Page 31 of The Parent Playbook
The ribbing goes on, but the truth is, I’ve pretty muchforgotten about the boot. What I remember is that moment when she rushed into my arms, the look in her eyes that told me she felt the same thing I did.
And then she pushed me away.
I clutch my clipboard and put on my mock-stern voice. “Just remember, boys, if you see any pucks flying around, stop it with your stick and not your face.”
Cooper is the last guy out with me, and as we reach the ice, he purses his lips at me. “I’m glad for you, Scotty.”
“Glad I can still take a shiner like in the old days?”
He smacks my shoulder. “Glad you’ve found a girl you can throw boots with.”
“No, no. I haven’t found anything. It’s not like that …” I protest, but Cooper is already skating onto the ice.
“Sure, buddy. Keep telling yourself that.”
CHAPTER 13
ANGEL
The moment we roll into Maple Fest, it’s like stepping into one of those overly saturated fall postcards. Everywhere you look is an explosion of autumn—orange and red leaves plaster every surface, and pumpkins, so many pumpkins, they’re practically spilling out onto the walkways. The whole place smells like a cinnamon bomb went off in the middle of an apple orchard.
“Welcome to Maple Fest!” I announce as we weave through the crowd. “Think of it as Halloween and Thanksgiving decided to throw a party and invited Christmas for appetizers.”
Scotty chuckles next to me, his eyes taking in the festive scene. I’ve learned that chuckling is what Scotty does as a default. Some people stuff their hands in their pockets, some run their fingers through their hair, others cross their arms. Scotty chuckles.
“Looks fun,” he says, clearly more at ease in this bedlam than I am.
Andy and Lily are already a few steps ahead, buzzing with the kind of pure joy only a festival can bring to kids—even kids who are on the cusp of that dreaded teenage territory. They dartfrom a stall selling handmade witch hats to another boasting the best apple cider donuts in the state.
“Slow down, you two!” I call out, half-trying to be the responsible adult. Andy shoots me a glance that says clearly,Chill, Mom.
I catch up just as Scotty seizes my arm and saves me from a potentially embarrassing face-to-face meeting with a hay bale. “Thanks,” I say, straightening up and brushing straw from my jacket. “I’m usually more graceful, you know—like a gazelle.”
“A gazelle who’s had a couple of hard ciders,” Scotty teases.
“Very funny. For that, I’m going to make you smell the best pumpkin pies in the Pacific Northwest.” I point to a stall adorned with more baked goods than a bakery’s window display.
As we approach, the rich, sweet smell of baked goods wraps around us. I take a deep breath, letting the familiar scents transport me back to my childhood here. Maple Fest was the one event each year where being poor didn’t sting so much. There was always enough food, enough laughter. Enough distraction from the everyday struggle.
Andy tugs on my sleeve. “Mom, can we get a pie? Please?” His eyes are wide with that manipulative sparkle only kids master.
“We’ll see,” I say, which everyone knows means yes. “First, let’s see what else they’ve managed to deep fry this year.”
So many times recently, I’ve thought that Andy is close to becoming a man, really growing up. Then Maple Fest comes around and the little boy in him comes to play. I love it.
Scotty is right there with the kids, discussing the merits of funnel cakes over apple fritters. A wholesome glow settles over me as I watch them together, the kind that feels oddly like contentment. Or maybe it’s the cider donuts kicking in.
We find ourselves elbow-deep in pumpkin guts at the carving contest, a part of Maple Fest that somehow feels both thrilling and slightly horrifying. Scotty, who’s picked out thelargest pumpkin he could find, grins at me over the orange mess.
“What did that poor pumpkin do to you?” he asks as I butcher what was meant to be a delicately carved cat. Now, it’s more of a lopsided ghost—if you squint.
“Ha-ha,” I retort, flicking a chunk of pumpkin at him, which lands with a plop in his hair.
He brushes his hands off on his jeans, leaving streaks of orange that add to his disheveled, rugged appearance, and I catch my breath.
The man is irresistible.It was easy for me to pretend otherwise because he hides it in humility. He’s a down-to-earth, guy-next-door sort of man …
And every ounce of me is melting for him.
