Twenty-Two
Henry
I hear Tait before I see her; her steps somehow manage to sound agitated as they crunch behind me.
“I want to show you something,” I say, the thought escaping before I could consider trying to be smooth about it.
“How’d you know it was me?” she asks, catching up to my side.
“You stomp your feet like the ground pissed in your Cheerios. I noticed it the first night I saw you in the woods. It’s probably why I mistook you for a Sasquatch,” I tell her, and immediately lose the hold on my expression when I see her affronted one. I blow out a quick laugh, and it draws out her smile.
“Ass. I guess that explains why you tried to mount me, then. You finally saw one of your kind and went into rut?”
The word rut, husky and hot from her lips, grabs onto that invisible chord between us and fucking yanks, sending fire through my core. “You give me whiplash, you know that?” I say, and I don’t bother to temper my tone.
She smirks, fucking wicked—triumphant, even. “What do you mean?” And she doesn’t sell me on her coyness, doesn’t even try.
I scoff, frustrated in more than one way, and turn back to the trail, only now noticing that we’d veered from it. This time, I’m determined to stay on track, to stay on the path of least resistance. The path that, ironically, is resisting her.
“Hey, don’t get too far ahead. One of your strides is like four of mine!” she whines.
“Something tells me you can keep up just fine, Tait.”
“Speaking of piss in Cheerios… jeez. What’s your deal?” She laughs.
I grunt in response.
“Henry?!” She grabs my belt loop from the back to stop me. When I turn around, she’s looking up at me through her lashes, challenging, searching. She wants to be distracted, even if it’s by a fight. Fine.
She steps onto the raised edge that lines the side of the game trail, an indiscreet effort to size up, and this is the gesture that breaks me down.
I’ve always been hyperaware of my size. Not just because most people have a propensity for reminding guys like me about it all the time, either. The assumptions that I played elite sports are flattering, but there’s always been an edge of… not insecurity, per se, but wariness about it. I am wary, knowing that my size means that I don’t have the freedom to simply get into a bar fight without restraint, because I am automatically a target and a liability. I could kill someone without meaning to. I always hold back to a degree.
So, when it comes to women, I have traditionally preferred tall ones, not for the physical aspect, but because of how they carry themselves. I can’t stand simpering, or diminutive, because I don’t need to be made to feel like a big man. I already am.
So, when this woman, at least a full foot shorter than me, steps up, almost like she’s trying to make herself bigger… it fucking works. I don’t admire it in a condescending way. I admire it because she’s a force. So, I give her what I think she wants.
I place my palm above her head on the tree behind her, crowding her space, meeting her challenge. “Hey, you dismissed me last night, remember? So, don’t go acknowledging it and making me remember it, and definitely don’t flirt with me unless you want me to do something about it.”
The look in her eyes wavers—she didn’t expect me to say it out loud, I guess. She probably expected me to just act; fight her or make out with her, I can’t be sure. Our breathing’s the only thing audible between us, now, and I can see the pulse jumping at the base of her throat. She swallows, and I notice the dust that’s collected where the helmet and goggles didn’t shield her face.
“You have—” I take my arm back and swipe at the area on my own face to show her, sparing her from responding. She blinks, then lifts the hem of her shirt to wipe it away. I turn quickly, but not before I catch sight of her smooth skin, along with another fucking freckle to file away in my brain—on her rib cage, right below the underside of her breast. Below one of her perfect, sweet tits.
I grind my teeth as I walk away, as I refuse to acknowledge the silent laugh I feel from behind me. She likes games, apparently. While I’m up for them if they help create some common ground, I’m too damn overheated to play right now.
“Here. Up over this ridge.” I point with my free hand, a beer and my sandwich held in the other. I pop the lid off of the bottle on my boot, too impatient to wait until we reach our spot.
Tait hisses a breath behind me. “Are you okay?” I ask, looking her up and down to see if she rolled an ankle or something. Besides the strange look on her face and her hand on her chest, she looks fine. I feel my face pull into a confused frown.
“Yeah… just. Hot,” she replies.
“No kidding.” I continue on, only a few more yards left. “I promise, we typically get four seasons.”
“Yeah. The weather,” she says, dully.
“You good?”
“Yep. Good. Great. Grand. Wonderful.”
“O-kay?”
She smiles and shakes her head, entertained by her own inside joke, I gather. Sometimes she is easy to read: clear and open. Right now, she’s a puzzle.
“Oh my god,” she says when we crest the ridge, finally, and I feel smug at the look of happy awe on her face.
“Figured we could have lunch with a view.”
“The water is so green. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a lake that color. I’ve seen turquoise water, cerulean blue, blue so dark it’s black. Then, you know, regular green pond, lake water. This is totally its own.”
“I always thought that this little valley itself was the cool part. If I would’ve known the color of the water would be this exciting I’d have bought you some crayons and really blown your dress up.” I chuckle .
“No, it is. The valley is cool, too, definitely. But I’ve just seen so many different bodies of water. I mean, I live in Tahoe. So, this is… it’s really beautiful.”
The valley that surrounds the little lake is entirely rock. Little bumps and ridges that lead and indent down to the center, to the water. The perimeter of the granite valley is made up of grassy hills.
“Do you want me to ruin it for you?” I ask her as I sit.
“Ruin it?” she asks, still standing and looking out.
“Yep. I’ll tell you what Grady used to call this spot when we were younger, and you’ll never look at it the same again.”
“Well, now I have to know, obviously.”
“He called it ‘the Dinosaur Butthole.’” I smirk up at her and take a bite of my sandwich while she looks back out over the view and cocks her head to the side.
She closes her eyes and laughs through her nose. “Okay. I see it.” She sits down next to me and starts to unwrap her food, giving it a funny look before she begins to eat.
We continue this way for a bit, eating and sipping our beers, until curiosity, and some kind of nosy feeling—one that’s completely unfamiliar to me, because I normally just don’t give a shit about other people’s business—prompt me to ask, “So, what were you guys talking about back there? Things going ok with you two?”
She pauses in her chewing, hazards a glance my way.
“Not a lot, actually. We haven’t exactly gotten into the meat of things.” She lets out a frustrated sigh. “I’m worried that his answers will leave me more angry, will make me bitter over something I didn’t even know I missed.”
“Well, do you feel that way now? I mean, did you already feel a little sad or bitter about not having a relationship with him before you came here?” I decide to elaborate at her skeptical look. “I just mean, maybe assess the risk, and decide if it’s worth it to you to bond again. You’ll have to go through some of the negative crap, sure. But if you were fine before you got here, then maybe you’ll be just fine when you leave, too. Regardless of whether or not you want your father in your life. Do you think you have any unresolved bitterness?”
She thinks for a second, raising her eyebrows when she answers, “Honestly, no. I don’t think I do. I think when I was a kid, sure. But it’s been so many years, and I have a great life, in spite of the messy parts. I don’t love to dwell on what I don’t have.” She shrugs. “If that sounds calloused, I’m not sure. But I’ve had adventure, excitement, and I have my sister and nephew and her family. I don’t think it’d be fair for me to sit back and mourn or be deeply angry over missing some Father-Daughter dances.”
“Jesus, Tait, you are way more like him than you realize.” I shake my head. Stubborn asses, both determined to plow forward and tell bad feelings to fuck off.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, to me at least, it sounds like you have an impressive ability to let shit go. Or to convince yourself that you are over things, even if you’re not.”
Her face drains of color at that, her mouth dropping open a bit before she recovers; and then she starts gathering up her trash as she stands.
“What did I say?” I ask, panicked that some part of that was so upsetting that she’s not arguing, not even attempting a sarcastic comeback.
“Nothing that isn’t true, Henry. But I don’t want it to be. I don’t want to let shit go.” And she starts her march back.