Travis (Pelion Lake) by Mia Sheridan

Nothing.

“I don’t think things are supposed to work this way.” I narrowed my eyes. “Are you messing with me because I expressed doubt in your . . . talents?”

“Oh no, no. Definitely not. I never lie when it comes to my predictions.” She peered at me again. “The fog is very dense around your future. Very, very dense. Murky even.”

Very, very dense.

“Are you serious? That’s what you’re leaving me with?” I stayed planted in my chair. Why did I care? I didn’t believe in this crap anyway. But even so, shouldn’t you be able to expect certain things in these situations? I was under the impression that there was an agreement among shysters like Clarice. They told you your future was bright and shiny and all your dreams would come true. It was vague and silly and you basically knew you’d just thrown away twenty bucks, but even so, you walked out smiling, friends clamoring to know what you’d been told. Clarice didn’t get to tell me my future was full of loss and darkness and zero paths that led to happiness. “This is outrageous,” I sputtered. “It’s not how this sort of thing is done.”

Her forehead shot up. “I believe you’ve been misinformed on how this sort of thing works. Sometimes I’m given a word, or a string of words, perhaps a vision now and again, but an understanding is not provided to me. It’s up to the recipient to interpret the message. I do have a disclaimer that I share my predictions whether they’re positive or negative.”

“Where? Where is that disclaimer?”

“Right there.” She pointed behind me and I turned, squinting to see a tiny sign with lettering barely large enough to make out unless your nose was pressed against it.

“If anything more comes to me, I’ll let you know as we share a residence at the moment.” She smiled and despite her assertion that she’d provide more if she could, she wiped her hands together like she was wiping her hands of me completely.

What the actual hell?

I stood slowly, mouth open in offended disbelief.

The glare of the sun felt like an assault as I ducked out of Clarice’s booth, and whatever look I was wearing on my face made Haven widen her eyes and bite back a smile. “The future doesn’t look bright, I assume. What did she say to you?”

“Nothing that makes any sense,” I grumbled as we started to walk.

Haven laughed, laying her hand on my arm. “Don’t worry so much. She told me I’d plant ten thousand gardens. Obviously, that can’t be true.”

My mood brightened. “So she is a total quack. I knew it.” I took in a full breath.

“Or, maybe she speaks in metaphors. Sometimes I swear I’ve lived in ten thousand places.” She gave a wistful smile, twirling the end of her braid idly in her finger.

“I don’t think there was a metaphor in my case. She was very clear. There was an either or and they both sucked.”

“How about we forget the future and live in the moment with some whack-a-mole?”

My spirits rose. I was in the mood to whack something. If it had to be a plastic mole, so be it. I’d name it Clarice in my head. “It’s a plan.”

We spent a few hours playing games at the game booths and eating sugary snacks. I won her a stuffed dog that she squealed over and cradled as though it was a Ming vase, making me feel proud and happy. One of those simple masculine pleasures. “What’s his name?” I asked her.

She considered him for a moment and then said, “Blueberry,” almost shyly, followed by a short self-deprecating laugh, “so when I look at him, whenever that may be, wherever that may be, I will always remember today, spent in Pelion, Maine, with Chief Hale and our motley crew of misfits.”

“Blueberry it is,” I said softly.

We drove home mostly in silence, the sun just slipping below the horizon. Haven’s nose and shoulders were red, but she didn’t seem to be able to stop smiling, even though it was a sleepy smile. I was tired too from the sun, and the beer, and the sugar crash.

For some reason, things felt different between us. Sweeter somehow, but slightly strained too. I helped her down from my truck and pressed a finger softly into her shoulder, and she smiled, both of our eyes lingering on the light tan fingerprint that slowly faded away. I wondered if I’d be like that fingerprint, pressed into her skin briefly, eventually fading to nothing. No trace that I’d ever touched her at all or that she’d ever known me. Maybe our singular kiss would become just as forgettable. I swallowed down the unexpected tinge of sadness.

“I think I’ll go to bed early,” she said, her voice stilted.

“It’s been a long day.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “But a wonderful one. Thank you again for taking me. For winning me a prize.” She hugged Blueberry to her chest.

I put my hands in my pockets. I wanted to kiss her. God, I wanted to kiss her. I’d never wanted to kiss anyone more.

Friends.

And she had a date with Gage Buchanan. A much-wanted date it was wise to remember. And I’d been called many, many things, but stupid had never been one of them.

I opened my mouth to say goodnight. “You know what would feel great right now?” Because, damn it, sometimes wisdom was overrated.

Her eyes widened slightly. “What?”

“A swim.”