Cover.html by Playing Hurt Holly Schindler Read Free Book Online

crunched in on itself, and my leg is stuck, bent so that my knee is practically up in my ear. Stop laughing, I’m screaming, but Gabe can’t quit …
    “Come with me,” Gabe says, erasing my disturbing daydream. “Just for a minute. The cake’ll wait. I want to give you your graduation gift.”
    I start to reach for the white box, but he swats my fingers away.
    “Don’t need that,” he says, grinning and dragging me toward the door. Confusion wrinkles my face.
    I get the keys back out of my pocket, make sure White Sugar’s locked up tight while we’re gone—not that it really matters in Fair 41/262
    Grove, home of Lady Eagles and honest souls. “Should I have turned the espresso machine off?” I ask.
    Weekend nights, Gabe’s vintage Mustang can always be found just beyond the White Sugar entrance, at the ready in case we decide to drive to nearby Springfield for a movie or a dinner that’s more than just a slice of pepperoni. So I assume that’s where we’re headed now—to Springfield—as I hurry over to his car. I’m careful to keep my legs, greasy with rose-scented lotion, a good three feet from the car’s grill; I’ve learned that if there’s one thing you never do to Gabe Ross, it’s lean against his ’65 ’Stang. Or fog up the glass with your breath. Or toss a gum wrapper on the floorboards. Or put your shoes on the leather seats. Or, for that matter, try to tease him that he’s just a little bit guard-at-the-museum uptight about his car.
    “We’re not driving anywhere. Won’t be gone that long,” Gabe says, holding his hand out.
    Instead of taking it, I let my eyes rove toward the giant antique clock that hangs just below one of the street lights. At a quarter past nine, the breath of the humid Missouri night swirls warm over my bare arms. Forget frying eggs—at this rate, by the time August shows up, we’ll be able to bake White Sugar’s chocolate chip cookies on the pavement.
    “It’s almost tomorrow,” I say, pointing at the clock. “The day I leave for Minnesota.”
    “We’ve still got lots of time,” Gabe insists, wiggling his fingers at me.
    I slide my hand into his cool grip and we walk toward the ancient mill that serves, even now, as the cornerstone for the entire town. Sure, mill business is as dead as the dried flowers the craftier women in town use for handmade door wreaths. But the historic landmark’s still the prime location for Fourth of July picnics, ice cream socials, heritage festivals brimming with bluegrass music.
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    We make our way through the grass while a scattering of early summer fireflies dance over the blades. Bittersweet vines are already curling themselves around the base of trees, and when we get close enough, I’m sure we’ll see its purple flowers popping up around the corners of the mill. Halfway across the field, though, Gabe stops and points to the black sky. I look up.
    “The Chelsea Keyes Star,” he says. “I bought it from the International Star Registry and named it after you. All the papers are wrapped up in that box at White Sugar, but I don’t need a map to find it. I’d know it anywhere. Sparkles brighter than any other star in the sky. Just like you.”
    I don’t say anything, but the fact is, his gift instantly starts rubbing me like sandpaper. And I’m not even sure why—isn’t this just a romantic Gabe Ross gesture?
    “You bought me—a star,” I mumble. “Thank—thank you.” I hope that somehow, in his ears, this doesn’t sound quite like the awkward gratitude you give your clueless great aunt for the gym sneakers she’s bought you, complete with Velcro— Velcro— of all the ridiculously awful things.
    “It’s kind of like how the sailors used to use the stars as a map. Or a compass, right?” Gabe goes on. “Only way I could think of to show you that I think the heart is a compass, and that my heart always leads me right to you .”
    I blink away the tingles that spring to my eyes. You’re an ass,