Page 3 of For Keeps. For Always.
“Well…” I clear my throat. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but we can’tbothhave the same spot, and I was here first. Finders keepers, and all that.”
He tips his head side to side. “Technically, I was here first.”
“Today,” I snap, stepping forward without agenda. “Today,you were here first.”
“Way I see it”—he sighs, unfazed by my panic—“it’s all that really matters. The moment.”
“Just find a new spot,” I argue, my head tipped back to look at his face, the plea in my voice embarrassing.
He smiles at me. “Nah.” He moves closer again until we’re toe to toe. His eyes track over my face in a curiosity he can’t contain. “I think I like this one.”
I stand still, his elbow brushing my upper arm as he walks past me.
“Name’s Brooks.” He stops, not turning around. “Might beat you here tomorrow,friend.”
I huff, moving toward my rock without watching him leave.
“Name’s Brooks,” I mimic after I’m confident he’s gone. “Who even introduces themselves like that?” I ask the river.
I sit for a moment, disquiet settling around me. He’s disturbed my space. He’s made it feel less like mine and more ofanyone else’s.
Standing, I search around, kicking away twigs and leaves with my toe. Picking up a gray stone, I rub the pad of my thumb across it, testing its sharpness. Satisfied it’s jagged enough to do what I need it to, I lean over the large stoneBrookshad attempted to steal.
My hand aches with the pressure I use to engrave my words.
Smiling at my handiwork, I turn, skipping the stone along the river and watching it bounce three times before sinking.
Order restored, I sit upon my throne, arms wrapped around my knees. The damp moss of the stone tickles the pad of my feet, and I wiggle my toes in welcome, working my hardest to ignore the niggling sensation that Brooks has completely thrown my order into disarray.
BROOKS
Age 15
Property of Henley Wright.
I stareat her scrawl etched into the stone as a smile pulls across my lips. It’s deep, I’ll give her that. She put some serious elbow grease into making it visible—for my benefit of course. No one else has dared to step foot into herspot,or so she says.
What a pompous brat.
She’s like an old lady trapped in the body of a fifteen-year-old girl. The permanent scowl on her face, the know-it-all way she spoke.
She was strange.
Clothes that screamed money, but barefoot in the forest?
A pretty face but the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen.
Confident but an obvious loner.
I shrug, my eyes dragging along the ground in search of a stone big enough to outdo her scrawl.
Beneath her chicken scratch, I rush the sharp stone back and forth, carving an ampersand before printing my own name into the property deed of the stupid rock.
It’s lame.I’m lame.But I just moved here, and I’d welcome any distraction to my life right now. Messing with a loudmouth snob works right into that need.
Lying on the rock, I stare up at the canopy of trees.
Lake Geneva.