Page 15 of My Return to the Walter Boys
“Another tour, huh?” I said, remembering the one he gave mewhen I first arrived in Colorado. He’d been so engaging as he showed me around the ranch, like an unprofessional but charming museum docent who couldn’t help but flirt. The thought of him in a blazer leading tourists around the Met made me giggle.
He glanced down at me, lips quirked. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.” My grin implied otherwise, but he let it go, attention already shifting.
“Okay, first stop,” he said as we approached a pop-up canopy.
There was a line of children in front of the tent, and I peered over their heads to see inside. A long table held trays of paint, tubs of temporary tattoos and face gems, and little pots of glitter. Three folding chairs had been set up for customers; two were occupied by excited kids, each one trying to sit still for their artists. The one empty chair was positioned in front of a surly-looking girl who was snapping a piece of gum and scrolling on her phone. Even though she appeared to be our age, I didn’t recognize her from school, and she emanated such a strong “go away” vibe that I immediately understood why none of the waiting children were willing to sit down with her.
“Face painting?” I said, turning back to Cole. “Really?”
“Hey, I’m not ashamed to admit that it’s fun. Six-year-old me thought having a spider on my forehead was the definition of badassery. I’ll even get something right now to back up my claim.” Cole stepped around the line and plopped himself on the empty chair. “You’re not busy, right?”
The scowl the girl aimed at him was so frigid that I flinched, butCole’s smile didn’t falter, and after a momentary stare down, she heaved a sigh. “What do you want?”
“Dealer’s choice,” he told her.
She must have known who Cole was, because she gestured to the football on the menu board. “How about this?”
“No,” I blurted out before he had a chance to look. “Definitely not.” Cole leaned forward to see what caused such a sharp reaction from me, but I pushed him back into the seat. “No peeking.”
After a moment of consideration, I pointed to one of the only options that didn’t include either glitter, flowers, or the color pink. The girl shrugged and grabbed a brush. When she finished a few minutes later, she handed Cole a mirror so he could check out the flame that curved around his eye and up his temple.
“Oh, this isfire.” When he caught my gaze in the mirror, he waggled his brows and added, “You picked it because I’m hot, right?”
“I was aiming for badass, but after that joke, I regret not choosing the clown face.”
A little boy at the front of the line gasped. He tugged on the wrist of the woman standing beside him. “Mooom! She used a bad word,” he said, pointing straight at me. His mother eyed me with disapproval. Between her and the grumpy artist, I figured it was time to go.
“Come on,” I said, yanking Cole to his feet. “Let’s get out of here.”
He chuckled and clamped a hand down on my shoulder. “Not so fast. It’s your turn.”
Knowing he wouldn’t take no for an answer, I scanned my optionsas he steered me into his recently vacated seat. I pointed to the purple butterfly. It was small and hopefully wouldn’t take long to paint. “I like that one.”
“Let me pick something out for you,” he said, brushing a lock of hair out of my face and tucking it behind my ear. His fingers lingered on my neck. “It’s only fair.”
“I-I suppose that’d be okay,” I agreed. “But remember how considerate I was. You better not choose something ridiculous.”
“Hmm.” Cole titled his head to the side, weighing his options. “Right now, I’m torn between the Batman mask or the full tiger face.” Despite his teasing, the design he ended up selecting was cute: a smiling sun painted onto the apple of my cheek and dusted with yellow glitter. He paid and thanked the girl who’d painted both of our faces, but she resumed scrolling without another word.
“Okay, what’s next?” I asked when we stepped back into the sun.
A broad, boyish grin lit up Cole’s face. “Now that we’re in proper block party spirit, it’s time for the main event.”
“Which is?”
Instead of explaining, he brought me over to a group of kids who were gathered around some type of game. When we got close enough to see what was going on, I frowned. Set up on a long folding table was what seemed to be an eight-foot-long PVC pipe cut in half, creating two troughs filled with water. A boy wearing a SpongeBob T-shirt was leaning over one trough, and a girl in pigtails was at the other, and they appeared to be blowing bubbles with straws.
“What are they doing?” I asked, raising my voice so Cole could hear me over the onlookers’ cheers.
Cole leaned down and spoke directly in my ear. “It’s a minnow race. See the fish? The point is to get your minnow across the finish line first. The only rule is that you can’t touch the minnow, so you blow through a straw, making bubbles to get it to move. Trust me, it sounds way easier than it is.”
“Thisis the main event of the block party?” I said skeptically.
“For ten-year-old me, it was,” he replied as we watched a tiny silver fish no bigger than my pointer finger dart across the finish line in Pigtail’s trough. “My dad always gave each of us twenty bucks to spend however we wanted, and since this only costs a quarter, I could play all day. Whoever has the fastest time at the end of the block party wins the pot, and I’m a three-time champion.”
I grinned. “Can’t be too hard, then.”
