by Ginger Scott
Kyle pulls up to the final stoplight before we turn left, out of the glare of the municipal lights, into the darkness. It’s one in the morning, and there isn’t another car to be seen, so when the light goes green, he remains still. His arms stretch out as he pushes his back into the seat and his chest fills with a long breath.
“Okay,” he says, finally.
I smile, and my grin grows larger as he punches the gas, driving us deep into the night. He doesn’t ask any more questions. He won’t have to. I’ll tell him everything. Kyle is me, and I’m him—he can handle my secrets. He’ll respect them.
I twist in my seat and press my hands on his window, dropping one lower to the armrest, feeling around until I find the button to roll it down. I lean my head out, my other hand gripping my hair at the base of my neck, and I shut my eyes for a few seconds, breathing in the scent of the flower fields. Their season is ending, and the fall flowers aren’t as sweet. But if I search hard enough—inhale deeply enough—I can still sense the trace left from the spring and summer blossoms.
“Here,” I say, leaning back inside the cab.
I roll the window up while Kyle pulls to the side of the road. He shifts the truck into park, but leaves it running, the lights on for our benefit as we both step out into the field. I move close to the small ravine of the canal, and Kyle quickly grips my arm, helping me find my balance so I can jump across. I’ve learned to let people help me sometimes.
We both trudge through the dead bushes, many of them ground up from a recent tractor pull. The dirt is still wet on top, and the lines dug between the rows of plants are still fresh—this happened tonight, after the picture was taken.
I panic at the thought that the photo—my clue—could be gone, ground up in the blades of a John Deere or pushed into the earth to make compost for the next season. My eyes dart wildly as I kneel down for a better view.
“What are you looking for, JJ?” Kyle says, his feet stopping just behind me.
“Something…a sign. I…I don’t know. I’ll know it when I see it,” I say. I hear him sigh heavily through his nose, and I know he’s worried and confused. But I can’t explain it until I know for sure—I need to see it.
I lean forward, my palms against the dirt, and slowly lower myself to the ground.
“Here,” Kyle says, pulling his shirt from his body, handing it to me. “You’ll get dirty.”
I take it from him, laying it down beneath my ribs, my left arm folded under my head and my cheek pressed flat against it. I smile at the memory of the last time I laid like this.
“Turn your lights off. Just for a minute,” I say. After a second or two, Kyle walks back to the truck, flipping the switch until the fields are bathed in nothing but moonlight again.
It takes my eyes a few minutes to adjust, but when they do, I can see the silhouette of the ground in every direction. I begin at the top and slowly scan down, disappointment growing the farther along the field my eyes roam. And then, there it is—the corner of the photo jutting up like a late bloom from the peony plant.
I rush to stand, dusting off my body and tossing Kyle his shirt. My legs move quickly a few rows in, and I bend at the waist, my fingers pausing briefly before grasping the photo.
My pulse quickens as I pull the photo into view. It’s mine—the one I took. The small glue dots dried on every corner; I feel them with my fingers.
“What is it?” Kyle says, leaning over my shoulder to look.
He can’t see the smile on my face, or the tears forming in the corners of my eyes, but they are there. It’s going to be hard to get them to go away now.
“It’s a message,” I say quietly, my own words filling me with thought as I turn the photo over in my hands.
You can do anything. I’ll be watching.
He wrote it in a permanent marker. He left it here for me to find. But he’s still hiding. Something has him afraid; there’s something more to Wesley Christopher Stokes’ story, and I intend to find out.
“Can you take this week off from work? Before school starts?” I ask Kyle, turning to him quickly. He spins his hat forward, then gives up and just pulls it from his head completely, his other hand scratching through his hair.
“Uh, I don’t know. I…I guess I can ask? Why?” he asks, his face a combination of expressions—those full of questions, and those that know me enough to trust anything. “Where are we going?”
“To Tucson first. I want to see where they buried my mom, and I want to meet my grandmother,” I say, nodding toward his truck, taking his hand again to step over the canal. He feels the photo in my hand and takes it from me when we get to my passenger door. I wait while his eyes read over the words on the back. They flit to me, and I can tell all I need to do is say it out loud. My eyes hold his. I breathe once, and then I tell him what’s next.
“And then, we’re going to find Wes, and convince him to come home.”
THE END
Coming Summer 2017
Book 2
A Girl Like Me
P.S.
Don’t kill me.
I swear it will be worth the short wait :)
Acknowledgments
Thank you for taking this leap with me. I know this book is different, but I also believe it’s special. And I know I left you there…in that place, with questions…and hope. I can promise you this: I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall. Book two will be just as magical, and perhaps even more special…because Joss Winters says so.
I don’t think I have ever loved a heroine I’ve written more than this feisty blonde tomboy. I’d like to think I wove a little of me into Joss’s fabric. Certainly, the drive to win, the touch of stubborn feminism and, if I may be so bold, the ability to line-drive a ball at someone’s knees. Yeah, that part’s all me. But as I read her again and again in edits and proofs, I came to realize that a lot of the parts I wove may instead be characteristics I wish I had. No, not the penchant for danger and self-destruction. But the ability to face adversity with such grit and to admit failures and weaknesses, even if only to herself. While Wes may be the one who’s physically strong, Joss is the one who’s unbreakable. I’ve learned from Joss.
I’ve learned from this story.
I have so much more I want to say, but I can’t. I can’t because there are threads I still need to unravel for you. Book 2, A Girl Like Me, will fill in the gaps. And the ride is going to be sweet. I don’t want to ruin it.
With that, however, there are several people I need to thank for getting me to the point where I was ready for this story…for something still very me, but also…different. I dedicated this to my dad. And no…not because he has a lot in common with Eric Winters in this story. But the good parts of Joss’s father? Yeah…he’s there. My dad taught me to throw a ball. Even when he thought it might be hopeless, he’d stand in the back yard with me for hours, begging me to just try not throwing underhand once. I can remember vividly when it all finally clicked. It wasn’t much unlike that scene in Forrest Gump when he’s running and the braces just fly off of his legs. One minute, I was arching the ball into bushes, and then the next…I zinged it so hard into his mitt that it bruised his hand. Many more bruises would follow. Fence slats were broken when I learned to hit. Balls were lost over the fence at the elementary school. My dad’s shins were nailed by my low liners, and I giggled as he packed up to go home, mad but proud as hell. While the magical touches, angst and love story are vital to this story, I think just as important is that relationship between Joss and her dad. It shaped her.
It shaped me.
So, thanks, Dad, for being my Ted Williams on the field and off.
I also need to give special thanks to fellow author BT Urruela. BT is a combat wounded amputee and purple heart recipient, but he also happens to swing a decent bat and…oh…have this killer smile that’s graced the cover of several romance novels. I met him when the idea for this book was a kernel in my mind that was keeping me awake at night. I knew the storyline, and I knew what
would happen to Joss in this story. But what terrified me was getting it right. I’m moved by fighters—seeing people punch adversity in the face, bend it to their will and turn it into a strength. I wanted Joss to embody this, but I knew it couldn’t be a switch she simply flipped. It had to be authentic, and pay homage to the struggle that comes with the kind of climb she took and will continue to make. BT, I called you…and I was perhaps a little nervous. You answered, and you shared. You laid the ground for my research, pointed me in the right direction for more, and made that fear that I couldn’t pull this off take a seat. Thank you for all you do, but selfishly, thank you for chatting with me on the phone most.
I also have to give special thanks to Mike Booi, assistant athletic trainer for the Arizona Coyotes, for his guidance on training techniques and rehabilitation for competitive athletes. And enormous thanks to the Advanced Prosthetics Center for your detailed research materials.
When it comes to the words, there’s a group of women I could not get through this book business without. As always, thank you Jen, Ashley, Bianca and Shelley for taking my chapters as I fed them to you. I know waiting through this one was a wee bit torturous. I hope I treated you right. I could never thank you enough.
And BilliJoy Carson and Tina Scott—my editing queens. Let me just say that you are my heroes. Capes for you both.
None of this would be possible without the support of my boys. Tim and Carter, you are my world. When I say “I can’t,” you turn me around and just tell me to “go do.” When I waver, you remind me you’re proud. When I chew my nails to nubs on release night, you tell me this story is your favorite (I don’t even care that you say it every time). I love you, my boys. You’re it for me. And every book is really for you.
And to my readers—to the bloggers, posters, Goodreaders, reviewers, late-night Facebook message senders, emailers, teens, moms, grandmas, dads, brothers, students, and oh-but-never-least Ninjas—thank you. Each one of you cracked open a cover (swiped is probably more accurate for e-readers). Thank you for taking that first chance, for thinking one of my little stories was worth your time. I swear I’ll never take it for granted. In fact, I’m going to get to work right now, because you have questions you need answered, and a cute missing boy you need to know about, and a girl on a mission you need to follow.
And I made you all a promise.
I’ve got you.
About the Author
Ginger Scott is an Amazon-bestselling and Goodreads Choice Award-nominated author of several young and new adult romances, including Waiting on the Sidelines, Going Long, Blindness, How We Deal With Gravity, This Is Falling, You and Everything After, The Girl I Was Before, Wild Reckless, Wicked Restless, In Your Dreams, The Hard Count and Hold My Breath.
A sucker for a good romance, Ginger’s other passion is sports, and she often blends the two in her stories. (She’s also a sucker for a hot quarterback, catcher, pitcher, point guard…the list goes on.) Ginger has been writing and editing for newspapers, magazines and blogs for pretty much ever. She has told the stories of Olympians, politicians, actors, scientists, cowboys, criminals and towns. For more on her and her work, visit her website at http://www.littlemisswrite.com.
When she's not writing, the odds are high that she's somewhere near a baseball diamond, either watching her son field pop flies like Bryce Harper or cheering on her favorite baseball team, the Arizona Diamondbacks. Ginger lives in Arizona and is married to her college sweetheart whom she met at ASU (fork 'em, Devils).
Find Ginger Online:
@TheGingerScott
GingerScottAuthor
www.littlemisswrite.com
[email protected]
Also by Ginger Scott
Coming Summer 2017: A Girl Like Me
Waiting On The Sidelines
Going Long
Blindness
How We Deal With Gravity
This Is Falling
You And Everything After
The Girl I Was Before
In Your Dreams
Wild Reckless
Wicked Restless
The Hard Count
Hold My Breath
A Boy Like You
