Travis (Pelion Lake) by Mia Sheridan

I was almost confused, as though she might have pulled something over on me, and I didn’t know what or how, only that my first impression had been wildly off target.

I smiled. “Ready?”

Outside, she climbed into my truck and I turned out of the parking lot onto the road that led to the fairgrounds where the festival was being held.

The morning was bright and sunny, flickers of light dancing on the lake, not a cloud in the clear blue sky.

And a pretty friend in a sundress that showed off her slim tanned legs, and her smooth shoulders, sitting next to me, her hands grasped in her lap.

I cleared my throat. “I’m going to go out on a limb and assume you’re a vegan?” I did my level best to infuse the word with the same horrified contempt with which I might utter the charge of devil worshipper.

I was rewarded with Haven’s laugh, a side-eye, and a curl falling loose and bouncing against the side of her neck. “You’re almost right. I’m not a vegan, but I am a vegetarian.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Well a—”

“Never mind.” I waved my hand around. “It pains me to discuss the subject in too much detail. My point in bringing it up is to let you know that, despite the topic of the festival, there are very few fruits, vegetables, or plant items available for a festival-goers consumption. Unless the fruit is drowned in sugar. Think pies. Jams. Tarts. Muffins. Pastries of all kinds. And BBQ. Lots of BBQ.”

She didn’t look my way but I held back a laugh as I still saw her roll her eyes, even from the side. “Don’t worry about me. I’m sure I can find a pine cone to gnaw on.”

I laughed.

Families strolled toward the entrance to the festival, the parking lot already filled with cars when we arrived. I pulled into a spot and inhaled the—according to me anyway—delicious smells of grilled meat and sweet desserts.

There was something almost . . . old-fashioned about the blueberry festival. It spoke of simple pleasures: good food, family bonding, and the wholesomeness of a town gathering for no other purpose than to celebrate their shared community. I lingered on the feeling. It was the small-town police officer in me—the cop who considered all of these people, his. The part of me that found joy in simplicity.

It spoke of my dad.

“You look like you just realized something immense,” Haven said, eyeing me sideways, a gentle smile curving her lips.

Immense. This was who my dad had been. This, right here.

Sometimes I forgot who he really was, at heart, because I was so wrapped up in the hurt surrounding his departure. And maybe, because I’d forgotten whole aspects of who he’d been, I often overlooked or dismissed those same facets in myself. “Maybe I did,” I said, not offering more. But she looked away, accepting my vague answer.

The sun was warm on my shoulders and I had the strange urge to grab her hand, but reminded myself we were only friends, and friends didn’t hold hands. God, I wanted to, though. My palm itched to reach out for hers, to revel in one of those simple pleasures: the warmth of a pretty girl’s hand in mine.

To remember why those songs had been written, ones like the piece we’d danced to at the Buchanans’ home. To remember why I’d kissed her and why I didn’t want to stop. Damn the reasons why maybe I shouldn’t. The ones that sounded all-too-valid in my mind but somehow weren’t.

“Uncle Travis!” Two dark-haired boys shot toward us, Bree and Archer watching from a picnic table as they ran in our direction.

“Are you ready for these two?” I murmured to Haven.

“I . . . I think so?” she said, giving me a wide-eyed look.

Connor arrived first and I scooped him up in one arm, with Charlie fast on his heels. I scooped him up as well, taking the few steps to where Archer and Bree sat.

“Uncle Travis!” Connor said, breathlessly. “I learned about living orgasms at camp today!” Archer choked on the sip of water he’d just taken.

“Are there other sorts of—” I began to question curiously before the fact that my nephew was six occurred to me.

“It’s pronounced organisms, Connor,” Bree intervened calmly, spooning something into Averie’s mouth where she sat in the stroller parked next to the table. She smiled at Haven. “Hi, I’m Bree, and this is my husband, Archer.”

“Hi, I’m Haven,” she said shyly. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Uncle Travis!” Charlie leaned in as if to whisper but then said loudly, “Averie farts when she sneezes.”

Both Connor and Charlie clutched their stomachs, peals of laughter ringing out.

I leaned in toward Charlie who’d gotten control of himself. “It’s not gentlemanly to discuss a woman’s bodily functions. You should pretend not to notice.”

Charlie went serious as he appeared to mull that over. “But it’s loud!” he finally explained.

I looked over at Haven, who was very obviously trying not to laugh, and lost my own battle.

Bree shook her head in exasperation. “Boys, I’m sure Uncle Travis wants to get something cold to drink. Come finish your hotdogs.”

I set both boys down and Connor glanced at Haven, going up on his tiptoes in front of me. I leaned down to hear his sure-to-be loud “whisper.” “Uncle Travis, what happened to that other girlfriend?”