They are, for the record. Significantly.
I pull the two camp chairs from the garage and put them in the truck bed before I talk myself out of it. The thermos goes on the seat. That's the whole plan.
I text her.
Beck: Are you working tonight
Gemma: Off until tomorrow night why
Beck: Put shoes on. I'll be there in twenty minutes.
Her response takes long enough that I start the truck.
Gemma: ...that's the whole message?
Beck: Yes
Gemma: Should I be worried
Beck: No
Gemma: Should I bring anything
Beck: No
Gemma: You're very forthcoming
Beck: Twenty minutes, Lockhart
She sends back a single punctuation mark. It might be a question mark. It might be exasperation. It is functionally identical to a yes.
She's waiting on the porch when I pull up, which I take as a positive indicator, and she's wearing a jacket over a worn sweatshirt, her hair loose. She looks at the two camp chairs folded in the truck bed, at the thermos on the seat, at me, and then back at the chairs.
"Are we camping?" she asks.
"No," I say.
"Should I have brought snacks?"
"There's granola bars in the glove box."
She opens the passenger door and climbs in, and the truck smells like her shampoo until the heater kicks in, and I remind myself to focus on the road. "Are you going to tell me where we're going?"
"Ridge above the forestry road."
"Why?"
"Perseids peak tonight."
Silence. I merge onto the highway and don't look over.
"You remembered that," she says finally.
"You mentioned it."
"That was a while ago."
"I know." I keep my eyes on the road. The highway unspools ahead in the truck's headlights, pine trees pressing close on bothsides, and the last of the evening light is draining out of the western sky by degrees. "You said you'd never seen them from somewhere without light pollution."
