“I’m not that strong at all,” he replies modestly, head ducking, “but for you, I can be strong enough.”
He quickens, shooting forward so that I can’t see his face. I’m so glad he can’t see mine, either. It’s of paramount importance that we get back as fast as possible so we can get away from each other. If I’m in Wesley’s company for another hour, I’m going to irreparably embarrass myself.
I have feelings for you, I hear myself hypothetically gushing.I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to. They snuck up on me.Wesley’s hypothetical shock, followed by mortification, is bad enough to hasten my pace. The detail that my muscles are melting marshmallows isirrelevant—self-preservation demands sacrifice sometimes. It’s growing increasingly clear that I need a week of no contact to salvage my wits. I can’t be trusted anymore.
Wesley doesn’t get the memo. He does horribly destructive things like passing me his canteen to make sure I get the last drink and pointing out which animals the angry clouds resemble. He touches my wrist gingerly between two fingers; I grind to a halt at once, and my soul twirls up out of my body when he kneels to retie one of my shoelaces.
I can’t watch. I clench my teeth, staring resolutely at the approaching rain clouds, but he’s ruined clouds for me, too. I’ll never be able to look at one again without thinking,Hey, it’s a floppy-eared bunny, in his deep, pleasant rumble.
Head bowed at my waist, one of his knees digging in the mud without so much as a flinch, a second thought, Wesley’s long, callused fingers that paint sea monsters on ballroom walls and make things grow from the earth are delicately handling my dirty shoestrings. He murmurs, “Over, under, cross the bridge, make a loop and right on through.” A mnemonic device about tying shoes cannot be what sends me over the edge. I forbid it.
“We’re getting pretty close, right?” I ask when we take off again, more than a little desperate.
Wesley throws me a sidelong glance. “You getting sick of me?” His tone is playful, but I detect apprehension.
“Listen, I’m just trying to protect you from the rain.” I return his smile with a wobbly one of my own. “Lest you forget, you’re wearing a white T-shirt.”
He barks a laugh. “So?”
“So, people in wet white T-shirts are distracting. Don’t look at me like that, this is athing. Everybody knows.”
His brown eyes glint, then glide down my tank top and jeans. “Yourshirt is white.”
I have to do a double take. So it is.
His eyes are darker when they meet mine again. I’m hanging from this cliff by one finger. A cold raindrop taps one shoulder, then the opposite one when I turn to look. Wesley squints at the sky. “Here we go.”
We crest a hill, Wesley’s truck materializing in a field a hundred yards off like a mirage.
Tap, tap, tapbecomes a downpour, slicking my hair to my face and neck, clothes sealing to skin. Wesley’s hair darkens, curling, dripping over his cheeks, spiking his eyelashes.
“It’s cold it’s cold it’s cold it’s cold!” I squeal, running as fast as I can. Wesley flies alongside, and even with the burden he’s carrying all by himself, I think he’s putting a damper on his endurance. He’d be at the truck already if he weren’t matching my speed.
The heel of his palm meets the base of my spine, jolting me forward even faster. We’re fifty yards down. “Should have stayed in the tent,” I sputter. “For another night. We’d be dry right now.” Relatively, anyway.
“I didn’t know that was an option,” he responds, fingers curling into my waist and gripping harder. I’m not sure he’s aware of it.
“I guess”—I’m out of breath, panting—“that we couldn’t, after all. Not enough food.”
“I’d find some berries.”
“You can’t subsist on berries. I’ve seen how much you eat. You’d need bushels.”
“I don’t need anything.”
It’s a strange thing to say. I turn to study him, but we’ve made it to the truck at last and he’s yanking my door open for me. Small lakes are collecting around all four tires, but before I can try to hop over one to get inside Wesley picks me up handily by the waist and deposits me on the seat. He then flings our equipment into the back and darts around to the other side. When Wesley slams his door shut behind him, safe and soaked, we take a moment to slide down in our seats. Eyes closed, breathing heavily. Rain pummels metal and windows, so much louder in here than outside.
When I open my eyes again, he’s watching me. Sure enough, his shirt’s so wet that it’s nearly see-through, molding to every contour. My focus drops to his chest, which is rising and falling deeply—I try to correct the impulse, quickly raking my eyes upward, but it’s too late. My thoughts are too obvious to need words. Wesley’s eyes flash moments before the lightning strikes. A frisson of heat shoots through me as I peer into their depths, and if you were to look on at us from above I think you’d spy smoke undulating against the windows, two people inside a crystal ball with their fate sealed.
He reaches for me with both hands and slowly, carefully slides my glasses off my face. I stare as he peels up the hem of his shirt, exposing an inch of golden skin, and uses it to wipe the spots of rain off my lenses. He hands them back, skin warm against my freezing fingers.
I don’t know what compels me to do it, but I reach out, too. I touch a thumb to a raindrop sliding over the arc of his cheek, following it with my finger all the way down to his lower lip. He watches me from beneath lashes at half-mast, beautiful wide eyes going liquid black. There are dark shadows beneath them, easier to discern in the dimness of the car.
A crack of thunder splits the air; we swivel to face the windshield. Wesley swallows hard as he puts the truck in gear.
We drive.
I can feel every particle of air moving against my skin. The heavens are swirling purple and green, lifted from an illustration in a storybook, all the colors so impossibly and exaggeratedly saturated. Long grasses are blown flat by rain, a forever stretch from here to Falling Stars. Here in the enclosed cab of Wesley’s truck, dry heat gusting out of the vents, it could be the end of the world.
