Oh right. I’d asked him something.
You asked where he’s from, you dip shit.
At the last second, I remember a fact.
“Canyon…That’s where Palo Duro Canyon is, right?”
“Yep. When I was in high school, I spent summers working for one of the horseback riding operations. We’d take touristsaround the rim of the canyon at sunrise and sunset.” He shrugs. “Pretty cool for a tiny spot out in the middle of nowhere.”
This is where I should agree with him. Where I should tell him I’ve been there with my family and we’d taken one of those rides. Maybe ask him if he still enjoys horseback riding.
Instead, I bypass my brain-mouth filter entirely. “Oh. So you’re Booney from the boonies.”
Literally just kill me now.
I have some language processing whatever, and little word and name games are how I remember things.
Not sure why “Booney from the boonies” had to go and fall out of my mouth like that though.
Cheese and rice.
Rami, who has somehow sidled up next to us again without me noticing, snorts. “Smooth.”
I dig my elbow into his ribs.
“I’m Rami, by the way.” He thumbs a gesture in my direction. “And you should ask this onewhywe call him Maverick.”
Fucker.
“They like to say it like it’s a warning.” I put my bony knee behind Rahm’s knee, and he stumbles forward. “But it’snot.”
Boone catches him again, and Rami sticks his tongue out at me. I’m about to say something devastating about the pimple Rami found on his ass last week, but Boone isn’t looking at us anymore.
He’s staring at something over my shoulder, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Pretty sure that’s sweat above his upper lip.
“Whoa. Is that Hopper Hughes, the artist?” he asks, his voice cracking.
I look over my shoulder, not shocked in the slightest that Uncle Hopper has joined the dads’ invasion of our summer camp.
“Oh yeah.” I play it cool and wave him over. “Hop! Come meet our newest camp counselor!”
Hopper jogs over with a huge grin. He hugs Rami and me with all the enthusiasm of a puppy, then turns to Boone. “Hey, I’m Hopper.”
Boone opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
“Booney here knows you’re an artist,” I say, sending my future husband an encouraging smile. “I think he’s a fan.”
Shit.Boone.
Hopper turns to Boone, elated. “You know my art?”
Still wordless, Boone nods.
“Are you an artist?” Hopper asks, making his voice gentle.
Hopper had a super-rough childhood, so he knows how to talk to people who are nervous.
Boone nods, then sputters, “M-Mostly abstract. Nowhere near as good as what you do.”
