Behind us, Gray plopped down fifty dollars for both his and Gina’s registration.
“They look . . . snug,” Max noted as we drifted toward the makeshift store that Xtreme Paintball, another sponsor, had set up under a tent.
“Yep,” I agreed, not letting my mind backtrack to other snug images.
Tommy, the vendor, waved us over. “Here’re two of my favorite people. What can I do you for today?” he asked.
Tommy was the sort of fellow who could say something like that, and you believed him. He was retired Air Force, had biceps the size of my thighs, and a wicked little scar above his eye that he’d picked up on a classified mission. Or at least, that was the story he told. I loved Tommy fiercely for that scar. Even more now that I had my own.
Max thrust out his hand, and when Tommy shook it, Max nearly came off the ground.
“Hey, Tommy,” I said, and leaned over the merch table to plant a kiss on his weathered cheek.
He pointed to my face and nodded his approval. “You’ve been adding some serious character, Sadie Kingston. I like it, kid. I like it. We need to trade war stories.”
Three extraordinary things happened.
One, I didn’t automatically recoil or feel attacked.
Two, I imagined I was a hero like Tommy. That I’d gotten Idaho and Nameless while escaping from an enemy camp.
Three, I stepped out of myself, lifted the do-rag, and showed him the narrow, pink trenches on my forehead.
“I call this one Idaho,” I said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Damn, girl.” Tommy clapped his hands in applause. “That’s cool as grits. Maybe I’ll name mine now.”
Oh, why not go with it, I thought.
“You’ll have to let me know if you do.”
Tommy winked at Max. “Don’t let her go, man. Any woman who can fire a gun and wear a scar as pretty as that one is a keeper.”
Tommy’s words were worth more than a hundred sessions with Fletcher, because I heard them.
“That’s the plan, Tommy,” Max told him.
“Thank you.” I stuck those words deep in Tommy’s heart.
“All truth,” he said.
We got back to game preparation after that. Max needed two bags of paintballs and some CO2 cartridges, but Tommy wouldn’t take any payment.
“On the house today. Special-occasion scar bonding,” he claimed as he helped Max fill our gun hoppers and extra ammunition clips.
Before we left, Tommy leaned over the merchandise and said to me, “I was worried you wouldn’t come this year. Your dad said you’d had a hard time of it.” He pointed to the scars again. “Don’t let anybody give you any shit out there. If they do, send ’em to me.”
“Thanks, Tommy.”
“We’re all pulling for you to win,” he told me.
I was pulling for me too.
“Wish you’d listen to me the way you listened to him,” Max said when we cleared the tent.
I traced the X I’d drawn on his chest that morning. “I listen to you.”
Everywhere we walked, Max drew a crowd. Pirates and Paintball veterans slapped his shoulder and welcomed him. People doled out careful sympathy, not wanting to tip a festive occasion toward sadness, but also not wanting to ignore his loss. Candace Rew, Max’s friend from sophomore year, also seemed happy to see him.
Candace examined me a little too long.
“Hey, Max. Hey, Sadie.” Her voice sounded like plastic knives.
I didn’t pay her many words more than Hi, but I paid her attention. Curvy and sexy. She had perfect hips, boobs that made me envious, great ponytail hair, and a face that hadn’t been through the window of a Yaris.
She hugged Max longer than I deemed necessary. I seriously considered wandering back to Tommy, but when Max felt my gravity shift in that direction, he accosted my hand. Candace, lovely Candace, looked quite confused.
I wondered . . . if she’d written Max emails all year, would she be the one with him today?