Early Saturday morning, Max scratched on my tent. Gina pulled a pillow over her face and groaned as I unzipped the tent. The sun stretched and yawned with me.
Max looked as if he’d been up for hours. He held up a Diet Coke and a Sharpie. I sipped on the Coke and rubbed my eyes before I realized I was still in my shorts in the daylight. Tennessee and Pink Floyd said hi to both of us.
“I’m trying to stop,” I said to Max, putting the Sharpie back in his hand. We’d discussed my Sharpie problem at length one night by instant messenger.
“No. No.” He tapped his bare chest. “I need a treasure map.”
“You want me to draw on you? What time is it?”
“Too early,” Gina moaned from inside the tent.
“It’s pirate time,” Max answered as loudly as he could. He kicked the bottom of the tent. “Up and at ’em, Adler.”
She groaned again.
I unzipped the tent halfway. “Let me put on some pants, and I’ll draw your treasure map.”
He stopped the zipper and tapped his throat. “Does my voice bother you?”
“You know it doesn’t.”
I never even thought about his voice unless I had to have him repeat something. I let him zip the tent to the top and took the Sharpie.
Max of small victories struck again.
I penned a pirate map worthy of Blackbeard. Drawing on myself was therapy. Drawing on him was sexy. The dotted line led this way and that, but ended at his heart. I circled a big X and handed him the Sharpie.
Tucking his chin, he admired my work. “Nicely done.”
“Expert,” I said with a shrug.
“You’ll have a pretty sweet costume yourself.”
I’d showed it to him yesterday, and he’d approved. In preparation, I’d cut a pair of black sweatpants off below the knees and doctored a Goonies sweatshirt so Tennessee wouldn’t show. A dark do-rag covered Idaho, and two skull-and-crossbones tattoos were the finishing touch. Mom and I tested them out at home last week. The scar at my mouth nearly disappeared beneath the tattoo film. Too bad I couldn’t wear these every day.
All this . . . and I got a paintball mask. Game, set, match. I should be on top of the world, but I wrung my hands instead.
Crowds still made me nauseous.
“Stick with me,” Max said.
The problem with that suggestion was we didn’t have control over registration. “We’ll probably end up on different teams.”
“If we do, odds are you’ll end up with Gina or Gray,” he said. “They both know this is hard for you.”
Fear was such a thief. I loved the wildness of the game, the quickness of my heartbeat as I stalked across the island, the celebration of nailing a competitor. There was a barbaric nature to it—like living in The Hunger Games and knowing you’re a badass. And it was still hard to be here.
“What can I do?” Max asked.
I shoved into him and watched the smile I loved ripple across his face. “You’re doing it.”
“I used to avoid people. Remember?” he said.
I nodded. Neither of us cheapened our emotions by comparing them side by side. Neither was worse than the other. I might be too stupid to change quickly, but I wasn’t too stupid to understand.
“Sucks, eh?” I said.
“Yep,” he agreed.
Our eyes drifted out to the bay. We watched small waves slush from side to side, rocking against the shore like a fast metronome. March winds in June would make for a challenge during the game and a fun ride on the Jet Ski later. The Gulf could be a bitch on wheels. Maybe after Pirates and Paintball, we’d ride out of the bay and toward the horizon.
After mentioning the possibility to Max, he gave me a half-cocked grin. The grin of someone who knew something I didn’t know. “Sounds perfect,” he said.
“What are you hiding, Max McCall?”
He toed the ground, shoved his hands into his pockets, and put on a pleased-as-punch grin. “I’ll tell you after the game.”
“Bad?” I asked automatically.