Chapter 23
Greyson
“Why does every one of us laugh at seeing
somebody else slapped in the face
with a large piece of cold custard pie?”
~ Will Hay
“Hand me that box, would you?” Patrick says, pointing to the thirty-six pack of whipped-cream cans.
I hand him the box and he cuts it open with a box cutter, removing the cans and placing them on the table at the back of our Pie Day booth.
“Hey!” Hallie’s voice carries across our town square.
I turn and watch her walking our way, carrying a tumbler probably filled with sweet, creamy coffee. Her wavy brown hair lifts in the breeze and she spreads her smile from Dustin to Patrick to me.
Our eyes lock and my body stills for half a second.
Four days.
We had four days of uninterrupted, private time together. They could have been four months or four minutes. We had moments when time stood still and the world faded. And then it was suddenly over—a kiss goodbye and I’ll see you at work in the morning.
Mia came back last night. Life is back in session. And I’m left wondering if I’ll be more to Hallie than a co-worker and her daughter’s coach.
“Greyson? Earth to Greyson,” Dustin calls my name.
“What?”
“Are you helping me hang this backdrop or not?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Of course.” I tear my eyes away from Hallie and pick up the other corner of the plastic sheeting to attach it to the frame we assembled.
“Good morning, everyone,” Hallie says. Her voice is bright and cheery. “Dustin, Patrick …” she pauses, looking at me with a smile that holds all our secrets. “Greyson.”
“Morning,” I say, smiling quickly and then tucking my smile away.
How am I supposed to act now?
I’m a straightforward man. I say what I mean. I mean what I say. I don’t know how to navigate my feelings for Hallie with eyes everywhere.
“Did you bring any coffee for Greyson?” Dustin asks. “He’s all spacey and useless today.”
“Speak for yourself,” I tell him, glancing at Hallie briefly.
“Is he now?” Hallie says, a note of flirtiness in her voice I’m pretty sure only I detect.
“Yeah,” Dustin says. “He’s orbiting Pluto or something.” He shakes his head. “Poor Pluto. Not even considered a planet anymore and now it’s got to put up with grumpy, spacey Greyson.”
He laughs at his own joke and I pick up a can of whipping cream and spray a short stream at him.
“Hey! Hey! I’m not even covered in plastic yet!”
Hallie giggles. My fingers tense with the urge to pull her into a hug.
I grab the tarp and start spreading it on the ground. Then I set up the stool we’ll be sitting on while people toss pie tins full of whipped cream at us for charity.
Hallie sets down her coffee and gets to work arranging the pie tins in neat stacks on the table at the front of the booth.
“Greyson, grab that jar for me, would you?” she asks, pointing to a giant pickle jar sitting behind the booth.
I grab it and walk it over to her. She holds out her hands. I stare down at them.
Those fingers ran through my hair while we kissed.
I held her hand in mine all the way home from the farm stand, on the way to the pond, and when I walked her to the van yesterday to say goodbye.
I pass her the jar. I’m trying not to linger in the familiar yet forbidden feel of her skin on mine.
She’s a spring storm—wild and full, stirring up everything still within me.
My fingertips graze her hand and lightning crackles, electricity racing through my veins.
I absorb it all. Split like a tree that’s taken the bolt, but standing there as if I’m still in one piece.
She smiles up at me. “Thank you.”
“No problem,” I say, looking down into her chestnut-brown eyes.
Her cheeks start to flush pink. I step back, searching for something to do that doesn’t involve staring at Hallie.
“Okay,” Patrick says. “Showtime. It’s nine o’clock.”
I breathe out a sigh of relief. Distraction. Sweet distraction.
We take our places. Hallie and I stand at the table where people will line up to buy pie tins full of whipped cream. Patrick’s on refill duty when we run out. Meanwhile, he directs people where to stand for their throw.
Dustin’s first up to be the sitting target.
A group of teens approaches the booth.
“I love this part,” one of them says to his friend. “Who doesn’t want to hit a firefighter with a pie?”
“Firemen are your friends, gentlemen,” Dustin says.
“Well, friend,” a boy named Elijah says, “I’m about to get you good.”
One of Dustin’s favorite pastimes is smack-talking the people lining up to toss pies. I don’t see the point in it myself. They’re the ones holding a tin of whipped cream aimed at your face. Why irritate them?
But he pulls on the plastic poncho and goggles and starts in with the heckling anyway. “Aaaayyyyy, battahh battahh battahh suhhh-wing!”
He taunts Elijah. “You can’t hit me! Gonna surely miss me!”
Elijah, who just paid five dollars for a tin, turns around and stuffs another five in the jar so he’s aiming not one, but two pie tins filled with whipped cream at Dustin.
Elijah stands behind the line in the grass, about ten feet away from Dustin, winds up his arm, and flings the first pie tin. It sails through the air. Dustin pivots and the tin lands with a thwack on his cheek, sliding down his poncho and onto the tarp below him.
“Just the cheek!” Dustin taunts, sticking his finger in the cream on his face and swiping a glob to pop into his mouth. “Mmmmm. That’s good. Wanna try to actually hit me this time?”
Elijah looks even more determined. “Watch out. I’m getting you good this time!”
“That’s what they all say!” Dustin taunts.
Elijah winds up again, pulls his leg up like a major league pitcher and slings the tin with such force it passes right by Dustin and slaps onto the backdrop. Whipped cream sprays, exploding outward and splattering on several passersby.
Dustin stands and approaches Elijah, whipped cream dripping off him and leaving a trail in the grass. “That’s some arm you’ve got on you.”
“I play baseball for the high school,” Elijah tells Dustin.
“That’s awesome, man.” Dustin claps Elijah on the back.
Elijah and his group of friends move on to the next booth. More townspeople come. Dustin taunts. They throw. The jar fills with money.
“You’re up next,” Dustin says to me during a lull between groups.
He whips off his poncho and wipes at his face, using the side of his hand like a windshield wiper, scraping whipped cream off and flicking it onto the ground. Then he grabs a water bottle and tips his head over, spraying the water all over his head. He shakes the droplets off like a dog.
“Yippie,” I deadpan. “My turn.”
Dustin chuckles. “I think we should get your little leaguers over here. I’ll be right back.”
“No. Don’t …” I start to say, but he’s already drying his face with a paper towel while shouting the name of one of my player’s dads and striding away from our booth.
Within about five minutes, a line extends out from the ticket table—seven and eight-year-old girls and their parents as far back as I can see.
Hallie steps up close to me and whispers. “Here’s where they get payback for the time you cancelled practice or put their child further down the batting roster than they liked.”
“Save me?” I beg her.
She just laughs and steps up to the table to collect money from the people eager to cover me in whipped cream.
We’ve got two throwing lines taped off in the grass. One is for teens and adults, and the other, closer line is for kids.
Whitney grabs a pie tin. Her mom looks at me with her face scrunched up, “Sorry, Coach G!”
If people were truly sorry, they wouldn’t be doing this. But I face forward, poncho and goggles on and prepare for the worst.
Whitney starts to wind up and I can’t help myself. “Not too much wind up, Whitney. Just focus on your aim.”
Hallie cracks up to my right. “Always the coach.”
I turn and look in her direction, loving the way her laugh consumes her. She laughs with her whole being. Hallie’s eyes catch mine. I glance back at Whitney. She’s asking her mom something, so I look at Hallie and silently mouth. “You’re adorable.”
Hallie raises her finger to her lips and shushes me, but she’s smiling back.
Dustin shouts, “Hey, you two!”
Our heads simultaneously whip in his direction. Hallie makes me careless. And now? I may have exposed her in front of our crew.
But then Dustin says, “Man, you two look guilty. What did I miss? Did someone prank someone and I didn't hear about it? Is there a sign on my back?”
I’m so caught off guard, I don’t even see the pie tin flying in my direction in time to duck. The thwack of cool fluff against my face comes from out of nowhere, smearing the goggles and sliding down my chin.
“Good throw,” I say through the whipped cream.
Whitney screams and leaps up and down. “Got you, Coach G! I got you!”
Hallie’s cackling now. Bent over at the waist, hand on her stomach, losing it.
She gives Whitney a high-five. And then the next player comes up, and the next.
I focus more after that first pie, dodging the best I can, but in the end, I’m coated in whipped cream and my team is cheering one another on as player after player splats my face with pie tins filled with sticky white fluff.
Mia approaches with her nana and Avery.
“Hi, Mommy!” Mia shouts, skipping over and wrapping her arms around Hallie.
“Hey, Spike!” Hallie leans down and presses a kiss to Mia’s head. “How’s it going?”
“Great! Nana bought a strawberry pie. And we get to eat it after dinner. And I got to paint a pie picture and pet a pig!”
Hallie smiles down at Mia. “That sounds amazing.”
“And now I want to throw a pie at Coach G!” Mia says, stuffing a ten dollar bill in the jar. “Two pies, please!”
“So, you’re the famous Mia,” Dustin says.
Mia smiles up at him. “Oh! Do you watch baseball?”
Dustin cracks up. “I would if your coach would let me.”
Mia’s face scrunches in confusion.
Patrick steps closer. “Nice to meet you, Mia. I’m Patrick and this is Dustin. We work with your mom at the fire station.”