21. brooks
twenty-one
brooks
. . .
Slow Dance - Dustin Chapman
On the other side of Skillett-Heath Lake, there’s a small inland beach with an extensive playground and a smoothie cafe that’s open summer afternoons only.
But over here, nestled amongst trees and accessible by dirt roads you have to know in order to know, there’s a small, rocky clearing hidden away.
Most people don’t even know it exists, and if they do, they either can’t figure out how to get here, or they’re not brave enough to subject their vehicle’s suspension to the rough, potholed dirt road for two and a half miles.
I’m not normally one to gatekeep, but this place is a secret I could take to my grave.
A few months ago, I helped Everett set up a surprise picnic for Ruth on the banks of this lake.
But today, I’m a lone ranger, having thrown together a picnic—not nearly as exciting or extravagant as Everett’s—and tossed the cooler in the back of my truck.
I inflated the air mattress in the truck bed before I left the ranch, and even grabbed a couple solar-powered lanterns for after the sun goes down, so all I have to do now is climb in and wait.
I know she’s nearby. My body knows it, too.
I can feel it in the way the hairs on my arms lift, the way every inch of my skin prickles with a singularly unique kind of electricity I’ve only ever experienced in her presence.
A light breeze off the lake ruffles my hair—growing out a little more than I usually let it—and brings with it a gentle chill that cools the heat bubbling beneath my skin, as well as the scent of her strawberry lotion, mingling with the salt in the air.
“Ain’t exactly the champagne sunset experience I was promised, demon,” she calls.
Still several feet from my truck, with her Mom’s Civic parked just beyond the entrance to the clearing.
That thing is older than Ashton is, but impressively, it makes it down this road just fine.
It still runs perfectly. AC kinda blows, though.
More accurately, it don’t blow at all, and that’s kinda my point.
I turn to face the direction of her voice. My god, she could make a man fall to his goddamn knees.
She ain’t wearing nothing special, just her usual uniform of jeans, a slogan tank, and those same gray boots she’s worn for the past decade.
But her hair is loose, her skin tan and makeup-free, and her smile wide enough to rival the entire Texas sky.
And she’s fucking beautiful. By the time she’s close enough for me to read the slogan on her tank top—it’s the horses are better than people one again—I think I’ve opened and closed my mouth four or five times, at a total loss for words.
Not for the first time, our entire history plays out in my mind like a movie.
Playing pranks on each other as kids. Teaming up and playing pranks on her brother.
Picking her up after a disastrous date with some kid who got too handsy, taking her for a drive-thru milkshake to cheer her up on the way home.
She’s always been my best friend. But since she’s come home from New York, it’s almost like I’ve finally woken from whatever stupor had me still seeing her as Everett’s kid sister. It’s like I’m seeing her for the first time as a grown woman—and what a beautiful fucking woman she’s become.
“You ain’t even seen it yet,” I finally call back. Ashton looks at me with a curious smile, eyes roving me, the cooler, the truck bed, and finally back to my face. “I got your champagne and oysters right here, m’lady.”
“No thanks,” she says, a faux sweetness accompanying her fluttered eyelashes. “I’m allergic.” She climbs into the truck bed with practiced ease, flinging herself toward the cab. When she settles against it, a whole half-foot of air between us, I bite back a growl.
“Get over here,” I demand, simultaneously shuffling closer and reaching out to pull her into me.
She folds herself into my side like she was cut to fit; a pair of puzzle pieces finally together after a lifetime of being kept apart.
She sighs happily with a smile curving her lips, and I feel the tension melt from her body as she settles against me.
“You don’t really have oysters in there, do you?” she asks without lifting her head from my chest. A chuckle rumbles out of me.
“Fuck, no,” I say. “I don’t even like oysters. And even if I did, I wouldn’t have ‘em brought anywhere near you. I ain’t gonna risk you like that, honey.”
“Mmm,” she hums. Her voice is high and giggly as she asks: “You sure you ain’t just sayin’ that ‘cause you’re fuckin’ me?”
“I’m saying it because you’re my best friend, and I do actually like having you around. And I sure as shit ain’t gonna be the one to tell your daddy I fed you something we both knew you were allergic to.”
“Daddy ain’t the least of your worries. Ev would tear your balls off and feed ‘em to you first.” Ashton cuddles in closer as she speaks.
Her tone is light, almost disarming in its innocence, but we both know the darkness beneath the whimsy of her words.
If Everett finds out about us, it could spell disaster. And I’m not about to let that happen.
I’m not about to let it spoil our night, either. I press a kiss to the top of Ashton’s head and reach for the cooler.
“Your champagne, as promised,” I announce, pulling a mini bottle of champagne from an ice pack-wrapped koozie.
I brought two bottles, but I won’t be drinking either.
No way I’m driving home—with or without Ashton next to me—after alcohol.
Not in this lifetime. Ev, Jody, and I lost a classmate and his entire family to a drunk-driving accident when we were in tenth grade.
A drunk driver hit their car head-on. If you ask me, it just ain’t worth the risk.
Ashton takes the bottle and begins to unwrap the foil top as I dive back into the cooler and pull out two foil-wrapped sandwiches.
“A chicken salad sub.” I place them on my outstretched legs. Ashton twists the cork and releases it with a pop. All of the champagne is contained, and she lifts it above our heads with a flourish.
“Cheers, boys,” she announces, and lifts her head to drink straight from the bottle. I pull out a sectioned snack box filled with olives, Goldfish crackers, small cubes of cheese, and diced jerky sausage.
“Charcuterie,” I say, and Ashton laughs. She knows me far too well, and I’m sure she knows exactly what to expect when she opens it.
“Perfect,” she says, taking the box from me.
She holds the champagne bottle between her thighs and rests the snack box on her legs, unclipping and lifting the lid.
She goes straight for the Goldfish crackers, exactly as I knew she would.
“I do love a Goldfish.” She pops one into her mouth and crunches it between her teeth.
I spear an olive with one of the toothpicks I packed into the box and hold it out to her. She takes it between her teeth with a giggle.
“This is the best first date,” she says with a content sigh. “I know we’ve been out together before, but not as—not since…”
“Not since what?”
“You know,” she insists. “Look me right in the eye and tell me we’re just fucking.”
“You asking me to be more than just a fuckbuddy, devil?” I ask. I crunch on a Goldfish cracker as I grin down at her. She matches my grin with a sly one of her own.
“No, you’re gonna ask me. And I might say yes.” She makes a show of inspecting her nails—clean, neat, unpolished.
“Wanna be more than just fuckbuddies?” I ask. I press my fingertips into her waist and she squeals, wriggling against my side. She feigns contemplation and I move my fingers, tickling one of her most sensitive spots.
“Yes!” She squeals. “Oh my god, please stop. I’m gonna pee.”
“Please don’t pee in my truck,” I laugh.
“No promises,” she says cheerily, reaching for another Goldfish, and instead of tickling her again—or letting her get the cracker—I grab hold of her wrist. My entire hand wraps around it and I marvel at the contrast between her bright tattoos and my grayscale one.
I bring her hand up above our heads as I lean in, pressing my lips to the grin on her face and kissing her eagerly.
There’s something so damn perfect about the taste of champagne on her lips.
When we finally break apart, Ashton takes one of the sandwiches from me and begins to unwrap it. “You know,” she begins, “I don’t think I’ve ever been here at sunset. Sunrise, afternoon, even after dark once or twice, but never sunset. It’s pretty at sunset.”
“Pretty all the time,” I agree. I take a bite of my sandwich, my eyes on Ashton the whole time as she gazes out over the water. The sky is starting to turn orange and it’s casting a warm glow over her tan skin. It ain’t just the lake that’s pretty.
She hums quietly and for a few moments, the quiet sound of our chewing and the crinkling of foil is the only thing that mingles with the lapping of the water and the rustling leaves.
“Wanna know what else I brought?” I ask a little while later. The sun has dipped below the horizon now; the last vestiges of orange light just barely clinging to the edge of the sky. Ashton’s head is on my chest, my arm around her shoulders. One of her arms is slung across my belly.
“What else did you bring?”
I reach into the cooler beside me, congratulating my past self for investing in the pricier option when I feel the chill on my skin.
Everything inside is still deliciously cold, despite the afternoon’s triple-digit temperature.
My fingers close around another Tupperware and I pull it out with triumphant glee.
“This,” I say, holding it in front of Ashton’s face with a flourish.
I unclip the lid and immediately, the fresh, sweet smell of juicy strawberries fills the air.
She lifts the arm from my belly and picks the reddest berry, bringing it to her lips and biting into it.
Juice dribbles down her chin and she wipes it with the back of her hand before holding out the rest of the strawberry to me.
I take it with my teeth, biting down and barely holding back a moan as the juice hits my tongue.
“Did you pick these?” she asks.
“Naw,” I admit. “Got ‘em at Braxton’s.” The grocery store in Farrow sources local produce, although these particular strawberries aren’t from Aunt Roberta’s U-Pick farm. “Think they’re from Dover.”
“Ooh, Braxton’s courting with the enemy, huh?” Ashton’s head returns to my chest. “Wonder how Aunt Roberta feels about that.”
“I’d be pissed,” I decide after a minute. “Dover’s over the county line. Hardly even local anymore.”
“It’s still local, it just ain’t in the Tri-towns. Ain’t even in Farrow County. Aunt Roberta’s farm is still running, ain’t it?”
“I actually don’t know,” I admit slowly. It’s been a while since I’ve driven out to that side of Heath. It’s been a while since I’ve been to Heath at all, to be honest. “Harriet and I took EJ last summer, but she was still too little to really enjoy it. I ain’t been since.”
“I hope it is,” Ashton says with a sigh. “Be nice to go before I go back to New York.”
“Aunt Roberta was pretty old.” I don’t know whether she’s older or younger than Miss Celia.
She’s had a shock of white hair since we were kids, and both women have always been ageless to me.
“Why don’t we drive out there this weekend?
Maybe get Ev and Ruth to come with us. Jody.
Maybe Harriet and Dean can bring Emmy, too. ”
“I’d like that,” Ashton says. She cuddles into my chest, wrapping her arm around my torso and positioning herself so she can use my body for support while she looks out at the lake.
The solar lamps I brought are providing just the perfect amount of light so that we can see vague silhouettes of trees around us without providing too much light to mask the stars.
I’ve never done this before. I’ve never had a woman mean anything more than a good time—a one-time-only good time.
I’ve never been a cuddler. Any time I’ve put effort into spending time with a woman has been a means to an end, and that end was always sex.
But with Ashton, it’s different. With her, I can be myself.
I find myself wanting more and more to just give and ask for nothing in return.
To just exist with her, soothe the parts of my soul that are ragged, that don’t recognize love because they’ve never experienced it before.
Because being with her smooths those edges and makes me feel a kind of love I never really let myself imagine.
And sitting beneath the stars with her is the kind of romance I always saw other people experience, and only hoped one day I might get for myself.
“What do you think that star is?” I ask. I point at a particularly bright star overhead.
“Ain’t that one of the bears?” Ashton asks. “Look. There’s his tail. His legs. His butt makes the Big Dipper.” She traces the shape with her finger.
“Which one’s that?”
“You seriously tellin’ me you don’t know the Big Dipper?” she asks with an incredulous tone. “Brooks Hart, you call yourself a cowboy.”
“I ain’t never navigated by starlight, devil. Me and my horse are always home safe before nightfall.” I grin down at her.
“The Big Dipper is the big bear’s butt. Always visible, pretty much, if you got a clear night. Might be upside down depending on the time of year, but it always points to the North Star.”
“And the North Star guides you home, right?”
“Right,” she says, settling back against my chest. “Follow the North Star to take you home. Or your heart. The heart is where the North Star leads you, or something.”
“Your North Star at home, devil girl?”
“Mhmm,” she hums. “Mom. Dad. Ev. You. Jody. Ruth.”
“Family,” I say.
“My heart,” she agrees. I kiss the top of her head. My heart might just be with her.