I felt stupid for feeling giddy about spending time with Fynn, but I couldn't seem to stop. I finished stocking the refrigerator section and headed to the bathroom to clean up. "I'm finished with the beverages, Patty, so I'm leaving for the day."

I'd spent a few hours trying to figure out how to sneak over to the park to meet Fynn without Patty noticing, but there was no solution. She had spent a good part of the day staring out at the fountain. I felt guilty about hanging out with Fynn but then I tended to feel guilty a lot. It was hard not to, especially when people were constantly reminding me with the stupid Lucky Thirteen nickname. And the moniker had two different meanings, depending on who was saying it. Some people said it with an air of wonderment, as if I was some kind of miraculous thing walking around the town. Others said it with a bitter edge, as if offhandedly telling me I had no right to be so damn lucky. Sadly enough, I just never felt all that lucky, and I sure as heck didn't ask for the nickname.

Patty looked up from her account book. "It's going to be a boring end of the day now that Mr. Hot and Handy is gone. I wonder if he'll be back tomorrow?"

"He's gone?" I looked toward the front window. The fountain was empty.

"Yeah, darn it. He packed up his amazing muscles and tools and took off about an hour ago." She patted her ledger. "I guess it's a good thing. I'll finally be able to concentrate on these damn numbers."

As stupid as I felt for feeling excited about the prospect of spending time with Fynn, I felt even sillier for being thoroughly disappointed that he stood me up. He'd had a long hot day in the sun and his invite had been only quick and casual, so it seemed perfectly reasonable that he forgot. I tried not to feel hurt or I'd risk feeling even sillier.

I headed into the bathroom to wash up and a yucky thought crept into my head. Brent Mackson had stood in front of the fountain, looking like a big shot with his blue polo shirt and his arms crossed. Patty and I watched Fynn and Brent have some kind of conversation. With the way they looked, none of it seemed to be lighthearted or congenial. I wondered just how much of the humiliating spiral into the loose and wild high school years of Ella Ives Brent had relayed to the town's new visitor. Guilt, sorrow and a general lack of gravity under my feet had helped me make some incredibly bad decisions in high school. Everyone in town had dealt with our profound loss in a different way. Patty couldn't talk to strangers or walk past a bottle of aspirin without rearranging it. Kathy Mackson had decided smiles were no longer a part of her daily routine. And I'd spent my teen years wanting to please everyone. Brent was the one person intent on never letting me forget those out of control years.

I pushed the dreadful thought away, deciding I was being paranoid and a bit conceited thinking Fynn and Brent had been talking about me at all. I was hardly an interesting topic.

I yanked a quick comb through my hair but didn't bother with any makeup since there would obviously be no one to mesmerize with my pink lemonade lip gloss. It was for the best anyhow. I needed to finish Sandra's plaque.

I tossed my mini backpack over my shoulder and rolled my bike out from under the shade of the awning. I threw my leg over and stopped to stare at the fountain. The water was still only a trickle. Green algae still coated most of the fountain, but the weeds were gone. You could see each detail of the stone stallions. It looked closer to the fountain I remembered, and even though it wasn't working yet, it made me smile just to see it. The fountain seemed to be smiling too.

As I lifted onto the seat of the bicycle, a guitar strummed through the park. It was a Third Eye Blind song, and it sounded awesome, as if the lead guitarist himself was playing it.

I rode my bike across the street and into the park. I stopped behind the slide to watch and listen. Fynn was concentrating fully on his playing and hadn't noticed me ride up. A guitar. Of course. What else could he add to his repertoire to make him the most stunning, funny and appealing man in the world. Boone noticed me standing behind the slide and wagged his tail. A dog as a best friend. That's what else.

Fynn stopped playing and looked up from his guitar. "Hey, Starshine, wasn't sure if you'd show up." He stood up from the steps.

I got off my bike and rolled it toward him. His dark hair was wet and combed back off his face, and he had changed into a blue t-shirt and jeans.

"I thought you'd decided to skip the Butterfield tour."

"Not a chance. I just needed to go back to my motel and shower off the day's grunge."

"You shine up very nicely. Where are you staying?"

"A motel in Langston." He held up his guitar. "I'll put Smokey Joe back in the van and then we can start the sightseeing tour."

"Why is your guitar called Smokey Joe?"

He shrugged. "Sounded cooler than Perky Pete."

"You are talented. Did your grandpa teach you to play?"

"Nope, he taught me how to fix things. My dad taught me how to play. Hey, do you want to put your bike in the van too?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Just so nobody takes it." He looked slightly embarrassed. "I guess in a town like this, there isn't anyone around to steal it."

"No, not really. Besides, it's pretty crummy. Not sure anyone would bother." I rested the bike against the side of the pavilion.

"I'll bet this massive gazebo, like the fountain, was something else in its glory days."

The van was parked at the opposite end of town, next to the old mail depot. He whistled and Boone trotted along next to us as we headed toward it.

I glanced back at the decaying pavilion. "Yeah, when this park was in tip top shape, it was the pride of the town. They used to cover that pavilion with balloons and streamers for special occasions. It was always amazing to see it decorated. The annual sixth grade graduation party was always held there. The teachers and parents would string up red and gold balloons, the school's colors, and there would be a barbecue. They'd even rent a giant blow up slide. It was like you went through all the books, tests and homework of grade school just to get to that sixth grade party." My words slowed as I ended my unnecessary narrative. "And that concludes the boring, nostalgic part of the tour."

"Not boring at all," Fynn said. "I'll bet you were cute as hell in your sixth grade graduation dress."

The memories about a colorful decorated pavilion had pulled me back to that time, but I wished I could just suck the whole topic back into my mouth. "I actually didn't go to my sixth grade graduation. So no dress. No red and gold balloons."

"Why is that? Were you sick?"

I wasn't sure how to respond. There were so many holes in all my personal stories from the last eleven years that sometimes it was impossible to talk about my past. There were too many gaps to fill, and without filling them, my teenage years hardly made any sense. At least they wouldn't make sense to someone who hadn't lived in Butterfield. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to fill in some holes without getting 'mired', as his leg mentioned, in the terrible details.

"There was no sixth grade party that year." I left it at that. It was the vague and understated truth, but it was the truth.

"That sucks. Especially after you waited all those years for it." He opened the back of his van. There was a mattress with a pillow and sleeping bag and an ice chest, along with a few boxes. "Sorry, I didn't have time to get a maid in, but I'm not taking blame for the smell. That's all Boone." He placed the guitar in the van and shut the door. "Where should we start?"

"This road leads up to a hiking trail and river that run behind the houses. Otherwise, I'm afraid, what you see is what you get."

"A river hike sounds good to me."

We crossed the street to Riley Road, the road that led up to the hills and trails. We'd be passing right by the cemetery. It had been awhile since I'd walked that direction. I think sometimes, subconsciously even, I avoided Riley Road.

My worry about Fynn's conversation with Brent was still in my craw, and I decided, one way or another, I needed to clear the air. Fynn hadn't ditched me and he was pleasant and charming as always, but I needed to know.

"So I saw you talking to Brent Mackson."

"Boone's asshole detection system was spot on with that guy. He mentioned he was going to ask the mayor to get me booted from town."

"You don't have to worry about that. Fran, that's the mayor, already saw you working on the fountain."

"Did she?" Fynn bent down to pick up a broken tree branch and worked at breaking off the spindly side arms. Boone had immediately snapped to attention and was now begging for the stick as he perched up on two legs and barked.

"Yes, you probably weren't aware of it, but you had quite an audience yesterday when you pulled off your shirt. The mayor was part of that audience."

Fynn had stripped the broken twig down to one smooth piece of wood. He hurled it in front of us. Boone took off with amazing grace and speed for a short, stout dog.

We hiked up the incline of the road. "I didn't know I had an audience. But I'm glad I could provide some entertainment. So, you think his threat about the mayor won't go too far?"

"Nah, Brent's all bluster. Besides, you can't blame him too much for being an asshole. He wasn't always such a jerk." I always tried hard not to judge anyone's behavior after the fateful day that changed everyone in town. I only wished that people like Brent would have the same leniency toward me. But that wasn't how life worked.

"Did Brent say anything else?"

Boone returned with the stick, and Fynn threw it again. I hadn't planned the stop, but somehow our feet slowed and we came to stand directly outside of the cemetery. Fynn turned to face me. His dark brows were lower, firmer and the usual tilt of his mouth had evened out. He knew. Brent had told him all about my high school years.

"Nothing that guy said matters, Ella." He reached up and pushed a strand of hair off my face. I held my breath until he took his hand away. My world was so small and constant. Fynn was the first new person in my life. He was incredible and likable and different, so damn different than anyone I knew. I had to remind myself that he was just passing through town, otherwise he'd be dragging a piece of my heart with him when he left. I just didn't have any to spare.

Our gazes had locked together hard and fast. I was the first to pull mine away, before I got completely lost and dizzy in his golden eyes.

The mounds of colorful flowers flowed softly around the matrix of headstones in the cemetery. As always, my eyes went straight to the second stone in the third row. Fynn turned to face the cemetery, but he didn't say anything. Anyone who came to town would have to be highly curious about the picturesque, neatly kept tiny cemetery sitting in the center of an otherwise dilapidated town. But Fynn stood silently next to me, not saying a word as I stared into the array of gray stones.

I felt the words spill from my mouth before I could stop them. "Eleven years ago in April, there was an accident. A terrible accident."