Travis (Pelion Lake) by Mia Sheridan

“Okay. Good luck,” I said, needlessly.

I headed toward Haven, almost missing a step when she turned my way, her face lighting in a smile to rival the sun.





CHAPTER FOURTEEN




Haven



“Hi.” I smiled as he approached. It felt big. Too big, probably, but I found I wasn’t interested in putting very much effort toward its suppression. The noise of the crowd faded, the world suddenly growing impossibly brighter.

“Hey.” Travis smiled back, his dark hair lifting off his forehead as a breeze stirred. I caught the sight of a small white scar near his hairline, an old wound. He would have been young when it bled. “Having a good time?”

“This is the most wonderful day of my life,” I said. I couldn’t even be embarrassed that my enthusiasm might seem overdone to someone like him. I was too happy. Too bursting with it.

I watched in fascination as several emotions passed over his face, one by one. Surprise, confusion, pleasure, a strange sort of sadness, and then wonder. “You mean it.”

I laughed. “We don’t have blueberry festivals in California.”

He smiled, but I could tell he knew it was a false explanation. There were plenty of other events in California where I might have experienced a day like today. Farmers’ markets, carnivals, craft fairs. But I never had. Not once. The people, the sweet smell of sugary desserts, the families. The warmth. It was all so incredibly warm. It glowed, and I felt like, somehow, just being here, I did too. I glanced around and then looked back at Travis whose gaze was still glued to me. “How lucky you are, Travis, to have all”—I waved my hand—“this.”

Travis’s gaze broke from mine, and he looked around. It was as if he’d been looking through a foggy window and the glass had suddenly cleared. When he looked at me again, his eyes were soft. And yes, warm. There were rings of dark green around his golden-brown irises. Extraordinary, those eyes. I’d noticed his brother had very similar eyes, but his appeared about a half shade lighter than Travis’s. “Yeah,” he said after a moment, “I am pretty lucky.” Then he smiled at me, lopsided and boyish as though I’d just offered him a gift he hadn’t been expecting.

“Clarice is going to read our fortunes in a few minutes. Come with us.”

Travis rolled his eyes. “You don’t believe in that stuff, do you?”

I laughed. “I don’t know to be honest. I’ve never had my fortune told. But I’ll keep an open mind if you will.”

He grinned that boyish grin again and my stomach flipped at its unexpected innocence. So many layers. “Sure.”

Cricket appeared, a tray of beers in her hand, the plastic cups sloshing foam, and handed one to each of us. When Travis hesitated, she said, “Come on, Chief, you’re off duty and Burt here will drive us home.”

I choked on the small sip of beer I’d just taken and Travis’s eyes widened as he glanced at the grinning blind man. Cricket let out a boisterous laugh, whacking the side of her hip with the now empty tray. Travis took a sip. “I guess I don’t have to drive home for several hours.”

Several hours left of heaven. I held up my cup and he met mine with his.

Clarice’s booth was near the other side of the festival so we began walking, Travis and me in the rear of the group. “What part of Los Angeles did you grow up in?” Travis asked.

I stalled, taking a sip of my beer and swallowing. “Are you familiar with LA?”

“Not really, other than the famous parts . . . Hollywood, Bel Air, Beverly Hills, Laguna Beach.”

“Not those parts,” I said on a small, humorless laugh. “Picture the opposite of sunny beaches, Louis Vuitton shops, and gated communities, and that’s where I grew up.”

Cricket let out a loud guffaw and Travis squinted toward where the rest of our group walked. She gave a not-very-surreptitious glance back at Travis and then removed what appeared to be a flask and poured a shot in Burt and Betty’s out-held cups. “She’s a really bad criminal,” Travis murmured. “No wonder she served time.”

I let out a small laugh.

“So,” he said after a minute, “no blueberry festivals in the opposite of a gated community.”

“No blueberries, period.”

One brow went up and one brow went down and he considered me. “That can’t be true.”

“Trust me, it is. Liquor and convenience stores don’t tend to sell any produce at all, unless it’s a basket of three or four bananas at the front counter that usually go untouched. When my mom did bring home food, she tended to pick up chips, soda, and donuts. It’s the food pyramid of poverty-stricken neighborhoods. That’s true everywhere I assume, although admittedly I haven’t been everywhere.” I shot him what I hoped was an amused smile, but he didn’t smile back. I looked away. Why was I sharing this? At the blueberry festival? The warm, glowy, sun-drenched blueberry festival.

Because today of all days, it feels good to be known. Walking amidst all of these people who are connected to other people, feeling like you are too.

Was it really so wrong to want that, just for one day? In a couple months’ time, I’d never see this man again. Did it really matter?

“Is that why health food is so important to you?” he asked softly.