Not one spot looks the same with a variety of chairs, love seats, and netted swings. Some are meant for large groups while others have seating just for two. It smells like roasted marshmallows and melted chocolate.
I’d never pick this place for a vacation. I think about timing and coincidence. No matter how convoluted the path, I’m thankful to be here with Holland.
“You want to pick a spot?” Holland asks as he carries our drinks.
“No, you pick. I bet you know the best one,” I say.
Holland nods and we continue to walk. He takes us to the outskirts, kind of tucked away from everyone. I knew he’d find the best place for us.
There’s a cluster of pine trees, a string of twinkly lights running through the branches, with a loveseat in front. Blankets are draped over the back. A smile spreads on my face. Holland sets our wine on tables placed on each side of the loveseat. I put our s’mores tray on the holder near the fire.
“This is amazing,” I say in awe.
“Why do you sound so surprised?”
“I’m not. Just glad to be here. If you don’t recall, this isn’t my typical vacation destination.”
Holland responds by opening chocolate bars and putting marshmallows on our roasting sticks. I take a sip of the mulled wine. It’s warm and spicy in all the right ways. I claim my spot on the loveseat and Holland hands me a marshmallow to roast. My mouth waters.
“The real question is, are you a go-for-it or low-and-slow kind of guy?” I raise my eyebrows and cast a side glance at Holland as he sits down next to me.
He lets out a small chuckle. “Definitely low-and-slow. Gotta get it just right.” His look is intense and fun. “For marshmallows, at least.”
My lips tingle. The parts of my body I wish he was touching follow.
“Oh good,” I say as I let out a fake but exasperated sigh. “I’d have to find a different s’mores buddy if you were one of the people who set it on fire as soon as it gets put on the stick.”
I’m all talk. And he looks at me like he knows it.
“I’d never dream of it.”
We roast marshmallows to the sound of cracks from the fire. I giggle when we go to put the s’mores together because it’s a disaster. Holland shakes his head and makes fun of me with a look. I’ll take the blame. I know I’m using more chocolate than what’s needed, but how many timesdo you get to have a s’more with blueberry muffin chocolate? I have to cash in on this opportunity.
Biting into the s’more, I do my best not to make sex noises. It’s unique and balanced. You can tell the ingredients are local.
“This might be the best dessert I’ve ever had,” I say with my mouth full of sticky marshmallow.
With his brows knitted, he asks, “Even better than the butterscotch cake?”
I freeze. He’s put me into a dessert corner.
“Gah. These aren’t in the same category,” I mumble a response. “Don’t make me pick. I love that cake—”
“Fine, fine. Whatever you say,” he replies before biting into his own s’more. “Good call on the weird blueberry chocolate.” He smirks in approval.
When we take a break in the s’mores assembly line, we lean back into the loveseat, our shoulders touching the cushions. I rest my head on Holland’s shoulder. The air smells like fire and sugar. We’re far enough away from the main area that we can still hear chatters and bits of conversation but just glimpses. The fire in front of us cracks and pops.
I shiver. It’s cooler than any other night I’ve been here. Without hesitation, Holland takes one of the blankets and wraps it around both of our shoulders. He puts the others across our laps. Before leaning back, he puts his arm around my shoulders and I melt into his side.
It’s a small act; some might say minuscule. But not to me. The weight of it lurches my heart. My whole being. Where did this man come from? He’s thoughtful and warm. It feels good to have him on my side. This realization hits me hard. There aren’t many people I’d think or say that about.
Then, because I can’t have anything nice according to my anxiety, a wave of panic rolls through me. There’s no way it’sthiseasy. It’s like I’m at the right place at the right time for the first time in my life.
“I know I keep asking. But how are you feeling?” he asks, quiet and confident.
“Weird. I feel weird. I’m surprised I feel as fine as I do… about Royce, and just the whole thing. I know I have a lot of work to do in therapy. But that’s okay,” I reply as I look at Holland to reiterate my point. He’s patient and I can tell he’s ready to listen. “Right here, right now… I’m okay. I feel sort of… lucky,” I continue. “I know how you are with thank-yous, but I’m thankful for what you did yesterday. You took care of me without a second thought”—I tip my chin up so I can see him—“Even when we weren’t on the best of terms…”
“Stop it. It wasn’t even a question,” he says. “I take it you’re not used to people being in your corner much…” His voice wavers at the end. Like he’s unsure how I’ll respond.
