“Before what ungodly hour?”
He stares up at the stars with a soft smile. “It’ll be nice. The three of us.”
“I’ll eat you alive if you get me up before six.”
“Five.”
“You’re dead meat.”
He tucks the sleeping bag tighter around my shoulders. I let him. “You can wash it down with coffee. I’ll make a flask.”
I turn my head and pretend to bite him, and our fogged laughs mingle.
We sleep in the front seat. The passenger one.
It’s reclined all the way, and we squeeze onto it side by side, facing one another, and huddle under the sleeping bag. It’s cold, but not so cold it’s dangerous. Just enough to be aware how much warmer it is to press in close.
“We’ll wake up rigid tomorrow.”
“That’s nothing new.”
I get bopped on the nose.None of that now.
But he feels warmer suddenly. Like his whole body is flushing. I reach towards his face and his eyes jump, and I pull out a coin from behind his ear.
I whisper, “Penny for them?”
“Fifty cents. Hope you’re not expecting so many.”
“Keep the change.”
Trent’s hand engulfs the silver coin and the tips of my fingers. “I’m thinking about how I stop thinking about you. How I can stop being attracted.”
Goosebumps prickle over my arms, my legs, probably my back and chest too. I grin. “You really are quite candid.”
“Better to be upfront. My body is talking anyway.”
I laugh. “Mine too. It’s just close proximitiness. Nothing more complicated.”
Trent breathes deeply, a tickle that curls down my throat.
My stomach dips and my throat tightens, and I’m nodding hard, desperate to convince myself.
I swallow, and say, “Maybe being explicit about what we like... maybe it’ll all sound so ordinary spoken aloud. Maybe we’ll see we could be talking about a tenth of the men out there.”
I expect him to list common traits and behaviours. A sense of humour, kindness, curiosity, maybe say that I’m passionate, or have a nice smile.
He pauses. “I like the way you fold, the way you move your body. There’s something in the way you sit at the family table that pulls at me. The way you drag your chair out, a little petulant, a little hopeful, a little mystified. But then you sit, and suddenly shuffle forwards and fold. Yes, it really is a fold. The way you lean into the conversation, and grab the condiments, and lately, how you reach over without a second thought and cut Grandpa’s meat and potatoes, and grin at him as you slide it back. And the sneaky glances you give me whenever Grandpa says something outrageous or hilarious, the way you always fold towards me to share the laugh with me. And the way I always find myself folding to meet you halfway.”
He laughs lightly. “I’m attracted to this fold, to all your folds.”
My throat aches. I’ve had a few boyfriends before, some semi-serious. Not one of them ever said anything that sounded so much like a confession.
“What attracts you about me?” Trent murmurs.
“Not after that.”
“Why not?”
