He’s so soft, unbearably, when he prompts, “Say something?”
My throat is packed with sand. “I’m trying to come up with a response that doesn’t sound like a proposition,” I confess hoarsely. “Wesley, that isn’t embarrassing at all.”
He shifts onto his back again, arm across his stomach. “It bothers me. There’s a stigma, especially for guys.Especiallyfor guys who are about to hit thirty. It’s not that Iwantto be a... you know...” He can’t bring himself to verbalize it. “But it’s hard to meet people when you have social anxiety as bad as I do. I panic. Or I want to say one thing, be a certain way, but it gets all tangled up on its way out of my mouth. A pumpkin trying to be flowers and coming off like a cactus. It’s frustrating.”
“You’re much more flowers than you are cactus,” I tell him, meaning every word. I hope he believes it. “But for what it’s worth, pumpkins are the best.”
“Anyway.” I think he’s rubbing his eyes. “Maybe I’ve overshared. I’m sorry. It’s late, and I’m tired.”
Of course. He’s tired—he’s not hinting anything. Not suggesting. He definitely does not want me to roll on top of him and have my wicked way. The only Wesley who will let me thread my fingers through his hair and crush my mouth to his is the imaginary one. Which I feel guilty thinking about, but I can’t help it.
“I’m honored you trust me enough to tell me something like that.” I bite down hard on my tongue, reaching for his hand. Heacknowledges it with a mellow squeeze, rubbing his thumb across the back of my hand.
“The only reason I was able to admit it is because you’re so easy to talk to. It feels like you...” He inhales sharply. “Like you pay attention.”
My body is rigid with tension, collecting in my temples. I could be imagining it but I think his muscles have tightened, as well. I am burning alive.
“I don’t know what I’m saying,” he mumbles.
Before he’s finished with his sentence, I jump in: “You’re right. I see you.”
“Oh.” His voice is light as a feather. Winded. “Good.”
This is the part where he adds,I’m paying attention to you, too, and descends on me with a fiery passion, but that never happens. He only says, “Anyway.”
“Anyway,” I echo.
“Good night, Maybell.”
Disappointment crushes every bone in my body. “Good night, Wesley.”
I don’t close my eyes. We lie there with our arms still touching, his golden curls brushing my ear, a million microscopic points of contact. Maybe he falls asleep immediately, maybe he lies awake for as long as I do, staring unseeingly at the stars.
•••••••
I’VE SPENT THE BETTERpart of the night debating whether I’m in heaven or hell, but this morning has clinched it. I am for sure in hell.
Deservedly so. There’s a pair of warm arms around me, asleeping man’s chest rising and falling against my back, and the sinful thoughts won’t stop coming. Morning breath is the only factor keeping me from rolling over onto my other side to stare at him. Also, manners. But mostly morning breath.
“You awake?” he asks.
I stretch and yawn, pretending I’ve been out of it. “What? Oh! Mm-hmm.” I could lie here forever. Maybe he’ll bury his mouth in my neck and tell me how badly he’s wanted me, and we’ll roll around in this field all day—
“Good. I want to get an early start.” He unzips his sleeping bag and climbs over me, grabbing his bag on his way out of the tent. His hand pats my head like I’m a golden retriever. I fall back onto my elbows, shooting a cross expression at his back.
Apparently I’ve misread last night’s signals.
By the time I’ve changed my clothes and joined him, he’s wearing a fresh change of jeans and plain white T-shirt (Did he change behind a tree? Or out in the open? None of my business!), munching on granola.
When he glances at me, I automatically flush and stumble. “Uneven... this grass is all uneven,” I mutter. “Gopher holes or something.”
He raises his eyebrows at the ground, still munching. Nods. “Mm.”
I should have packed a mirror. I could have dried patches of drool on my cheek for all I know. I’m sure my hair’s on its worst behavior. My hair always has such an attitude problem whenever I especially need it to look good. But on days I’m not going anywhere, with no human witnesses? That’s when I could be a Pantene Pro-V model.
After I zip off into the trees for a few minutes (nature calls), I help Wesley roll up our sleeping bags, tent, and supplies. The metal detector is still nowhere to be found.
“Maybe Sasquatch took it,” I suggest, enjoying myself. “You said he lives in Appalachia, right?”
