26 Kisses (8 page)

“God damn it,” I mutter, tightening down the last strap that will hold the canoes in place as we drive them up a six-mile dirt road full of potholes the size of kiddie pools. On the ride to work this morning, Mel mentioned how she has never seen Killian without a smile on his face, and now it’s all I can think about—how white his teeth are and how awesome it is to work all day with someone who is consistently in a great mood.

“What’s wrong?” Killian leans over to inspect the strap, his blond hair curling at the back of his neck. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I look away quickly. “Sorry. Just thinking about something.”

He lays his palm on my hair and squeezes gently, his hand large enough to cover the entire top of my head. “No thinking allowed, counselor. It’s summer.”

I duck away from him, smoothing my hair down. “Have to keep my brain in shape for debate season. I think Butterfield is going up against Trawley, and I really want to kick their asses this year.”

Killian pulls a face and steps onto the Float & Boat minibus, which we use to drive customers up the river for the six-mile canoe float. “I’ll let you do the honors,” he says, tossing me the megaphone we keep behind the driver’s seat.

I sigh and lift it to my mouth. “Boarding for the ten thirty six-mile float,” I call toward the parking lot. “Boarding now for the ten thirty, departing in ten minutes.”

A dozen college-age kids hurry over, lugging heavy coolers and backpacks crammed with beach towels and sunscreen. They store their stuff in the back of the bus and climb aboard. Killian greets them all with high fives and turns up the radio on the local Top 40 station, the thumping bass blasting out the open windows. Once everyone is on board, I slam the back door closed, double-check the straps on the trailer, and hop onto the bus, settling into the seat directly behind Killian. He fires up the engine and pulls slowly out of the parking lot, the trailer rattling along behind us.

The college kids are already tipsy, beers in hand, taking selfies in the backseat. They’ll be hungover and sunburned halfway through the float, probably in a state of near civil war by the time their canoes drift the six miles back down to the landing at Flaherty’s. But now, before the dehydration and irritability set in, they’re giddy and loud, practically bouncing off the ceiling.

“Hey, do you want a beer?” A tall guy with dark hair and a tattoo of a dragon on his arm leans over the back of my seat, holding out a Bud Light.

“Can’t.” I shrug. “I’m working.”

He bounces his palm off his forehead. “Oh, duh. Sorry.” He looks at me, his eyes struggling to focus. “So you like working here?”

“It’s okay.” I practically have to shout over the music Killian has blasting out of the speakers. “It beats flipping burgers at McDonald’s.”

He nods and takes a sip of his beer. “I work at Chipotle. It’s not that much better.”

“We don’t have a Chipotle around here,” I say. “I would kill for one.”

“That sucks. I’m down at Ann Arbor; we have everything there.”

Of course. The whole group has probably driven up to Butterfield for the weekend, a summer escape for the university crowd.

The bus hits a pothole, and the guy falls forward, practically toppling onto my seat. “Whoa,” he says, pushing himself upright.

Killian swings the bus in a wide arc, following the permanent ruts in the field next to the river.

“Looks like we’re here,” I say, standing up before the bus has come to a complete stop. “Have a good float.”

The guy has already turned away, handing the Bud Light he offered me to a girl wearing a tiny pink bikini top. I follow Killian off the bus and around to the back, each of us working in tandem to loosen the straps enough to slide the canoes off the trailer. Some of the college guys help Killian lift the boats down from the top part of the rack. We carry the canoes to the edge of the river while the group unloads their coolers and argues over who is going to sit in each boat.

I grab a dozen pieces of rope out of the bucket in the back and hand them to the guy with the tattoo. “Here,” I say. “Use these to tie all the canoes together like a big raft. That way you won’t drift away from each other, and you won’t have to paddle so much.”

“Thanks,” he says, looking genuinely grateful, his fingers brushing against mine as he takes the rope. “Hey, would you take a picture of us?”

They gather around their canoes, the guys with their shirts off and the girls with their sunglasses on, beers held high and stomachs sucked in. “One, two, three,” I count, and snap the photo on the iPhone the guy handed me. The picture will be posted to Facebook and Instagram before they even reach the middle of the river, everyone tagged and commenting on a memory they haven’t even really made yet.

Killian and I help them load up and then we stand on the bank, waving as the group floats away.

“One reservation down, seven to go,” he says brightly.

I groan. “Plus however many walk-ins show up.”

“Hey, consider yourself lucky,” Killian says, raising his arms over his head in a long stretch. “At least no one puked on the bus this time.”

It’s a long day, and by the end of it my muscles are burning and my face feels like a big grease pit of sunscreen and sweat. But all the canoe floats launched on time, no one lost any paddles or life jackets, and we only had three broken beer bottles to deal with. So, all in all, a success.

“Looks like our friends from this morning are still hanging around,” Killian says as we finish loading a final round of canoes onto the trailer so we won’t have to do it first thing in the morning. Some of the guys from our first group of the day are in the parking lot, sitting on top of their coolers or in the bed of a pickup truck, sobering up before the drive home.

“I don’t know how they can drink all day and not be passed out by now,” I say, inspecting a blister on my finger.

“I’m sure alcoholism is like a varsity sport where they come from,” Killian says. “Did you know half of college students regularly binge drink?” He rolls his eyes, and my face flushes as I think back to the other night on the dock. I’m not sure how much Killian drank. One beer? Two? Not enough to make a fool of himself, anyway.

“You know, George Bernard Shaw once said, ‘Alcohol is the anesthesia by which we endure the operation of life.’ That guy had a zinger for every occasion.” Killian looks down at me. “You’ve heard of Shaw, right?”

I fold my arms. “Of course.” A typical debate trick is to start your argument off with a quote from someone famous (and preferably dead). George Bernard Shaw, an Irish playwright, was the king of one-liners, so his words of wisdom tend to pop up quite a bit, on everything from politics to the ethics of vegetarianism.

“Awesome. We should totally have a Shaw-Off.” Killian tips back the brim of his baseball cap. “You want to go get food or something? I’m starving.”

A Shaw-Off?
I suppress a smile. “Mel’s my ride,” I say, tipping my head toward the office.

“I can drive you home.” Killian points to his beat-up Jeep. “Despite the dubious appearance, it’s really not a deathtrap, I swear.”

He’s being so nice, I almost say yes. But then I’d have to explain to Mel why I didn’t need a ride home, and just the thought of the knowing smile she would give me is exhausting. “Maybe another day,” I say. “I’m pretty tired.”

The disappointment is gone from his face almost before I can register that it was there at all. “All right. Toodles.” Killian bobs his head at me and saunters off, hands in his pockets. I try not to watch him walk away, but he’s so tall—I’m fascinated by the way his body moves, the amount of ground he covers with each step.

He spins around, as if he can feel my eyes on him, and raises a fist in the air as he walks backward. “ ‘What you are to do without me I cannot imagine!’ ”

I shake my head. “Don’t flatter yourself!” I turn away before he can respond, and sit down at a picnic table, pulling out my phone to check the time.

“Hey.” The college guy with the tattoo walks over. He’s sunburned and looks tired, but smiles shyly. “Are you off duty?” He holds out another Bud Light. “It’s not exactly cold, but you look like you could use a beer.”

I cross my arms and cock my head to the side. “You really want me to drink that. Are you a cop or something?”

He looks down at the can, confused, then laughs. “Shit. You’re underage.”

“Of course I’m underage.”

“Well, hey, Underage. I’m Carson.” He shoves the beer into his backpack and holds out his hand. I take it and am surprised by how cool his skin feels. “And I’m actually not twenty-one either, so I think you can be reasonably sure I’m not a cop.”

His name starts with a
C. The thought floats unbidden through my brain. I push it away, raising my eyebrows and pointing at the large sign hanging on the front of the office:
NO UNDERAGE DRINKING
. “I don’t think Mr. Flaherty would be thrilled to hear that.”

Carson laughs. “But Mr. Flaherty doesn’t check anyone’s ID, does he?”

I shrug and then wave at Mel as she hurries out of the office, letting the screen door slam behind her.

“Freedom!” She jogs over and leans up against me, slipping an arm around my waist. “Making friends, Vee?”

“This is Carson,” I say, nodding at him and avoiding Mel’s eyes.

“Carson.”
Mel nudges me and shakes Carson’s hand enthusiastically. I nudge her back, harder. “You were on a float earlier, right?”

“Yep.” He looks over at his friends, who have started to pack up their stuff. “Sorry, you are . . . Vee?”

“Veda,” I say. “And this is Mel.”

Carson grins. “Veda and Mel, what are you two up to this evening?”

“Um . . .” Honestly, I was planning to make Mel drive me straight home, take an ice-cold shower, and lie in bed for the next twelve or so hours.

“We’re not doing anything,” Mel chirps. I resist the urge to elbow her in the ribs.

“Well, I think some of us are going to head over to the Dune Days carnival,” Carson says. “Do you want to come?”

Mel’s eyes meet mine, and I give a quick shake of my head. I have not officially signed on to her Twenty-Six Kisses scheme. I have not even officially signed on to being over Mark. There is no reason for me to go out tonight with a boy I don’t know whose name happens (curse you, universe) to begin with
C
.

“Definitely,” Mel says, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward her car. “We’ll meet you guys down there.”

“I can’t do it,” I moan, hanging my arm out the passenger-side window and letting my fingers drift in the breeze. “This is so stupid. Of course the first guy who creeps on me at work would be named
Carson
.”

“Vee, come on. He’s not creepy; he’s cute,” Mel says decisively, flicking the turn signal and pulling onto the field being used as the carnival’s overflow parking lot. “This is a sign. You have to do the Twenty-Six Kisses thing, and you’re starting tonight.”

“I don’t even know him!” I press back against the headrest.

“You can always bail if it gets weird,” Mel says, sliding out of the front seat. “Just tell him you have cramps and you have to go home.”

I’m speechless at the thought of ever saying that to a strange guy—I didn’t even really like to talk about that stuff with Mark—but I follow her to the ticket booth. Even though Dune Days is technically over, the carnival is packed and it’s a total sensory overload. Flashing lights from dozens of different rides blaze into my eyes, people shriek in unison as the swinging pirate ship reaches its peak and swings back down in a near free fall, and the overpowering smell of fried dough assaults my nose.

We each pay eight dollars for five ride tickets and wander across the grass. “Maybe Carson will win you a stuffed animal,” Mel says as we pass the carnival games and a scrawny-looking guy swinging a giant hammer at the high striker. He sends the metal puck screaming up the track.

“Get a life,” I say, giving Mel a little shove. She walks over to the prize tent and strokes a giant purple teddy bear. “He wants to come home with you, Vee,” she calls.

“If you’re hoping I’ll win that for you tonight, I think you picked the wrong guy to hang out with,” a low voice murmurs into my ear.