“So, where are we going?”
The plan didn’t just come to me like a lightning strike. It took a bit of research and creativity after googling recreational activities within a fifty-mile radius during my lunch break. Among the top five were the watercraft rental at the marina (too close to work) and the Pickleville Playhouse (already been). I plug the destination into my phone and wedge it in the dash’s cupholder for him to follow.
“Looks like you’ve got one hour and twenty minutes to tell me where your head’s at,” Miles says.
He pulls out onto the street, and I realize this is where my apology comes in.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He clutches the steering wheel with his fists like he’s ringing out a wet rag.
“I promised Reed I’d meet him at Maverick’s for karaoke. I didn’t expect to see you and…” My words fail me again.
“You didn’t expect to sing with me,” he finishes.
“No.”
The pained look in his expression makes me suck in a gust of air.
“Did it mean anything to you?” he whispers.
We’re alone together in this car and yet, I struggle to say the words out loud, as if anyone other than Miles can hear them. I nod up and down instead.
I thought admitting that would make me feel better, but the sadness that hovers like a rain cloud over Miles makes me feel worse.
“It made me feel alive,” I whisper. “That’s what I would have said had I taken my chance and spoken to you after the song. I would have told you that there isn’t anyone in the world who makes mefeelmore than you do.”
In a bold gesture, Miles reaches across the seat and laces his fingers with mine. Just like his shadow, his hand dwarfs them.His fingers are warm, and they remain still for a while as we both stare out opposite windows. A part of me wishes he would say something, but I know that’s not Miles. We drive in comfortable silence, my eyes taking in the rivers and cliffs and bridges while my heart traces the pattern of his hand against mine.
After a while he stops being tentative and begins stroking his thumb back and forth over the top of my hand. It’s a repetitive pattern that leeches all of my focus until we reach our destination. We pull into a tiny town with mismatched buildings and a giant banner that greets us with the city’s name.
Lava Hot Springs.
“How have I lived all my life in Montpelier and never known this was an hour away?” he asks, admiring the quaint historic buildings and a charming bed and breakfast with a hot spring on the left.
“Because you’ve never set yourself free enough to see it. Let’s go check it out,” I say.
For the first time in days, Miles’s smile comes back to me.
It’s quiet for a Friday night, a handful of people scattered around the river-like hot tub. Nestled low in a valley of foothills the sun has already disappeared behind, steam evaporates just above the surface of the water. We dip our toes in first, then ankles, getting used to the spicy temperature.
When we’re calf-deep, Mile says, “I take it this won’t be like plunging into Bloomington Lake? I thought you might dive in headfirst.”
I laugh. “I know you think I’m crazy, but I’m notthatcrazy! I’m pretty sure the temperature of this water could fry a few brain cells if I dunked my head under it.”
Miles squats down, dipping his bare chest beneath the water. “I don’t think you’re crazy,” he says, and I hold my breath, waiting for his next words. “I just think you’re searching for something that’s better left unfound.”
I rip off the rest of the Band-Aid and dip myself in too. It’s sobering in the opposite way of Bloomington Lake. We’re all alone in a quiet little corner, and something about it has my walls tumbling down around me.
“It was you, wasn’t it?”
I track my fingertips as they trace long strokes on the surface of the water out to my sides. Even if I can’t see them beneath the thick cloud of steam, it’s better to focus on their invisible movement than in front of me. I can’t look him in the face. My walls might be down, but they aren’t crumbled to pieces.
“What was me?” he whispers, and I lift my gaze just enough to catch his swallow. A harsh bob of his Adam’s apple.
“The one who left the sketchbook by my front door. For someone who believes my past is better left unfound, you sure have a way of encouragingthatpart of it.” I study him like a forensic scientist.
“That’s different,” he says, looking away.
