in the sunlight, surrounded by sticky-fingered kids and the smell of popcorn, wondering how on earth this is my life.

And, for the first time in a long time, I think maybe—just maybe—I can handle it.