What I found instead: pages and pages of me. Not posed, but fragments: my hands wrapped around a chisel, the ridge of my jaw when I laughed—something I didn’t know I did—the curve of my shoulder under the shop lights.
There were even sketches of the way I stood when I thought I was alone: one foot braced on the bottom rung of the workbench, head tilted as if I could hear what the wood was saying back to me.
I hadn’t mentioned it to him. I closed the box and set it back where he’d left it. But that night, I’d let myself look at him a little longer when he came to say goodnight.
After Levi turned eighteen last year, the waiting got harder. He knew it, too. He started testing: standing closer than he needed to, bumping my shoulder in the hallway, making jokes that weren’t entirely innocent.
I made a point to ignore most of it. I told myself it was for his sake, that he needed time to get his feet under him before I let him know how badly I wanted him. But the truth was, I liked the ache. It made everything else sharper, more real.
Once, after a storm knocked out the power, we’d spent the evening at the kitchen table in the main house, candles guttering between us, playing cards and drinking warm beer. Harlow had gone to bed early, and the house was so quiet I could hear Levi’s breathing across the table.
He watched me over his cards, chin propped on one fist. “Do you ever get tired of being the strong one?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
I set my cards down and looked at him, letting the question hang in the air. “No,” I’d said, finally. “But it’s a relief, sometimes, when someone notices how much work it is.”
He smiled then, soft and a little bit sad. “I notice everything,” he said, and I believed him.
I checked the clock. Nearly six. I had two hours before anyone expected me. I went back to the dresser, took out the bracelet, and slipped it into my back pocket. My thumb found the edge of the one on my wrist and pressed, hard. It grounded me.
I padded downstairs to the shop, grabbed the stuff I’d hidden away, and then headed out. I had work to do before the sun cleared the treetops. The creek wasn’t going to set itself up.
The last time I’d gone to this much trouble for a birthday was probably my own, and I’d hated every minute of it, but this was different. I’d planned every detail: the blanket, the sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, the thermos of coffee, the perfect spotby the water where the current slowed enough to hear the frogs over the rush. I’d even tucked a cheap little Bluetooth speaker in the basket in case he wanted music.
On my way out the door, I paused at the coat-rack and found the battered blue hoodie Levi had “borrowed” from me last fall and never returned. It smelled like him—like detergent, pencil shavings, and the cinnamon gum he always had in his pocket. I tucked it under my arm, feeling like an idiot, but unable to leave it behind.
The grass was slick with dew. My boots left perfect prints all the way down the path, each one erasing the last, until I reached the creek and everything felt new again.
I set out the blanket, smoothed the corners, and arranged the food so it looked like I hadn’t tried at all. I poured myself a cup of coffee, sat on the rough edge of the blanket, and let the chill of the morning settle into my bones.
I could hear the main house behind me: the slam of the back door, someone calling out a goodbye. It would be at least half an hour before Levi followed the trail and found me.
I sat with my thoughts, unmoving, except for my hand tracing the word “Sunshine” on my wrist over and over until the feeling turned numb.
The morning unfolded around me, slow and deliberate. Mist burned off the water in pale sheets. A hawk circled above, hunting for breakfast. I wondered if this was what peace felt like, or if it was just the moment before a fight.
I didn’t mind either.
The blanket was still damp at the edges when I heard Levi’s footsteps crunching through the leaves. I didn’t turn. I let him find me, just like I’d let him push every other boundary since the day he showed up.
When he slid onto the blanket beside me, he didn’t say a word. He just pressed his cold knee against mine, stealing my body heat without asking.
I let him.
“Happy birthday,” I said, my voice lower than I intended.
He smiled, lips barely parted, like he knew I’d been rehearsing it for months. “Thanks,” he said, and leaned in closer.
I waited.
I’d always been good at waiting, but this time it felt like the last second before the starting pistol—a stillness that was pure hunger and terror, all wrapped together.
He reached out and took my hand. Just like that. His fingers were small, but strong, and he squeezed until I looked at him. When I did, he was already grinning.
“Did you think I wasn’t going to find you out here?” he said.
I shrugged. “Could’ve gone either way.”
He rolled his eyes, but didn’t let go. “You’re terrible at surprises,” he said, and I felt myself smiling, despite everything.
