Gale.
His name was Gale.
And his imaginary smile was brighter than the Florida sun.
“It’s not important.” I frown, flipping through the collection of scribbles until my fingers trace the M+G carved into the back cover. A strange ache pulls at my heart as I stare at the tiny blades of grass and weeds pushed into the spiral binding. I know Grams isn’t the biggest fan of the Aligned Shadows, but I can’t help but wonder, “Do you think I could make a song out of this?”
“Oh, I’m sure you could make plenty,” she says with a little laugh. “Did you know it’s not used as a summer camp anymore? They rent cabins and the springs are open to the public. I’ve been wondering what it looks like…”
“You keep tabs on my old campsite?”
“I keep tabs on lots of things. You know I was a counselor there when I was a teenager,” she says.
I’d forgotten that, for a time, Camp Mangrove was special to both of us.
“Of all my old journals I’ve seen today, this is the only one that’s unfinished. Doesn’t that feel wrong, somehow?” I muse, flipping through the last half of the book to the blank, water-damaged pages waiting for more adventures.
“So, go fill it!” Grams’ eyes are suddenly bright. She can’t be serious right now. “You’ve got a car and a free weekend, don’t you?”
I laugh, but she only stares back, her grin growing wider. No, she can’t be serious.
“There’s no way.”
“You said you wanted a new song, right?” she argues. “What better place for inspiration than the source? Besides, you know your aunt is going to drive past here hoping to see your car parked in the lot. Enjoy yourself and make her sweat.”
“You said you don’t like the band!”
“But I like you!”
“I—” I pause, reaching up to scratch the stretch of skin at the back of my neck, earning a glare from Grams. She’s convinced the scratching is making my psoriasis spread—which isn’t how it works exactly—but it does make it harder to heal and the inflammation worse. So, the glare isn’t exactly unwarranted. The relief I feel always makes me ignore the damage I’m doing. Still, I lower my hand and weave my fingers together on my lap.
At least I can be grateful Grams’ comments come from a place of concern and not disgust like Jenna. I wish she wouldn’t worry so much.
I have it under control.
Grams presses the journal back into my hands with an expectant look on her face. She’sactuallyserious about me taking some last-minute trip.
“You might as well be suggesting the two of us go to a beachside resort. I’mstuckhere,” I groan, tilting my head up to the ceiling.
“I think you’re confusing our predicaments, my dear,” she walks over to the kitchenette and hoists herself up on the counter to reach the top of the fridge. “You have your entire life. Don’t you think it’s time to be a little reckless?”
Spoken by the queen of reckless behavior herself.
“You are not supposed to be climbing things!” I shout, leaping off the couch to spot her, my nails digging into the uneven skin on my elbows. If she falls…
“And you aren’t supposed to be scratching your skin,” she scolds in a sing-song voice. Dear God, this woman is going to break her hip one of these days. Today, however, she is unscathed. With a coffee can clutched in her hands, she shoves it at me as readily as the candy bowl and old notebook.
“Wait, what is all this?” I ask, popping the plastic lid off, expecting to see a stash of expensive chocolate. Instead, I find a thick roll of money.
So much money.
It’s not just singles. There are twenties, a bundle of fifties—howdoesshe have this much cash?
“What do you think I’m in the poker group here for—fun?” Her grin is wicked, and honestly, why am I surprised? I’ve seen her play and it’s ruthless. But this? This must be years’ worth of winnings.
“Grams, this is too much.”
“Then buy yourself something nice with the leftovers.” She shrugs, as if she’s sending me out the door with five dollars for the ice cream truck, nothundredsfor a horribly irresponsible weekend getaway.
