Page 33 of The Parent Playbook
I like him. A lot.
And not in a “thanks for not letting my barn fall down” kind of way.
The realization zings through me like the brisk autumn air, that thisisn’tjust a silly crush and I’m not merely doting on his finely carved muscles through his shirt as he catches me time and again.
Why him? Why now? My heart, which Harlow has always said I guard like Fort Knox, thuds rebelliously against my chest.
It’s at this moment that Scotty catches my gaze across the crowd. “Hey, Angel, why don’t we put your taste buds to the test with some cider?” he shouts over the din, waving me over. “Bet I can pick out your favorite flavor in one go.”
He winks and now I know for sure.
I’ve fallen for a dreaded hockey dude.
CHAPTER 14
SCOTTY
We shuffle over to the cider stall, sidestepping a giggling gaggle of kids enchanted by a magician pulling endless scarves from his hat while Lily and Andy wave from the top of a gladiator-style obstacle course.
We reach the cider stall, and it’s like stepping into an orchard after harvest. The air’s thick with the scent of apples, some tangy, some sweet. A grinning vendor hands us each a small cup. “Welcome to the Simmering Cider taste test. First up, classic apple,” he announces, as if presenting a rare vintage wine.
Angel takes a sip, her face lighting up. “Oh, that’s good. Tart, with a little punch at the end.” She’s not tasting, she’ssavoring.
I’m glued to the spot as she takes another sip, closes her eyes and groans, “Mmmmmm.”
Caramel apple, cinnamon spice, even a pumpkin blend, which Angel declares is “an affront to both pumpkins and apples.”
I laugh, watching her face go through a spectrum of dramatic expressions with each new flavor. When we get to the spiciest cider, made with a hint of chili, I nudge her elbow. “Dare you to try it.”
She eyes the cider like it’s a challenge. “Only if you’re tryingit too.” We clink our cups—a tiny toast to bravery or foolishness, I’m not sure which—and down the cider.
Her reaction is immediate.
“Oh, that’s—wow, that’s something.” She coughs a little, fanning her mouth while I laugh at her expense. Without thinking, I reach out, gently patting her back. Her laughter mixes with coughs, and there’s a closeness in this shared silly moment that feels more intimate than any candlelit dinner.
She wipes her eyes, still giggling. “Okay, that was hotter than I expected. Your turn now,” she says, nudging the next cup of cider toward me with a crooked grin.
I take a cautious sip, bracing for the burn. “Not too bad,” I lie through the heat, trying to keep my cool.
“Not too bad?” she repeats, eyebrow arched. “Your eyes are watering, Scotty. That’s the universal sign for ‘help me, I’m dying.’”
I laugh, surrendering to the burn. “Okay, it’s like swallowing a bonfire. You happy now?”
“Very,” she beams. Then she glances around at the families and laughing children. The noise of the festival seems to fade a bit as her expression grows thoughtful. She turns back to me, her tone shifting from playful to reflective. “Isn’t it great to see so much plenty?”
“Plenty?” I ask. “Like the horn of plenty?”
“Exactly.” She points to various stalls and tables. “Pies, sweet and savory. Corn on the cob. Apple, gourd, and cinnamon everything. There’s always something available for free to eat here, and no one asks a thing. Maple Fest was always special to me growing up. Mom and I didn’t have much, but here we felt like we belonged. Everyone did. It’s what inspired me to start Happy Horizons. I wanted every kid to have a place where they felt they could justbe.”
I love that.
I really do, and not in the infomercial-that-grabs-your-heart way. When I look around this place, there’s such wholesomeness,such goodness, such heaven for these kids. I’m about to tell her so when she lightly slaps my arm. “Your turn. Try the next one—before I find another boot to throw.”
I pretend to shield my face, and she laughs, that sound that’s quickly becoming my favorite tune.
As we move to the next cider, our fingers brush subtly, a small touch, but it’s enough. Enough to send a little jolt up my arm. Not flashy, but unmissable. I sneak a quick look at Angel to see if she felt it too, and by the little hitch in her step, I can tell she did. There’s this moment, just a heartbeat really, where we lock eyes, and something passes between us, something that doesn’t need words.
We keep walking, our hands finding ways to stay close, fingers brushing against each other like it might be an accident. But we both know it’s not. Each touch lasts longer than the one before.
