Trouble (Dogwood Lane 3)

“Yeah,” I say softly.

I rip open the candy and offer Penn one half. He takes it. We eat the chocolate in silence, kind of feeling each other out through the quiet.

The longer we sit, the more comfortable it gets to share the same space with him again.

We nibble on the candy, exchanging little smiles here and there. It’s peaceful and relaxing, and I find myself letting go of the stress of the afternoon.

“Want to go for a walk?” I ask.

His face lights up. “Sure.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

PENN

Well, this isn’t how I expected this evening to go.

Avery’s hands are in her pockets, her hair floating behind her in the breeze as we walk toward the field behind Harper’s house.

But I’m not complaining.

She’s calm and collected and so unbelievably pretty. I hope she’s like this partially because of me. Or even because of the chocolate, since I gave that to her. Either way, I’ll happily claim responsibility for putting that look on her face.

I feel lighter now that there’s no weirdness between us. The weight that was on my shoulders is mostly gone, and I have no intention of ever letting that happen again.

“Do I have to use the ticket for this?” She glances at me cheekily from the corner of her eye.

“Nope. This is a freebie. But it won’t be as interesting as the Dogwood Lane Tour. Just warning you.”

She grins, dropping her gaze to the grass. We move along quietly as the sun makes its final descent over the horizon. Birds call good night as we pass through a grove of trees.

“Thank you,” she says. “Your present was really thoughtful.”

“It’s not a big deal. Just stuff I had in my truck, mostly.” Even though that’s true, there’s still a surge of pride in my chest. I felt like a moron putting that bundle of randomness together, but I didn’t know how to actually say, “For once in my life, I’m worried I fucked up by kissing you.” “But I’m glad you liked it.”

She stops walking and stares off across the field. The grass is so green this time of year, and flowers fill the ditches and ravines. I wonder if she likes it because it’s natural artwork in a way. But something about that feels too personal to ask.

“You like to fish, huh?” she asks.

“Was the tackle box your first hint?”

“That, and you have a fish tattooed on your arm.” She points to a piece of my sleeve. “Is there a reason you have that permanently inked in your flesh? Or do you just like fish so much that you wanted to live with one forever and ever?”

I hold out my arm. Colorful ink is etched on my skin from my shoulder to my wrist. Each tattoo holds a story, whether it’s a sentimental memento or just a relic from a drunken night. I like them all. I don’t regret any of them.

“I got the fish when my grandfather died,” I say. “He was a great fisherman and probably the reason I love it so much. I was a little rambunctious as a child. I know that’s hard to believe,” I crack as she laughs. “He taught me how to sit still and focus on one thing while we were fishing.”

“He sounds nice.”

“He was a cool guy.”

It’s my turn to gaze across the grass as I wonder what my life would’ve turned out like had he not passed away when he did. He was my rock, my shield when things were bad, my guidepost for how I wanted to live my life. I loved going to his house. There was a feeling I’d get as soon as I walked in the door. It might’ve just been a slight buzz from the cigar smoke, if that’s possible, but it was the only place I could really let my guard down. I didn’t have to watch my back or brace for the possibility of a fight breaking out.

I wonder if he’d be proud of me. If he’d look at how I’ve turned out and think I didn’t do too badly.

I hope so.

Avery shifts her weight, running her fingers through her hair. The motion flips my attention back to her.

“Was the fish your first tattoo?” she asks.

“Nah.” I hold my arm out again and rotate it back and forth. “The skull was my first one. Got it when I was sixteen, in Daniel Layman’s garage.”

She makes a face. “Um, was that safe?”

“Probably not. But you have to start somewhere, right? And my mom wouldn’t sign off for me yet, said it was a step closer to becoming my father.” I watch as she bends down and picks up a broken acorn. “What’s your mom like?”

“My mom was a bit of a . . . What did you call me the other day? A fun-sucker?” She laughs, throwing the acorn across the field. “My mom was the ultimate fun-sucker.”