A puff of air blows from her nose, and she leans back against the counter. The move hitches the hem of her shorts up the slightest bit. I allow a quick blink down at her lightly tanned skin before forcing myself to look away.
“Where do you find so many god-awful shirts?” she asks.
“Garage sales, mostly. I go with my mom sometimes—she’s a sucker for a good secondhand find.”
Her eyes skate over me, prickling the skin along my spine. She doesn’t rush to avert her gaze the way I did. Instinctively I straighten my posture, unsure whether to be intimidated or turned on by her assessment.
“Do they come with the sleeves ripped off like that?”
“Nah, this is custom.” I pick at a loose thread on my left shoulder. I’ve taken scissors or a pocket knife to most of the T-shirts I own, cutting the sleeves off. On some—like this one—I went so far as to extend the armhole halfway down the torso. I run warm and like the draft it provides on a hot day. “So much cooler during the summer.”
“So much cooler,” she teases out of the corner of her mouth.
Jonas’s feet clomp down the staircase, pulling my attention away from Whit milliseconds before I get the chance to say anything stupid. He leaps off the third step from the bottom, landing with a heavy thud.
“You have everything you need?” Whit asks him. “Backpack with snacks? Water bottle? Sunscreen? Hat?”
“Yes,Mom.” He rolls his eyes, embarrassment cropping up on the planes of his cheeks. “Can we go now?”
Whit strides across the room, ponytail swishing across her neck, and I give myself one last opportunity to appreciate the curve of her waist, the fit of her short shorts, and her long, lean legs.
She zips the pocket of his backpack shut and gives his head a quick pat. “Have fun.”
He’s already darting out the door before I’ve had the chance to even say hello. Whit watches him bound away with an expression I can’t quite put my finger on—there’s a smile, but it’s muddied by sadness held in the divots forming between her brows.
I clear my throat.
Her attention turns to me. “Thank you for taking him. It means a lot to him.”
“Better than talking to myself all day. Don’t get me wrong—the conversations get interesting. Imagine the reality showLove Island,except I’m the only person there, and I’m at a lake instead of a sandy beach…and none of the women I’m talking to are attracted to me.”
One by one, the stress lines in her expression disappear. And Whit laughs. Whether it’s with me or at me, I don’t care. I want to hear it again. No less than every day.
“You have a pretty laugh,” I say before I can catch myself. “You should do it more often.”
“I laugh a lot, actually. Guess you should try to be funny more often.”
“Oh,ouch.” I clutch my heart, slowly backing away from her front door and toward my pickup. “See?Told you none of the women I talk to are attracted to me.”
Holy smokes,that laugh is even better the second time.
• • •
Shrugging his backpack off his shoulders, Jonas stares at the glassy lake with a curious expression. “How are we going to fish without a dock or a boat?”
“I was hoping you brought a boat.” My answer’s blunt; my focus is on the rods, tackle box, and cooler I’m attempting to juggle. Sweat pools on my lower back, and I come away from licking my lips with salt on my tongue.
I always forget how gullible kids are. He might think he’sa badass adult in a tiny body, but Jonas is no different. “What? How would I have brought a boat?”
“Well, shoot. How good of a swimmer are you? Maybe I can ride on your back while you paddle around? Kind of like a boat, right?” With a sharp nod toward a trailhead, I add, “Just kidding.Walk a little way in that direction. There’s a rock outcropping we can sit on.”
He grabs his rod from my hand and treks through overgrown grasses to start down the trail. The air’s still and sweltering under the direct sun, and crickets leap out of our path with every step toward the lake. If Betty were here, she’d be chasing and snapping at the flying insects.
There’s melody in the small, bouncy steps of his sandals and the plodding crunch of my boots as I follow behind him. As we leave the view of the parking lot behind, a thick tree canopy gives some respite from the sun, and within a couple minutes, we’re at our spot.
Perched on the rocks, Jonas slips his sandals off and stretches a scrawny leg so his toes skim the water. After yanking my sweaty feet from my cowboy boots and rolling my jeans halfway up my calves, I join him to help set up his rod.
Neither one of us talks. The drive here was silent. The walk was silent. And turns out, fishing might be damn silent, too. My grandpa would be happy to hear that—he always pretended to be annoyed by how much my brother, Beau, and I would talk and goof around while fishing as little kids.
