A bent metal plaque drilled to the slats readsThere my heart lies, scattered among the pines.
I huff. “Fitting.”
Three scoots and I no longer have to feel it pressing into my shoulder blade. I fixate on its meaning instead.
What do I do now?How do I stay here?
I turn these questions over and over, wondering if they’ll always be hypothetical or if an answer will ever come to me, when a shadow shades my face.
“You okay?”
I gaze up toward the sky, and the sight of him is all it takes for the tears I’ve been holding back to cascade in droves down my cheeks.
He sits down next to me. The wooden planks groan with the weight of him.Is that stubble on his cheeks?It wasn’t there the last time I saw him. Then again, neither was the inch of ash blanketing his clothes.
I turn away to wipe my eyes on my sleeve.
“I’m fine,” I say.
Reed places a warm, solid hand on my knee. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
“I’m not,” I lie. Because this is what I do now. I keep my iron clad walls up. Because if I don’t, I get too hopeful for things that never come to pass. Like the idea that Reed could be my shelter from the storms of life.
“Yes. You are. You want to know how I know that?”
I finally turn and look at him. “How?”
“Because we’re more alike than I care to admit.”
He runs his hand along my cheek, brushing away the strand of hair that’s slipped from my braid and tucking it behind my ear.
“Well.” He chuckles. “In one way, anyway. You’d never forget to break in your boots or skip water when your body is screaming for it.”
I hiccup.
“You’d also know that ants live through fire, and it would be worth your time to set up a tent so they don’t ravage your sleeping bag in the middle of the night,” he continues.
I laugh out loud. “Did that actually happen to you?”
His eyes glance sideways before he smirks at me. “No.”
Liar.
“And you sure as hell would know what poison oak looks like before kneeling on top of it.”
I cringe. “You got it too?”
He winces. “You’ll always be way more prepared than me. But that’s not the point.”
“Then what is?” I ask him.
“You’re afraid to let people in.”
He says it like he knows the feeling intimately. I don’t deny it either. I can’t. I’ve been disappointed, let down, looked over, and forgotten enough times in my life not to hide behind the structure I’ve built around my heart.
“But he doesn’tdeserveto be let in,” I argue.
“Maybe not yet.”
