"It's remarkable," she says, after a slow exhale, absorbing the land I love. "I can see why it was your dad's favorite spot on the property."
The olive trees stand proud, the grove thick and running long, following the gentle slope of the hills. A pink and orange sky blends into the tops of the trees, putting on a show. As if Olive Township and the sunset sky have conspired to give Mallory a glimpse of what my father loved.
The breeze lifts her hair off her shoulders. Her face is soft, almost dreamy, and I know she's saying something nice about my dad right now, but I'm finding it hard to process her words. She's beautiful.
She peers at me, and I snap my gaze back to the olive grove. "My dad could work the fields all day long, and still, this is where he wanted to be every evening. He never got used to this view. Never tired of it, or took it for granted."
"I think that's what happens when you love something. When it becomes woven into the fabric of your soul."
I clear my throat, push away the desire to openly admire the straight edge of her nose, the way her lips puff out in the prettiest shade of pink.Am I lusting after another man's woman? Is this how Penn felt when he found out Daisy was engaged to Duke, but he couldn't help the way he wanted her anyway?
"Is that how you feel about true crime?" I ask, banishing my amorous thoughts. "Or podcasting about true crime?"
Her mouth opens with an immediate response, but she catches herself and snaps it shut.
"What?" I press.
She shakes her head. "Nothing."
I squint at her. "Try again. Your response was definitely something."
She directs a clear gaze my way. There's an honesty in her eyes. Like she's realizing something in real time.
She turns west, letting the burnt shades of the last of the sun wash over her face. "Solving Maggie's murder is the reason I wake up in the morning. It's the reason I took psychology courses in college."
I catch this detail, tucking it away for later. It makes sense. Learning what makes people tick is probably helpful to her job now.
She continues. "But I don't know if I want it to be a thread in a tapestry that represents my soul. It's what motivates me, but it's dark." Her hand dips to her belly, fingers spreading over her dress as if palming a basketball, curling and flexing tenderly. Protectively.
Something about it makes me...happy?Not quite. Relieved, I guess. Mallory seems tough, but I like this stroke of vulnerability.
"I want the fabric of my soul to be light. Airy. Pastels." She looks down at her stomach, at her hand splayed across it. "Not dark. I want my baby to only know light."
Mybaby.No mention of a father.
"That's understandable," I say, and she looks at me. Reluctant. She's waiting for me to ask about the baby's father. Steeling herself.
I'm dying to ask, dying to know. The truth is, I feel a spark with her. Sounds crazy though. Probably is.
We're in the oddest of circumstances, but I feel thebeginning of a buzz in my fingertips. It's not the beer I've been sipping on.
It's Mallory. There's something about her. She's different. A stranger, but she doesn't feel like one. Not when I'm talking to her, or looking in her eyes. Most women I have to tell about my dad, but not her. She already knew. She sought me out. I didn't have to watch the information transform her expression.
I bet if I told Penn, or my other best friend, Ambrose, about Mallory, they'd tell me I like her because she's not available. Not because I want what I can't have, but because I wouldn't have to worry about getting in too deep. She's so full of roadblocks, I wouldn't have to worry about getting too far down the path. Safe.
Ugh. How pathetic can I get? Standing here beside the pregnant true crime podcaster who wants to explore my dad's case and thinking of her in a way that's not professional.
Forget that we met and immediately began flirting. Mallory is pregnant with another man's child, and there has been no confirmation if he is or is not in the picture. Not to mention the tiny little fact thatI don't do relationships.
Given these two very important reasons, I'll be keeping my thoughts and questions to myself.
"I'm sure all parents want the best for their kids." It's such a bland response, I almost cringe.
She raps her knuckles on the railing, only twice. "I'm sure."
Her tone is forlorn. Sad, even.
Together, we watch the sun sink below the horizon.
