1642734778_punk-57-pdf

“So you live in Falcon’s Well?” Dane continues, taking my cue and
changing the subject.
“Yeah.”
He nods, and they both stand there, falling silent.
“Okay, so…” Dane claps his hands together. “I heard you say you
needed to eat something Lady and the Tramp-style?”
Not waiting for her answer, he reaches over the bar and digs in the
garnish containers.
He holds up a lemon wedge, and Ryen winces. “A lemon?”
“I triple-dog dare you,” he challenges.
But she shakes her head.
“Okay, wait,” he urges, and I keep watching her, unable to tear my eyes
away as I try to process that this is fucking Ryen.
Her thin fingers that have written me five hundred eighty-two letters.
The chin where I know she uses make-up to cover up a small scar she got
from a fall during ice-skating when she was eight. The hair she told me she
ties back every night, because she says there’s no hell worse than waking up
with hair in your mouth.
I’ve had half a dozen girlfriends, and all of them I knew ten times less
than I know this girl.
And she really has no idea…
Dane comes back with a wooden skewer, the tip holding a roasted
marshmallow from one of the fire pits.
He walks up and shoves it at me. “Cooperate, please.”
And then he turns to her and grabs her phone. “Go for it. I’ll take the
picture.”
Ryen’s amused eyes flash to me, immediately turning dark, because she
clearly doesn’t want to eat anything Lady and the Tramp-style with me.