Truth was, she may have aged ten years, but she was relatively clueless when it came to the world of men.
Instead of admitting anything, she moved over to the giant shipping container that held all the pole vault equipment. She slid her hand between two containers and fished her fingers in the dark. She was about to give up when she found the small magnetic box she searched for.
The hide-a-key had a faded image of Hello Kitty.
While Wyatt watched she popped open the small box and removed a senior secret.
The lock hadn’t changed.
“I wondered where they hid that thing,” Wyatt said as he stood back and watched.
“You didn’t learn it from me.” She placed the key back where she found it and stepped into the dusty container. The space in front of the poles had evidence of use, but the far reaches of the container, the place where it wasn’t uncommon for the team to hang out on a rainy day, had lost its luster. Cobwebs occupied the space and a forgotten, faded jersey and pair of shoes filled the corners. When Melanie had been in school, it wasn’t unusual that a summer evening took place here with a game of spin the bottle along with shots provided by Jo and her hidden stash of liquor.
Instead of simmering on the high school memories, Melanie removed a pole from the tube and sighed.
“You still have it.”
“They’re expensive. Until they break or crack, we don’t get rid of them.”
She wedged the pole against the bottom of the shed and leaned into it. Where she once bent the pole with ease, she could already tell she’d lost the upper body strength to use the thing.
“You wanna try?” Wyatt asked.
“Vaulting?”
“Since breaking and entering has been mastered . . .”
Melanie shook her head with a roll of her eyes. “I know the sheriff. And besides, she had the key made.”
Wyatt offered a dimpled smile. “I’m learning new things every day with you in town.” He moved away from the container and over to the pit. “They say it’s like riding a bike.”
“They do not!”
“They do.”
She planted the pole into the box and attempted to bend it again. “Who are they anyway?”
“Life’s cheerleaders.”
Melanie cringed. “Fake smiles and pom-poms . . . what do they know?”
“Don’t be hating.”
She took a few steps back and lifted the eleven-foot pole before letting the end come down with a bounce. “I’m not hating. Just not a fan.”
“Yet you were on the squad.”
She offered a glance over her shoulder, found his eyes snapping up from his gaze lingering on her butt. “Checking me out again?”
It was his turn to be flustered.
“Yes . . . no . . . I mean. Your friend Margie told me you were on the squad.”
“Nice change of subject. And Margie is an old acquaintance, not a friend. Not to mention the reason I stopped cheer.”
“Oh?”
“It was high school. Boyfriends were passed around and feelings were hurt. I’m sure it hasn’t changed.” Her eyes drifted to the stands where she assumed the current cheerleading team sat watching their football-playing boyfriends.
“So she broke the girl code.”
Melanie leaned on the pole and smiled. “I ended up here and she had her heart stomped on. I won.”
“These reunions always drag up old drama. There is seldom a year that goes by that there isn’t some kind of fight.”
“Really?”
“Not a fistfight . . . well, I’ve seen one of those, but catfights are entertaining.”
“That’s stupid. We’re adults now.”
“I’m just reporting the facts as I’ve seen them. It seems River Bend has a few unsolved dramas that need to be worked out.”
Wyatt sat on the edge of the pit and leaned against his jean-clad thighs.
“What about you? Did you have any drama when you went to your reunion?”
“It isn’t until next year. I’ll let you know.”
She knew it, he was younger. “Are you going to go?”
“Haven’t decided. I might.” He nodded toward the pit. “Now, are you going to jump on the pole or just fondle it all day?”
She glanced at her hands gripping the tape.
Wyatt laughed.
“I’m not going to get flustered,” she muttered.
“Too late.”
Yeah, it was too late. She returned to the shed and lifted the pole back into its home. The fit was tight and she gave it a good shove. Wyatt had moved beside her and placed his hand next to hers to push it in. For a man living in Oregon, he sure had a nice tan. Well, what she could see of it in any event. “I understand if you’re too scared to try.”
“I’m not scared . . .”
“If you say so.”
She rolled her eyes and pushed past him to close the heavy doors. “You’re a bully,” she told him.
He took the lock from her hands, the heat of them shot up her arms.
“I usually get what I want,” he said without shame.
“Like a bully.”
“Like a coach,” he countered.
He reached around her, not giving her much room to move away, and clicked the lock in place.
“I can move,” she told him.
He was close enough to smell the rich pine of his skin.