Page 37 of Saddle Storm

Silas shrugs once the staff clears out. Then leans in to grab a wing. “I mean, I assume she did. Why else would she chase me around when we were kids?” This time, he winks at me.

A familiar buzz fizzes in my stomach.

Because this is the way Silas and I always worked. We were best friends who tossed each other into the mud—challenged each other. We didn’t make time capsules and lifelong friendship pacts.

Max seems overexcited with this information as his eyes dance between us—swirly straw in mouth and a slice of pizza in one hand.

Okay—I’ll play.

“Well, it was a long time ago, but if I did chase you around, it was to get close to your brothers.” I pick up a wing and dip it in dressing.

“Bullshit. Which one?”

“Both,” I say with a mouthful—which I never do anymore.

Silas doesn’t seem sideswiped by it in the least. “Joke’s on you, they’re practically married now—’fraid you’re stuck with the black sheep,” he says as he points a carrot stick at me.

I swipe it from him and take a bite.

“What’s a black sheep?” Max asks.

Silas flicks his gaze to him, but I’m still hanging on to what he meant by the “stuck with” part. “A member of a family who’s . . . different,” he answers.

Max ponders on that. “And . . . you’re the black sheep?”

Silas shrugs guiltily.

“Why does that sound like a bad thing? You’re the coolest guy in town. Maybe in all the towns.”

Silas smiles at him, soft and genuine and something in my chest gives. “Funny, ’cause I think you’re the coolest kid in town.”

Max glances at me awkwardly. “You haven’t met many kids in town, have you?”

He laughs. “Full disclosure—no. But I doubt any of them would ever think to ask me what I’d wish for.” He hands him a celery stick.

I see Max’s eyes light up, but to his credit, he doesn’t give away too much about being self-conscious about their conversation.

He takes the celery stick, crunching on it the same time Silas does.

“And I never got a chance to tell you,” he adds. “If I were to be the one to catch one of those little creatures, I’d share my wishes with you.”

“With me? Really? Wait. Did you figure out what you’d want?”

I’m mid-bite, my fingers and lips covered in barbecue sauce when Silas looks my way. “I did.”

“Is it for a chance at the Stanley Cup?”

His eyes flick back to me and this time I let mine meet his. “It’s for a chance at something, all right.”

Breaking eye contact because I don’t know what he’s saying or how to take it, I turn to Max. “Have some of the chicken too, honey, and drink water.”

“One. Then can I go back to play?”

Please.

“Sure,” I say, hoping it sounds casual and not like I’m trying to get rid of him so I can set some things straight with the last person I need in our lives right now.

Max inhales his chicken tender and soda and races back toward the arcade.