Wildfire (Maple Hills, #2)(42)
Xander starts laughing. “Easiest way to work out who has daddy issues. Tell them it’s Father’s Day. What a bonding moment for us all.”
“Speak for yourself,” Emilia quips. “My dad is the best guy I know.”
“And I, just this second, decided not to spiral today, so share your misery with someone else, thank you very much,” Rory adds, giving him a sweet smile. “I will spiral later, alone, like a regular person. Or if I’m feeling really adventurous, I’ll bottle it up and bury it deep down, letting it erupt at a much later, more inconvenient time.”
“What can we do today with the kids?” I ask, changing the topic to avoid being dragged into this conversation too much. “What do they love the most?”
“Paint dodgeball,” Xander and Rory say in unison.
Her eyebrow raises as Xander whispers, “Did we just become best friends?”
Aurora grabs herself breakfast while we work out what we need and Clay and Maya join us, immediately on board with our plan. Sundays are usually pretty chilled out; after a week of constantly scheduled activities, everyone’s tired so we plan more low-key days and it means everyone has energy for the Sunday barbeque and evening event, which is usually movie night or a show.
There doesn’t sound anything low-key about paint and dodgeball being in the same sentence.
When everything’s arranged, Xander and I take the kids back to their room to tidy up for the inspection. Brown Bears are currently in the lead in the camp rankings, which my colleagues have attributed to me and my need to keep things tidy.
Cleaning is more of a habit than a hobby. My dad’s moods were often unpredictable when I lived at home, his gambling losses made him irritable and it often felt like he was trying to pick an argument. I hated getting into trouble, so I did what I could to prevent those arguments happening.
I did my homework as soon as I got it, sometimes even during breaks at school. I constantly had odd jobs around our neighborhood so I never had to ask him for money. I kept everything spotless so he never had a reason to complain about things being untidy.
None of it ever mattered. After a loss and a drink, my dad could find an argument in an empty room, but the habits have stayed with me. Now, they’re going to help win some pizza. Go figure.
The morning moves at its usual Sunday slow pace. We set up five-aside soccer for the kids with energy and puzzles and crafts for the others. I spend more time watching Aurora excitedly run around cheering on her players than I do trying to make the origami dove I’m supposed to be working on.
“You have a big fat crush on Rory,” Michael, a ten-year-old who apparently doesn’t know how to read the room, says. “You keep watching her.”
“That’s inappropriate,” I counter, suddenly very focused on my origami. “Rory is my friend. I’m watching the game.”
“You didn’t say you don’t have a crush on her.”
“I also didn’t say I did.”
He lets it go for now and I quietly breathe a sigh of relief that Michael’s parents are actors and not lawyers, like some of the kids here who are really good at debating.
When it’s time to usher everyone back into the dining hall, my dove is finally folded. Maya and Xander start leading the group for lunch, but I hang back to tidy up the various half completed games and craft projects littering the table.
“Let me help you,” a soft voice says coming up behind me.
“I’m good, don’t worry. Take a seat,” I say to Aurora. “You must be tired.”
She sits down in front of the half-finished jigsaw, staring down at it before starting to disconnect the pieces. “This is how I feel about you sometimes, y’know.”
I’m looking at her; the apples of her cheeks are pink from running around all morning, her hair pinned back out of her face, showcasing the extra freckles decorating her nose after three weeks in the sun every day. She keeps taking the puzzle apart, bit by bit putting it back into the box. “Like you want to put me in a box?” I joke, unsure what she’s talking about.
“No, like you’re a jigsaw puzzle and I have all the outside pieces but I haven’t worked out how all the inside ones fit together yet.”
“I made something for you.” I say, changing the subject quickly. “It’s not very good. I was distracted watching you miss the goal every time.”
Her shoulders shake as she laughs. “I’m so bad. I’m literally a goalie’s dream.”
“You are.” She finally looks up as I put the paper dove down in front of her. “Speaking as a goalie, that is.”
She picks the dove up, holding it in her hand like it’s the most precious thing in the world even though it’s terrible. “I love it. Thank you, Russ.”
The rules of paint dodgeball are the same as regular dodgeball. The difference is your ball is actually a sponge, which you dip into one of the many paint mixtures dotted around the grass before launching at your opponents. Each round has a color to make it clear who’s in and who’s out.
Given the fact my opponents are mainly children, coupled with my long history of athletics, it didn’t occur to me to be worried about getting covered in paint—but as the sponge hits me square in the chest, green paint spraying out from the impact, I realize my certainty was misjudged.