Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Benny smiles, liking that answer. “Optional but nice,” she approves.
We crest the hill and the lodge opens up on our right like a movie set—wraparound porch, warm light smudging the windows, a carved bear in a scarf guarding the steps. Banners flap. A gust of wind chases leaves across the asphalt like they’re trying to race us to check-in.
Benny leans forward in her seat belt. “Okay, one last question. And then I’ll stop.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah—I’ve heard that before, but go.”
“What do you not want in a girlfriend?”
“I don’t know, Benny. I haven’t thought about it.”
“Dad, this is serious.”
I groan. Once my daughter latches on to an idea, she’s like a dog with a bone, and there’s no stopping her. I have to give her something, or she won’t let it go.
“I don’t want anyone obsessed with social media.” Someone simple, I guess, if I was forced to choose. Quiet. Sweet. No one flashy, who spends tons of time on hair and makeup.
She caps the pen, satisfied. “This is extremely helpful to the committee.”
I pull into the parking lot behind a turquoise pickup that looks older than half the chairs on that porch. It’s piled high with hay bales, corn stalks, and every shape of pumpkin God ever carved on a bet.
The tailgate is held closed by bungee cords.
Barely.
Benny sees it the same time I do, eyes going wide as saucers. “That’s a lot of everything. It looks like steak stuffed into a hot dog casing.”
I laugh at her analogy. It’s one of her favorites.
“Festival supplies, obviously,” I say, rolling to a cautious crawl behind the old truck. “Give them space.”
Then, as if in slow motion, the bungee cord snaps.
The tailgate falls open.
An avalanche of small gourds begins its descent, at the same time several hay bales—that had been piled on top of one another—thump to the ground, split, and start shedding straw like golden confetti.
“Dad, Watch Out!”
Chapter 3
Layla
Hayes Fielder has arrived in town.
I heard about it from Phil Grimley, who heard it from Joe Blanchard, who heard it from Michelle Olson, the counselor at the high school.
My palms are sweating.
I wipe them on my jeans and give my father’s rickety old truck a pep talk as we rattle past the last stand of pines and into the lodge’s parking lot.
“You get me to the lodge, and I’ll buy you premium gasoline.” I lie smoothly because the truck cannot call me out on my bullshit later.
In the bed: a dozen hay bales, heirloom pumpkins, two bunches of corn stalks, and as many gourds as I could pile inside, along with a hand-painted sign that proclaims Pies! Axes! Hay! all held in by one tired bungee.
This load is headed for the welcome display downtown. I should’ve stopped at the hardware store for a ratchet strap; instead I said “It’ll be fine” like I always do. Famous last words.
The truck hits a dip.
Then a pothole.
Then a honk—long, urgent—behind me.
I glance in the rearview, and my stomach yanks straight through the seat. The tailgate has dropped.
Pumpkins and hay bales and who knows what else are falling onto the pavement in a grandiose explosion, the red pickup truck behind me laying on its horn.
“Shit!” Shit, shit shit!
The tired bungee dangles like a rubber noodle. Hay bales are now dumped onto the once-pristine parking lot, and in my side mirror I catch sight of a small, round pumpkin rolling downhill.
Dammit.
The horn behind me blasts again.
“Calm down, dude!” I shout at the offender, throwing the truck into park, then hurriedly jumping out.
“Stay!” I tell the piece-of-shit truck that I now hate, because I’m panicked and also because it sometimes works.
At the same time, a man steps out of the red truck, planting his feet in the path of the runaway pumpkin.
“Sorry!” I apologize emphatically, already hustling to the tailgate to inspect the damage. “I knew this bungee wasn’t going to make it, and I kept it on the truck anyway. I am so so sorry!”
The man grunts. Bends to grab the small pumpkin at his feet, then holds it toward me in his palm.
“Trade?” he says. “You take this, I’ll grab the hay.”
“Deal.” I cradle the pumpkin like a football that failed algebra and set it on the curb. Straw is already everywhere—confetti for a parade I did not plan. Another smaller gourd toddles past my ankle like it has errands.
“Benny, sidewalk,” the man calls over his shoulder without looking away from the mess I’ve created. His tone is calm, not sharp, and a young girl about nine or ten years old in an oversize navy hoodie appears at his side anyway, braids swinging.
She scoops up two pumpkins. “Permission to pursue orange guy under the front tire?”
“Denied.”
The child wants to argue. I can see it in her eyes.
I, on the other hand, am babbling apologies. “I knew the bungee wasn’t going to hold. Ugh! Like, hi, I’m the person your liability waivers warned you about.”