“Back in economy, probably.”
“Pops would have scoffed at duck.” Setting the menu down, she continues, “This is supposed to be about Pops, so let’s talk about him.”
“You know, I don’t really want to talk about Pops right now.”
“Why not?”
“Not something I want to dive into on an airplane.”
“Fair enough.” She reaches for her backpack and pulls out an old, tattered notebook and two pens, one purple, one green. She playfully hands me the green pen and says, “Are you up for the challenge?”
“A green pen?”
“Not just a green pen, but THE green pen.”
“Are we about to take a trip down memory lane, Haze?”
“I mean, if we take a detour down memory lane while on our way to Germany, then why not?”
Chuckling, I nod at the notebook that’s seen its fair share of better days, the same notebook that Hazel used to carry around the farm, looking to best me. “Did you print out game boards, cut them up, and tape them inside the notebook?”
“I’m not a monster,” she replies, flipping the notebook open to a new section full of empty gameboards.
“You really have thought of everything, haven’t you?”
“Would it even be visiting with each other if we didn’t play Dots and Boxes?”
“It wouldn’t.” I pick up the notebook and flip through the pages. Game after game of purple and green fill the notebook. I turn to the front page and chuckle. “Remember this, the romantic pact we made?”
She leans over and takes a look at it. “Oh God, I don’t.”
Hell, I do. I remember this pact vividly, especially after that kiss. The kiss that caught me by surprise. My mind immediately went to this pact and how we just broke it.
How she broke it.
How I was shocked that she did.
Because if anyone was bound to break the pact, I swore it would have been me.
Angling the notebook toward her, she reads out loud. “Hazel Allen and Crew Smith agree to never get romantically involved ever and swear to be best friends forever.” She chuckles. “Look at your signature. Oh my God.”
I laugh out loud. “It doesn’t look like that anymore.” I flip through the pages some more and review games claiming a purple victory and some claiming a green victory. Even have a few with the label “Cheater” written across the top in Hazel’s handwriting. “I still think the jury is out about these games where you assumed I cheated.”
“You did,” she fires back. “You cheated multiple times, distracting me with Funyuns and then adding an extra line when I wasn’t looking.”
“You think I would sink so low as to cheat at Dots and Boxes?”
“Uh . . . yeah.” She folds her arms across her chest. “You couldn’t stand losing to a girl, especially a scrawny ass like myself.”
“Not true.” She eyes me and I laugh. “You were pretty scrawny.”
But she isn’t now.
I always saw her in the summers. Christmas time, she flew to Indiana to be with her mom’s side of the family, so we always missed each other during the winter.
So, it’s been a few years since we’ve spent time together. But she’s . . . uh . . . matured. A late bloomer—she was always scrawny, flat-chested, and very innocent looking.
Now, she has some curves, her lips look plumper than I ever remember, and her brilliant red hair is woven through with blonde highlights that creates a wave of color my hands are crazily itching to touch.
And those eyes of hers, now highlighted by a coat of mascara. They’re large, almost doe-like, and bright, full of life and excitement. She’s . . . hell, she’s beautiful. The kind of sun-kissed beauty that comes naturally with her well-placed freckles and warm-toned skin. But it’s that smile that’s endless and mesmerizing, a smile that has always been a solid comfort in my life.
So why did I stop writing to her?
Because I’m a self-absorbed ass.
Because I was scared.
Yeah, that sounds about right.
“Scrawny on the outside, huge muscles on the inside.” She attempts to flex her arm, and through her tight-fitted long-sleeve, I see a tiny hill in her bicep, but that’s about it. “Can’t judge a book by its cover. Remember, I almost beat you in a hay bale throwing contest.”
“Uh, almost beat me is a stretch.”
“We were neck and neck there for a while. I can still hear Pops’s booming laughter over his grandson losing.”
“Once I figured out how to use my hips, I beat you.”
“Took you far too long.” She smiles.
“Doesn’t matter, I still beat you.” But she did give me a run for my money. I was out of breath by the end of the competition. And I thought it was going to be a cakewalk. Boy, was I wrong.
She flips the notebook over to the front page and reveals our running tally of wins. “Despite your attempts at cheating, looks as though I’m in the lead. Care to play some Dots and Boxes?”
“Same rules?” I ask.
“Would we ever play differently?”
I uncap my pen and say, “Not at this point. Let’s go, Allen.”
A huge smile stretches across her face as she flips to an open game. “Rock, paper, scissors to see who goes first?”
“Obviously.” I hold my hand out, and together we say, “Rock, paper, scissors,” and throw down.
I go in with a classic rock and she tumbles over me with paper.
“You’re so predictable.” She grabs my fist with her “paper” and uncaps her purple pen. “Okay, get ready to lose, Smith.”
She makes the first mark and then, in silence, we go back and forth, connecting the dots with lines. Boxes start to form, strategic moves are made, and we don’t say a word to each other, the white noise of the airplane surrounding us.
With every move she makes, I counter, culminating in a long, narrow section that will make or break the game. I count ahead, looking at the marks I have to make in order to score the most boxes and . . .
Fuck.
She must realize it at the same time because now every line she makes has an extra sass to it, a little gusto to her pen strokes.
“Shit,” I mutter, making the final line, which grants her access to make enough boxes to not only take the lead, but take the win.
“Ahh, look at all these purples boxes,” she says, rubbing it in as she scribbles purple all over the gameboard until all the boxes are filled. When she’s done, she looks up at me and says, “As per the rules, I’m allowed to ask you anything, and you have to answer.”
“I think we should revisit those rules.”
She caps her pen and shakes her head. “No way. You agreed to the terms before we played.”
“That’s because I didn’t think I was going to lose. Now that I lost, I want to revisit the rules.”
“Warm towel?” a flight attendant asks, standing in the aisle with a tray of warm towels.
“Uh, sure.” Hazel accepts a towel, then hands it to me and quips, “Something to wash away your shame?”
Together we wipe our hands, really unclear about the whole towel thing.
“You know you’re living the fancy life when you’re given a towel to wipe your hands off before a luxurious meal of airplane duck.”