All I’ve wanted since I set eyes on her is to have her all to myself, but being near her makes me question my future. Makes me want to rearrange everything just to allow room for her to stay, even if it’s just for as long as she’s willing.
I have spent so much time strategically putting up walls so as to never let any woman have the smallest amount of control over me again, I’m not sure how to take them down.
As we merge onto the highway, I crack the window for a little fresh air as my anxiety builds.
“So,” she says. “Since you won’t tell me where we are going, let’s play a game.”
“A game,” I laugh. “What kind of game can we play right now in the cab of my truck?”
She adjusts in her seat so she is sitting somewhat Indian-style, facing me. I glance over at her and see her smile at me mischievously. This might not be good.
“Well, I could think of a few things actually, but first …” she trails off, laughing. “I ask you a question and you have to answer with the first thing that comes to mind. Then you get to ask me and I have to answer. Then, again and again, vice versa, you know. That way we get to know more about one another than just the way it feels to be pressed up against each other.”
“But pressed up against you is my favorite place to be,” I tease, resting my hand on her thigh.
She rolls her eyes, smiles and swats at me playfully. I grab her hand and hold it while I drive. Her cheeks blush and tension seems to lift as I realize I needed this. Our connection. The feel of her skin.
“Come on,” she says. “It will be fun.”
“Okay, who goes first?”
“I do,” she exclaims, and sits up a little straighter. I laugh at her enthusiasm. I glance at her and see she is in deep thought. It makes me laugh harder. She gives me a playfully, hateful glare, and I can’t help but snicker at her.
“Stop it. I am trying to think … Okay, I got it. What is your favorite color?”
“Orange.” I smile and pull her hand up to kiss the top. “Although, I do love it when your cheeks turn that adorable shade of pink.”
She looks down, embarrassed.
“What’s your favorite food?” I ask.
“Oh, that is easy,” she says. “Anything southern BBQ.”
“Really?” I ask surprised. A girl after my own heart. She laughs. “What is your favorite hobby?”
“I’m a southern boy, darlin’. I’ll let you guess that one. Shouldn’t be too hard.”
“I’m not sure,” she says, thinking. “Maybe hunting?”
“Good guess,” I laugh. “Throw in a little fishing, sports, my mamma’s front porch, and some good sweet tea, and you got the perfect life.”
“Well, I don’t know much about any of those things,” she says. “But I could learn.”
Her eagerness to try something that I love makes me smile.
“I’d love to teach you,” I whisper, kissing the inside of her wrist. She bites her button lip.
“Your turn,” she says.
“What made you want to be a writer?”
Smiling, she says, “That isn’t really a one-word answer.” I shrug, she continues, “I don’t know, really. It is just something that I have always done. When I was little, before I could ever really write, I would make these books with scribbles for words and pathetic stick figures for people. I would staple them together and be so proud of my little creation. Over time, it has just morphed into more. I love the catharsis I get reading something really well written, and I love the idea of being the one that could write that for someone else.”
Speechless, I just look ahead at the road in front of me, not quite sure how to answer such honesty.
“Good answer,” I finally manage.
“So what about you, then? Have you always worked construction, or is it something you fell into?” she asks.
