Page 51 of Don’t Be A Stranger

“Hey.” I nudge his shoulder. “You never told me what absurd thing you’d want.”

His smile remains in place but he waves me off, dropping his clothes onto a chair and begins slipping them back on.

I follow suit.

“It was stupid,” he chuckles.

“And you think me wasting thousands of dollars on a country club membership when I don’t even play golf isn’t dumb?”

“I’ll think of something else and let you know,” he reasons with me.

“Deal.” I’ll accept that. “Now, let’s go before Cruella somehow magically spawns out of nowhere.”

Now that we’re dressed, River throws his arm over my shoulders and we head back out the gate we came in from.

I make sure to lock it back up.

“Does Cruella live here or something?” River asks.

I shrug. “It honestly wouldn’t surprise me.”

River and I continue our stealthy walk back to his car, making sure to stay on the lookout for Richard. Or Cruella.

Seventeen

River

Deciding to go to the Banga Banga music festival on the Fourth of July is both the best and worst idea I’ve probably ever had.

Since the tickets were so cheap, it’s extremely packed, but I’m here with Summer, so it kind of makes up for it. And our favorite band Get A Grip! is also hitting the stage soon.

But the best part of this evening so far is probably how excited Summer is right now, just from munching on a twenty-dollar funnel cake that’s drowning in strawberries.

It took us a good five minutes to decide who’d be paying. I said I should pay because I invited her here. Summer thought she should pay because I bought her ticket.

She has no idea that I’d go into debt for her.

We finally agreed on splitting the cost and now we’re sitting on a corner of a bench that a few other people are sitting on. Seats are limited here so obviously we’re going to take wherever we can get and I’m not complaining. With such limited space, Summer has no choice but to sit on my lap.

Now we’re picking off bites of our sweet treat while we engage in our usual argument about The Rolling Stones being overrated.

Summer counters that Led Zeppelin, her personal favorite rock band, isn’t that lyrically challenged while also reminding me that at least they aren’t essentially a cover band.

“I don’t know why we keep having this conversation,” Summer groans, throwing her head back. “You act like you’re The Rolling Stones’s biggest fan.”

I gasp. “And what if I am?”

“Oh please, you’ve listened to ‘Who’s Next’ every day since sixth grade, and let’s not forget when they remastered the album a few years ago. You didn’t shut up about it.”

“You’re just jealous that my favorite band is still active.” I have no problem reminding her of that.

She looks at me with a smug look on her face. “So you finally admit it—The Rolling Stones isn’t your favorite. You just like arguing.”

“I plead the fifth.”

She laughs and pulls another piece of funnel cake off and pops it into her mouth. There’s a content smile on her face.

Her eyes narrow when she catches me staring. “What?”