“Gonna leave it all on the field,” I deadpan. “And also, shields for the lasers.”
“Smart,” he says. “Very sportsmanlike of you.”
He tips his lemonade toward me, and we cheers them together.
“Thanks,” I say. “I think I’ve really got a shot at it this year.”
“Not against lasers,” Rusty says, still coloring furiously, mostly to herself.
“We’ll see,” I tell her.
“Better hurry up with those,” Daniel says. “Five minutes until it starts.”
“Plenty of time,” Rusty says, her brow furrowing.
The duck regatta is technically a competitive event, in that only one duck will win, but it’s definitely not a sport.
At one end of the race, everyone dumps their rubber duck into the river. When it starts, the floating barrier goes up, and all the ducks float downriver.
The first duck to the finish line wins. Pretty much all you can do is stand on the bank and shout at your duck to go faster, so it gets pretty boisterous.
“You didn’t get one?” I ask Daniel.
“I figure if you win, I get half anyway,” he says, his blue eyes laughing.
“Who says I’m sharing?” I tease, even though my heart thumps one percent harder.
“What’s yours is mine, right?”
“Not yet.”
Not ever.
“Isn’t the prize a gift certificate to La Dolce Vita?” he says. “Who else are you gonna take on a fancy date?”
“Someone’s being presumptuous,” I say. “I’ve got a sister. I’ve got friends. I could even take Rusty.”
La Dolce Vita is the swanky Italian restaurant downtown. It’s candlelit. It’s got a long wine list, good tiramisu, and mood music, and I don’t hate the thought of going there with Daniel.
Just the two of us. No Rusty. No Betsy, none of his brothers, just us trying to act couple-y across a candlelit table. The spots where he touched my back a moment ago prickle cool again, even under the warm sunlight.
Daniel grins.
“Yeah, but you’d take me,” he says. “You’re just talk.”
He’s right, so I stick my tongue out at him. If Rusty weren’t here I’d flip him off.
The loudspeaker crackles.
“One minute until the race starts,” Hank Rogers’s voice booms out. “Please bring your ducks to the starting line.”
Rusty takes her duck in both hands and blows on it, a look of total concentration on her face.
“You ready?” Daniel asks her. Rusty nods very seriously and stands, her folding chair scraping across the asphalt below it. He points at the uncapped Sharpie still on the table, and she sighs dramatically, but puts the cap back on.
We head to the starting line. Before we toss our ducks in, we turn them upside down and check the number.
“Fifty-seven,” Rusty says.
“I’m fifty-eight,” I tell her. “Can you remember that for me?”
“Yes,” she says, as serious as can be, and we both toss our ducks into the river behind the floating barricade.
The racecourse is maybe two city blocks long, and the finish line is another floating barricade, right before some rapids begin. Every year a few ducks escape and get away, and every year the day after Riverfest, at Daniel’s house for Sunday Dinner, I have to hear about it from Levi.
“Come on!” Rusty calls, darting ahead.
“Stay where I can see you!” Daniel calls, taking my hand again. There’s a paved bike path along the river here, a wooden fence separating it from the water. Right by the finish line there’s a spot with a few benches and a low stone wall, and Rusty’s making a beeline for it, Daniel and I following behind.
Any time she disappears for a split second, his grip on my hand gets tighter, then relaxes when she reappears. Even though she’s not fifteen feet away. Even though we know pretty much everyone here.
“No one’s going to steal her,” I tell him, keeping my voice low. “They all know what a pain in the ass she is.”
That gets a laugh out of him, another hand squeeze, and I think he relaxes. Then she’s up ahead, again, heading into the area with the stone wall by the finish line.
The wall’s only about three feet high, and she goes up to it, standing on her tiptoes, leaning over as far as she can to see the ducks. We’re ten feet behind her, the ducks coming on quickly.
“Rusty, be careful,” Daniel calls out as she leans a little further over.
“Stop it, she’s fine,” I tell him.
“I don’t want her to fall in,” he protests.
“She’s barely taller than the wall, she’s not going to,” I point out.
“I just—”
“Besides, Hank is right in front of her, and the water’s barely to his knees,” I say, pointing at Hank Rogers, who’s in the river, wearing waders and a hat with a rubber duck glued on top. His outdoors supply store, Bear Hollow Sporting Goods, sponsors the duck regatta every year.
Daniel just sighs.
“Relax,” I tell him, and squeeze his hand. He squeezes back.
We stand there, together, keeping one eye on the oncoming ducks and the other on Rusty, who shows no sign of falling into the river. After a moment, I lean my face against his shoulder, my cheekbone against soft cotton and thick muscle.