24. A Little Love Goes A Long Way #2
I don’t rush Lake, nor do I interrupt her gawking. I observe her from a distance, witnessing two contradictory yet complementary versions of herself that exist at the same time. A Schrodinger’s butterfly, of sorts.
She looks up at the sky—a canvas of soft pastels smeared hastily over cumulus clouds—and there’s a sparkle reflected in those big, wide eyes, like this is her first time seeing Mother Nature’s handiwork.
God, I forgot how beautiful she is—okay, not like that.
I’m constantly reminded of her outside beauty, but it’s the beauty on the inside that gets outshined.
Outshined by stress, external variables, an unintentional dimming that she doesn’t realize hurts me as much as it hurts her.
If I can offer her respite for even a single minute, I’ll do whatever it takes.
“The view is stunning,” she says beneath her breath, her words lacking their usual fresh coat of pessimism.
I don’t stop staring at her. She’s the antidote to every nervous, uncomfortable feeling that sits underneath my skin like untreated inflammation. “Yeah, it is.”
Emboldened, that larger-than-life beam hasn’t shrunk one bit on her lips. “Why are we here?”
I potter around to the trunk, beckoning her as I pop it open. She scurries over to me enthusiastically, and I didn’t think it was possible, but her eyes grow even larger, as if she can’t fathom the lengths I’d go just to see her smile.
“Aw, you were this secretive about a picnic?”
“Surprised you, didn’t I?” I lean over to retrieve the picnic basket, hauling everything out before closing the compartment.
Lake and I walk side by side as I lead her over to the prime picnic spot, aware of the way she marvels at me (and not hating it one bit).
She can’t scrape together a response except for a heartfelt “thank you” underpinned by currents of relief. And then she clings to my arm—an action not foreign to me, but one that gets my heart sweating all the same.
Ochre sunlight percolates through overhanging leaves, shimmering like mermaid scales amidst springtime foliage and shining a hidden spotlight over the field. No imminent rain to baptize the earth. Serendipitous.
We’re so far removed from the overpopulated, beating heart of downtown that I forget all about the industrialized slop of the twenty-first century.
I wrestle the plaid blanket out of the basket to lay on the ground, and Lake takes her slightly bumpy seat. I’m so far gone for this girl.
So. Far. Gone.
“I can’t believe you planned all of this,” she exclaims, all work-related anxieties evaporating like the last of snowmelt on a dimorphic branch of pine.
I flash her some eyeteeth. “I think you severely underestimate my romancing capabilities.”
“Oh, no. Those I’m aware of. I’m just surprised you can cook.”
“Who says I didn’t buy prepackaged food?”
“Not your style.”
“You know my style?”
“I know you,” she corrects.
You may be the only person who does.
Cooking is therapeutic for me. It wasn’t always. I used to dread it. However, being a college athlete means that I have to watch what I put in my body.
I begin to unpack everything that I carefully placed into the basket on account of the ridiculous portion sizes, pulling out container after container as if I jerry-built some magician’s endless top hat. Lake watches in complete awe while the buffet-like spread doubles within the minute.
“That’s a lot of food,” is all she says.
“I, uh, wanted to make sure we had enough options,” I mumble, embarrassment lapping at the end of my sentence.
“Oh, it’s not a bad thing! I just…nobody has ever done something this kind for me before.
Buford made abysmal attempts to feed me.
A Slim Jim he picked up from the gas station, a bag of chocolate chips he found in his pantry.
No single dinner date in the year that we were together.
And I’m not super high-maintenance, you know?
We didn’t need to go to a fancy restaurant. I just wanted quality time together.”
A muscle in my jaw clenches, the smallest iota of outrage surviving after all this time just so I could feel it in this moment.
I must be terrible at camouflaging my expression because Lake quickly tries to amend the situation, waving her hands like she means no harm.
“Shit. I’m not—I’m not comparing you two. I shouldn’t have brought it up. He’s so far in my rearview that I don’t even think about him anymore.”
“Trouble, I’m not mad—”
“You are.”
“About that,” I finish. “I’m mad at him for thinking it was acceptable to treat you like some nuisance instead of a fucking partner.”
Buford Montgomery continues to occupy the top spot on my shit list, though none of his actions are surprising considering he’s as dumb as a goddamn doorknob.
A Keebler elf who’s in dire need of a personality transplant.
He deserved to get his house cricket-bombed, he deserved to get his face smashed in, and he deserved all those STDs he (allegedly) got from his never-ending roster.
Relief whittles her features, her shoulders drooping. “You already knocked his teeth out.”
“Mm-hm. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
I start dividing the food up between us so I can busy my hands. Aside from my own prosciutto sandwich, everything I brought was for her. I feel like I’m a penguin bringing its mate the best-looking rock in an attempt at courting.
Lake unwraps the cling film from the top of the charcuterie board and begins assembling a small sandwich of cheese, bread, and pepperoni. She pops it into her mouth with a loud moan.
Fuck, she’s going to kill me.
I remove the top of the Tupperware to the fruit salad, taking a page out of her book and popping something into my mouth to divert all these…unruly…feelings.
Why does she have to be so irresistible?
Why do I have to unlearn everything my teammates taught me about playing it cool when she looks at me a certain way or makes a sound that reverts my resolve into some powerless, watery solution?
I don’t think she even realizes the hell she puts me through on a daily basis.
Lake’s next target is a glistening peach slice, and I kid you not, I watch her eat it in slow motion with wet lips and a strong throat that rises and falls when she swallows.
Excess juice runs down her chin, further accentuated by the light of the afternoon.
I grip the living daylights out of the picnic blanket.
I usually would’ve eaten my share by this point. Is it normal for your heart to feel like it’s ping-ponging around in your chest?
I’ve been around Lake plenty of times before. Hell, this isn’t even our first date, yet I’m no better than some teenager who doodles his crush’s name in hearts. I’m not sure there will ever be a point in time when she doesn’t poke the bee’s nest in my belly.
I need to distract my mind.
“How’s Max doing?” I ask, picking at the crust of my uneaten sandwich.
She perks up at her brother’s name, shielding her hand in front of her mouth while she chews.
“He’s doing really great. Whatever you said to him during your lesson changed his whole outlook on things.
He said the bullying has stopped, and his coach has given him a lot of praise for all his hard work.
And after the principal had a strongly worded talk with the Pedretti family, Mr. McDermitt agreed to not put the suspension on Max’s internal school file.
You know, considering he didn’t instigate the fight in the first place. ”
“That’s incredible, Lake. I’m glad I was able to help. Your brother has heart. It’s rare to see that these days when hockey is all about trophies.”
“Nobody else could’ve helped him. I can’t—I don’t even know how I can thank you.”
“Being here on this date was a step in the right direction.”
A butterfly-inducing smile touches her lips, and sugar-coated endearment unspools in my chest at the sight of it. “Technically, I had no idea this date was happening.”
“Tomato, tomahto.”
We’re not physically far away from each other by any means, but she scoots closer to me, as if she can’t stand even the tiniest bit of distance between us. She leans over to peek at my own food portion, and her disappointment is so thick it practically hums in the ambience.
“You’re not eating,” she observes, eyebrows knitted.
“Huh? Oh, I’m just nervous,” I respond before I get the chance to come up with a much better excuse.
“After all this time, I still make you nervous?”
My gaze softens; it always does when my eyes trace the elegant curvature of her face. A face gods would have fought wars over; a face Michelangelo would have loved.
“Look at you, Lake. How can you even ask me that?”
She rewards me with a blush instead of a witty parry, and she picks out a cube of cantaloupe before crawling into my lap.
I immediately lean back on my hands to allow her adequate room, the thoughts in my head stumbling over each other in breakneck desire. It’s taking everything south of the border not to harden from the mere contact alone, and I think I’m probably wearing one hell of a “constipated” face right now.
I must be, because her next words are, “Sorry, am I hurting you?”
I inhale deeply. “Kind of. You’re sitting on my lap.”
An apology bleeds into her tone before she realizes that my pain isn’t due to her nonexistent weight but more so the unfortunate placement of her butt on my crotch. I could lift Lake over my shoulders laterally and squat her without breaking a sweat.
She wiggles around without warning, and the throb in my dick is eerily reminiscent of a punch of oxycodone to the very overactive parts of my brain.
It’s endearing, the way she gets so shy whenever physicality is at play.
Like she can’t possibly fathom that she would be responsible for giving me the most painful boner in all of existence.
“Oh, uh, I can get o—”
She goes to slink off my legs, but I don’t let her. I instinctively latch my hand around her wrist, a growl brewing in the back of my throat. “I didn’t ask you to move.”