Chapter 17
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Is this…a heart event?
I highly prefer clicking a yes text box and being transported instantly to the cherry tree grove. Which is at the top of a two-mile uphill trek.
My noodle arms and legs crave the pillow of pink stretched beneath the blush boughs of the trees dappled before me. Just like Samson said, the path up was a mess of fallen trees, debris, and ruts, but here—at the lush crest far from any rivers—it’s as though the storm never happened.
Save for the occasional downed branch, the scene is perfect, stretching into an endless horizon that overlooks Gem Ridge.
Approaching the sheer cliff drop and breaking from beneath the pink boughs, I peer at a slew of dollhouses, forest, and disrepair.
Even from way up here, the destruction stands out like so many open wounds.
“What do you think?” Samson murmurs while I’m staring at the forever blue of the ocean.
“It’s…incredible.”
“Did you have views like this in your world?” he asks, dropping his backpack at his feet.
I grimace. “In some places, probably. But not near where I lived. In Florida, kids think anthills are mountains. Ninety-nine percent of Flat Earthers live there. That’s a fact.”
Samson provides me with a curious look, but he doesn’t press the validity of my statement, choosing instead to roll his neck back and stretch his shoulders.
I forget what I’m talking about entirely.
Dreadfully masculine, Samson lifts his arms above his head and continues the casual torture as he locks his fingers and reaches for the clouds.
Before us, above the ocean, the sun hangs, turning the surface of the water white with glitter.
Those perfect rays caress Samson’s tan skin as he loosens his muscles, and my mouth goes dry.
I am feral for this man.
I want to tackle him in the pink petals and bite his shoulder and lock my legs around his waist and—
There I go again.
Focusing on the superficial things—like diamond-sculpted shoulders.
Which is unkind to a living, breathing person.
Forcing my attention to the ocean until the scintillation of the sun on the waves makes my eyes burn—darn astigmatism—I pour a cooling breath into my lungs.
During this zen moment, I prompt myself toward a thought exercise.
If Samson had pathetic shoulders, would I still want to bite them?
If kind, wonderful, gentle, funny Samson had pathetic shoulders, I would absolutely still want to bite them. And snuggle. And tackle him in the petals. And, maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t seem like such a formidable, daunting angel from heaven so majestically out of my league it hurts.
Were his shoulders not so enrapturing, I’d be able to suggest an interest in courting him without feeling the need to throw up.
Were he crafted like a normal man instead of God’s favorite sculpture, I would still have it so bad for him.
I’m starved for his kindness, desperate for the high it provides. Being tolerated by someone like him makes me feel special, and it doesn’t matter what format the feeling comes in. Not when it’s everything I’ve ever wanted.
When Samson’s voice breaks into my thoughts, it drifts up to meet me, so I turn to find him crouched, sifting through his bag.
“Egg salad?” He pulls out an insulated pouch.
“I always keep boiled eggs on hand, so I grabbed some things to make lunch before we left for Austin’s.
” Some things is a dramatic exaggeration, I learn, as he proceeds to remove item after item from his pack.
Bread. Cheese. Fruit. Mayo. Herbs.
When he removes and shakes out an entire picnic blanket, it occurs to me that I haven’t questioned the presence of his backpack during this trip.
Not once. Samson is Prepared with a capital P.
After our several excursions to the mines, seeing him with his backpack whenever we venture beyond his farm feels normal.
Watching him assemble a picnic for us feels somewhat less normal.
Especially when he pauses halfway through opening a glass jar of mayo to look up at me, arch a brow, and pat the blanket he’s just laid out. “Sit, Lemonade. We’ve done a lot today, and we’ll need to regain our strength for the trip back.”
It’s a miracle my knees don’t give out before I’m seated.
Now, I just hope he doesn’t need me to stand for a good long while…
As he mashes up eggs, mayo, and herbs, I stay perfectly starstruck, hardly breathing, lest I lose my mind and tackle him to the checkered blanket.
“From what you’ve told me, your old world seems…
pretty harsh,” he murmurs, passing me the first sandwich.
“And that’s the opinion of someone who spent decades slaying dens of monsters in far from friendly company.
” He carves a stick of cheese from the block he’s brought and passes me the piece, meeting my eyes when he does.
“I’m sorry you had to live in such a cold place for so long. ”
My heart stammers. “It…probably wasn’t anywhere near as bad as being expected to take care of actual monsters.”
He hums, cutting another slice of cheese for himself. “I don’t know. In my experience, the worst monsters are always the ones in human skin. And, unless you’ve forgotten to mention it in your Florida hate rants, those are the only ones your old world seems to have had.”
“Do cockroaches not count?” I ask.
His lips slant, humored, and he bites into his cheese. “Cockroaches don’t count.”
Huffing, I bite into my own stick. Mozzarella. Homemade. Like the bread, and everything else here. So full of flavor, despite mozzarella being known for its mild taste. I sigh and let my gaze wander back toward the sea. “Living here is a dream.”
“Even when your only bathroom was an outhouse?” Samson finishes making his sandwich and takes a bite that is approximately the size of a small country. I don’t know where his cheese went, but I’m assuming the sandwich is about to find out.
I pout. “You know that an outhouse doesn’t compare to the horrors of Florida.”
His nod is sage. “Florida,” he says, and if there were anything good about the state, it’s the way it sounds rolling off Samson’s tongue. “The outhouse of your old world.”
“Exactly.” I giggle.
“I can’t imagine living somewhere I hate as much as you hate Florida without a formal contract forcing me to stick around. Why didn’t you ever find somewhere better, with views like this?” He lifts his chin toward the scene ahead.
This time, I don’t stop looking at him. “It’s expensive to move.
Scary, too. Even though I wasn’t exactly living in a city with a low crime rate, the fact I hadn’t been brutally murdered yet made it somehow safer than the time, energy, and money involved in leaving.
Moving is starting over. Even if I had the money, which I definitely didn’t, I don’t know if I’d have been brave enough to give up the familiarity I knew.
It’s comforting, being where you’ve survived.
The threat of finding something you won’t know how to deal with if you try to reach something better keeps you kind of…
stuck.” Dragging my attention down, I stare at my sandwich.
“I take it you’ve had some bad contracts? ”
He puffs a breath. “Yeah. A few. I guess they were my familiar, though. As soon as I could walk, they put a training sword in my hand. I cleaned for my food before they shoved me out on jobs. The first few monsters were terrifying. The first few people I watched die…the first few deaths I heard celebrated…were rough. But, it’s like you said, there’s comfort in familiar, so I guess I just grew numb to the brutality. ”
I can’t even imagine. Trying to makes my heart ache. “Can I…ask you a personal question, Shoulders?”
Finishing his sandwich, he watches me, intently. At last, he says, “Yes, you may.”
Breath fills my chest. “How did you wind up in the Ridge?”
A dark brow arches. “Such a vital piece of backstory wasn’t provided in your life simulation game?”
I flush. “All I know is that you retired here when…” My attention drifts to his neck, to his scar. “…when you were injured. I don’t know the details or why you chose here, over everywhere else in the world. There isn’t really much about the world outside Gem Ridge in the game.”
“Really?” he murmurs.
“Before this morning, I didn’t know the name of the city where Austin and Aurelia grew up. It was always just the city whenever they talked about it in game.”
“Odd,” he hums. “Maybe whoever made your game didn’t know the name of the city while they were making it.”
“Maybe.” I shift to get more comfortable on the blanket before hesitantly asking, “Was my question too personal?”
His head shakes, and he cuts another piece of cheese off the block. “No, you’ve just distracted me with ideas.”
“Ideas?”
“About how I might be able to get you to Amecrest. The thought of taking you somewhere completely outside the realm of your game…is enticing.” He doesn’t allow me to compute that before he’s referencing my sandwich. “Is it okay?”
I swallow, hard. “Um. Yes. Sorry. I’m talking a lot. I like egg salad. I do. One of my favorites, actually. I’ll eat…right…now.” Until this exact moment, I don’t think I realized exactly how deeply embarrassing it is to eat in front of somebody. Maybe after this I’ll just never eat again.
Oblivious to my distress, Samson lets a flurry of a smile lift one corner of his mouth as a breeze sends petals showering all around us. “Sorry. I guess I should answer your question so you have a moment to chew, huh?”
Wetting my lips, I nod. “That would be a very kind thing to do, yes.”