“That’s amazing!” I look around the bar. “Is he here tonight?”
“No, must be his night off.” He peers down at his menu, so I do the same.
“I should probably go for a German sausage or something, but I’ve got to say I really fancy the sound of those loaded fries.”
“They are great,” he replies. “You should have what you feel like.”
“Is the pretzel nice?”
“Yeah, let’s get one to start with. You’ll love it.”
From the moment he came out of his bathroom, wearing the same outfit he wore on the day of the storm—a black-and-white-and-gray–checked shirt over a white T-shirt and black jeans—I’ve found it hard to pull my eyes away from him.
He, on the other hand, seems to be struggling to meet my eyes at all.
What I wouldn’t give to know what’s going through that head of his.
We place our order and our server takes away the menus.
“I finished Bambi,” I say, trying to sound casual.
“You did?”
I nod. “Dad helped. And Jonas too. He came and did the electrics.”
“How’s he looking?”
“Jonas or Bambi?”
He snorts. “I was talking about Bambi.” His brow pinches and those two furrows appear. “But is Jonas okay?”
He didn’t want to part from his brother so abruptly. So why did he?
“Jonas is fine,” I reply.
I tell him about the farm and what’s been happening since he left, how the preparations for movie night are coming along. He’s entertained when I describe us trying to cut the maze, but at the same time, he seems sad that he missed it.
“Why don’t you come back to the farm for the weekend?” I ask. “The maze is opening on Saturday, families will be picking pumpkins, it will be good ole country fun,” I add with a grin, mimicking Jonas. “And you should see the scarecrow Sheryl has made for the middle of the maze. It’s one scary motherfucker.”
He throws his head back and laughs and when he looks at me again, his eyes are dancing, lit from within.
“You left so suddenly.” I can’t hold the words in.
He sobers up and casts his gaze downward.
“Why, Anders?” I press him gently.
He doesn’t answer at first and I’m not sure he’s going to at all, but then his eyes meet mine and the intensity in them knocks the breath out of me. The air between us feels charged. But then he sighs quietly and his expression changes into something I’ve seen somewhere before.
It comes to me in a wave of déjà vu: this is how Scott looked at Nadine when he realized he was in love with her.
“Anders,” I whisper, sliding my hand across the table toward him.
He freezes, staring at it. And then he gives me a tortured look. My stomach bottoms out, but as I begin to withdraw, he breathes the words, “Fuck, no,” and catches my hand with his.
Goose bumps spring up along my entire arm, racing all the way to my neck and down the other side. And they’re not butterflies inside my stomach, they’re fireflies, and they’ve lit up my insides with a warm glow, swooping and whirling.
I’m overwhelmed by the unguarded emotion I see in his eyes, the raw need and unadulterated longing. And I’m engulfed with love—and also relief, because I’mnotalone. Hedoescare for me too.
