Tiny sprigs of jade green fight for their place amongst earthy red rocks. Birds flaunting wings with hints of iridescent turquoise and violet swoopdown.
Everyone should live as their own headline. And dang it, these earthy tones just aren’t for everyone. It frustrates me to watch these people limit themselves to some societal trend, dressing in boring subtitles, when they could be blasting a catchy hook and garnering the right kind of attention.
That killer heat every blog warned me about is making itself known, sucking all the moisture from every pore. I figure I’ve wasted more than enough time sorting out Marigold’s incontinence problem, and I begin collecting the clothes I laid out earlier, some of them almost crispy as I stuff them into my bag.
I’m staring at her, hands on my hips, lips between my teeth, the prospect of hauling this thing around again not the least bit enticing. I suddenly wish I’d signed up for that mule service or found a lamp with a genie in it. I snap a photo of Marigold with the beautiful blue sky and the colorful rockface as her backdrop before stashing my phone in a side pocket. It’ll be great B-roll content for my Instagram stories when I get a cell signal in a few days.
I close my eyes, smiling at the sun and pretending it isn’t trying to kill me. Instead, I focus on the sense of satisfaction at conquering the first hurdle of this trek.
The water bottle leak may have only been a tiny hurdle, but still, I didn’t give up.
“You waiting for it to sprout legs and walk the rest of the way?”
I gasp, spinning to find Jack, arms folded, glaring at me.
“Jeez! I could have fallen to my death with you sneaking up on me!” I scold with my hand on my chest, clutching my invisible pearls.
One eyebrow lifts as he leans barely an inch to the side, peering behind me. “By slipping into the canyon that’s twenty feet away?”
I don’t suppress an eye roll before pulling Marigold onto anearby rock and doing a very unladylike squat to slide my arms into the straps.
Why is this thing so heavy?
I’ve just laid everything out, and the math doesn’t make sense. Maybe I’m just pitifully weak. My lips roll in with the effort to stand once I have the buckles secure around my waist.
The momentum propels me forward, causing my knee to buckle like someone’s kicked me from behind. In an instant, Jack’s hands are once again at my arms, holding me up as my face is smushed against his chest. If I didn’t have Marigold strapped to my back, I’d curl my arms around his waist and feign a swoon, then blame it on the heat later.
What? It’s a very nice chest.
Jack clears his throat.
Boundaries, Willow.
Most of the effort to hoist myself upright comes from pushing my face against him like a cat wanting to nuzzle closer. I wouldn’t be opposed to a head rub. I might even purr. But Jack flexes his hands, putting space between us.
This response I’m having to him is very new to me. The guys I usually date are more like accessories, nothing beyond surface-level companionship. Most of them only use me to get close to my dad, anyway. Once they realize he’s not granting any favors and neither am I, we mutually uncouple.
Jack’s second throat clearing brings me out of my past relationship postmortem.
Right. I’m making him uncomfortable. He could even have a girlfriend or a wife waiting for him at home.
My stomach rolls. I don’t like that thought, nor do I care for this newfound sensation of jealousy.
My eyes dart down to his left hand, crinkling slightly when I find no ring, and I’m slightly relieved.
His face is also free of its usual grimace, a dazed lookhanging in his eyes before there’s a flicker of a frown. What is this new look? I want to inspect it, to study the microexpression he’s let slip before he returns to scowling as usual.
There’s only one way to save myself from a situation like this.
“Aaaand…scene.”
I bow, but my foot slips on the tiny pebbles under my shoe, and I bobble awkwardly before catching my balance again.
Jack ignores it, though, inspecting our surroundings like there’s something he’s missing before nodding his head toward my tarp.
“What’s with the sailcloth?”
He really should be more careful, because all his scowly suspicion makes me want to do is follow him around and mess with him.
