We lazily walk back to the car before we drive to the river trail to swim. For hours we luxuriate in the water, splashing, playing, then wading aimlessly together, every second falling deeper. All I can think about is how I’d wait another ten years if it meant I could feel this way forever.
I watch her until the sunlight starts to wane, at home in the water—with me.
But a knot forms in my stomach.
These two days with Ebony, these perfect, carefree days, feel like a dream I never want to end. But is it all just for the weekend? When we get back to Ellswood, will we still be like this? Will the distance, the routine, and the real world creep in and pull us apart?
I want to believe it won’t. That what we’ve found again will last beyond these couple days. But part of me is afraid to lose this.
“I’m turning into a prune.” She laughs, and I shove my thoughts aside.
The sun’s dying down, casting that warm glow over us as we dry off, wrapping ourselves in towels. Since we haven’t heard from the shop yet, I find an empty park bench, figuring now is as good a time as any.
I whip out my fresh deck of Bicycle playing cards.
“All right, Miss Ebony Grace…” I scoot back, leaving space between us to play the game. It’s not a kitchen table, but it’s the best we’ve got out here in the wilderness. “Let’s see who’s going first.”
I hold out the deck for her to pick a card.
Naturally, she picks an ace of spades like she’s come to destroy my entire existence. I raise an eyebrow and pull a two of spades.
“So, am I going first, or how do you want to play this game?” I ask, throwing out the options, hoping we’ll quickly knock out the house hierarchy. “Joker, joker, deuce, ace, or joker, joker, ace…”
She sits up straighter, the drama loading. “First off, sir…” She’s got that sinister smile, like she’s secretly plotting my downfall. “Spades isn’t a game. We’re not playing that Google trick-taking recreational activity, okay? We’re playing Black Spades, which means I’m here to take books and names.”
I swallow hard, trying to hide my grin. “Okay, so, ace high, deuce low, or…”
The smirk on her face is comical. “Joker, joker, ace. Obviously.”
Obviously.
I nod, trying and failing horribly at tamping down the urge to kiss her. “Cool, cool. So, you’re going first, and I’m just going to shuffle.” I chuckle, giving the deck a quick mix.
Naturally, she laughs in my face. “Oh, Lincoln Bridges, sir. If you play Spades like you shuffle, you’re about to get whipped,” she says, coming hot out the gate with the trash talking.
I scrub a hand over my face, already knowing this is about to be a mess.
“Ma’am, just cut the cards, so I can deal.” I shake my head, still laughing. “We’re playing to five hundred. When the glazier calls, we stop. Highest score wins.”
Ebony’s still giggling as she cuts the deck. While I’m dealing thirteen cards to us, she’s over there, digging in her tote. I’m thinking she must be looking for paper to keep score. Nope, she pulls out a long convenience store receipt, a pen, a half-empty bag of Sour Patch Kids, her phone, and AirPods.
She pops one into my ear for us to listen together, and her Dominationplaylist starts bumping, setting the tone. According to Ebony’s “house” rules, playing Spades requires snacks and music.
“Oh, you broke out the old-school jams,” I say as Tupac’s “2 of Amerikaz Most Wanted” fills my ears.
“Mm-hmm. You’re about to learn what happens when the beat drops and you get played.” She grins, innocently. “Now, let’s get to business.”
We review our cards and start bidding—five for me, two for Ebony.
And somebody’s sandbagging books…
For a good forty-five minutes, it’s nothing but back-and-forth on sandbagging, weak trash talk, and what constitutes the “big” joker. It’s to the point where we’re forced to defer to the president of the National Association of Spades Activities (Dad, apparently), before we settle on hand-writing “big” on one Joker.
“Man, I didn’t peg you for a cheater.” I shake my head, letting her have the book, but I’m still up one-fifty to ninety.
I figure we’ve got time for one more hand anyway. The chandelier pick-up call should be coming any minute, daylight is waning, and you won’t catch me in a forest at night. We won’t make it to five hundred, but I’ll make this last one count.
On the next hand, we’re still playing it semi-civil, just tossing out diamonds, hearts, and clubs. Then I drop a four of hearts, and she stands up like she’s about to deliver a sermon, slamming down a three of spades with her whole chest, her voice booming. “This is not the cookout, baby, but you’recooked!”
