Page 11

Nine

“ABBY, YOU CAME!” Dylan launched himself across the wide, grassy field, one arm waving wildly, the other slightly less so, weighed down by a bright blue splint.

Abby and Gen had joined Dylan at his most recent appointment with Dr. Hastings, and after taking another set of X-rays, he’d pronounced Dylan’s arm healed enough to remove the cast, though he’d have to wear the splint and go to physical therapy for a few more weeks.

Gen had climbed on the table with Dylan while the doctor cut off the cast, pressing her body against his leg and letting him wrap his free arm around her, face buried in her ruff.

Afterwards, they’d all gone out for ice cream, and Dylan invited Abby and Gen to his school fundraising fair.

Laying at Abby’s feet, Gen pushed up into a sit, ears forward, tail wagging through the grass as Dylan approached.

Abby glanced down at her partner. “Easy, Gen.”

Dylan skidded to a halt in front of them. “And you brought Gen. I can’t wait for you to meet my teacher. She said maybe you could visit our classroom...”

“Whoa, Dylan. Easy kiddo.” Scott caught up and laid a hand on his son’s shoulder. “What did we talk about?”

Dylan stilled and wrenched his gaze from Gen with a visible effort. “Sorry, sir. Hi, Abby. I’m glad you came to my school fundraiser. May I pet Gen?”

Abby, taking her cue from them, nodded solemnly. “Thank you for inviting me. Yes, you may.”

As Dylan dropped down beside the dog, Abby glanced at Scott, who shook his head in mock irritation. “All he could talk about on the way over was his excitement about seeing Gen. I reminded him how you said usually a handler likes to be acknowledged before the dog, but...” He shrugged.

Abby nodded. “It’s hard.”

They turned and started across the lawn toward the bright lights and musical jingles of the midway.

To the right, a small Ferris wheel spun slowly, while other rides were arranged around its base like chicks beneath the protection of their mother’s wing.

Wide red- and white-striped canvas tents covered a petting zoo, picnic tables for eating, and long benches overflowing with silent auction items.

Abby twined Gen’s leash through her fingers, the leather worked soft from years of handling, as Dylan danced ahead of them burbling a running commentary about his friends, teachers, favorite rides, and games.

“This is quite the event. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Beside her, Scott snorted. “You should see the fall fundraiser. They rent out an entire corn maze and at least one kid always gets lost.”

Dylan’s enthusiasm led them as far as the first row of games, where Scott turned over a couple dollars so they could toss rings over the tops of glass bottles. Abby struggled, and when one of her rings bounced wildly back out of the arena, Gen leapt into the air and caught it.

“Keep it,” the carny laughed. “She’s earned it.”

As they moved on to the next game, Gen paraded with her ring in her mouth, much to Dylan’s entertainment. He asked her to give it up, but it soon devolved into a tug-of-war game.

“Don’t let her win. Tug is great, but it’s really important she doesn’t learn to play keep-away.”

Dylan nodded, fingers wrapped around the slick, plastic ring, but when Gen wrenched it loose, Abby hooked her fingers through it.

“That’s enough, Gen. Leave it.”

Gen dropped the ring, mouth wide open in a smile, tail whisking the air behind her.

Abby tucked the ring into her small backpack, grabbing a few dollars at the same time. At the next booth, she handed them over so they could throw balls at stacked milk bottles.

Dylan won a small, inflatable teddy bear and Scott got a lucky bounce, winning a stuffed hippo with rainbow wings.

“You haven’t won anything yet,” Dylan commented as they moved on. “What games are you good at?”

Abby studied the next few tents. “I’m not sure, actually. I’ve never played the fair games.”

Dylan’s eyes widened. “Never? Not even as a kid?”

“No. My parents were kind of old school. They believed in hard work and saving.”

“So, you didn’t ever do anything fun?” Dylan’s wrinkled nose spoke volumes about his opinion.

“Dylan...” Scott scolded, but Abby laughed.

“We went camping for a week every summer in Congaree, and sometimes I’d go with my friends to their families’ beach houses, but this kind of thing,” she waved a hand, encompassing the festive fair atmosphere, “they didn’t really see the point.”

“That sounds...”

Abby caught Scott’s gaze as Dylan struggled for something polite to say and had to bite down on her lip to keep from laughing. Throwing him a lifeline, she said, “We’ve been to fairs for training, but I’ve never ridden the rides, or played the games.”

“You go to fairs for training?” Scott lifted an eyebrow. “Actually, never mind, I’m not surprised at all.”

Abby shrugged, though his words pricked her. Did she really not know how to have fun? “I am my parents’ daughter, and they’re good for distraction.”

“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?”

“Some people too much so.” His eyes fixed on the distance as he spoke; then, with a shake, he swung his gaze back to her. “But in you, it’s...”

Dylan’s shout interrupted him before he could finish speaking.

“Dad, look!” Two booths ahead, Dylan jumped up and down.

Scott’s eyes lit up, and he grabbed her hand, pulling her along beside him.

“It’s what?” she asked, towed along in his wake.

Spinning, he locked eyes with her, then winked. “It’s sexy.”

Speechless, Abby stuttered to a halt beside him as he reached Dylan.

Scott slapped a dollar on the counter and scooped up the football, cradling it in his arms for a moment before fitting his hand around it. The way he held it—firmly, but with care, confidently—pulled at Abby. He didn’t grip it, but he’d only give it up if and when he truly meant to.

The same enthusiasm permeated his expression and his son’s antics.

They were an ebullient pair, not afraid to show their excitement.

For Abby, whose emotions had been locked down so hard for so long, their zeal for life called to something long dormant in herself.

She’d smiled and laughed more today, with them, than she had in months.

“Hey man, you need any help?” The kid behind the counter tucked the dollar into his apron, then plunked two more footballs down where it had lain.

Scott smirked. “I think I’ve got it, thanks.” He hefted the ball a few times, then turned to Abby. “Catch!”

Abby threw both hands up in front of her as the ball sailed toward her face. “I can’t...” It flew right into her outstretched palms and her fingers instinctually spasmed closed around it.

Scott stepped close to her, eyes glowing. “Sure, you can.”