21. Twenty-one
Twenty-one
Church is quiet. When Bo picks me up, it’s a hushed, “Hey,” we exchange followed by a drive into the mountains with each of us looking out our respective missing doors.
We hike—silence.
We reach the summit—silence.
George Strait spends too much time sniffing another dog’s butt on the trail—silence.
The roots and rocks under my feet I’ve come to consider my weekly therapy do nothing to smother the argument my brain is having with itself.
Bo is married vs. He isn’t with her.
I’ll probably die vs. I might not get sick.
Tragic ending vs. Happily ever after.
Don’t let him go vs. Tell him goodbye.
If there ever is a time to yell my feelings off the edge of a cliff, it’s today, but somewhere on the trail when I catch him smirking when he looks at me, the silence switches from being a way to organize my thoughts to some sort of stubborn refusal to be the one to talk first.
Even with the smirk, his silence lets me know he’s in his head as much as I am. Maybe he’s brought me here to tell me his goodbye. Maybe that will break my heart but also fix this whole mess.
When he parks at my house, I stare out the doorless Jeep. Huck, my steadfast visitor, sits on my porch waiting.
“Is this our first fight?” Bo asks.
“Second,” I say, turning to look at him. “Our first fight was the first time your wife came up.”
His laugh comes in the form of a puff of air through his lips, and our eyes lock as I rest the side of my head on the headrest.
Looking at him look at me, I feel his pull. Like he’s another sun with its own gravity, able to will everything toward him by just simply existing—even the words I don’t want to say.
“I’m scared I’m going to fall in love with you.” The power of him rips the truth right out of my throat and sets it free like a million dandelion seeds in a summer breeze.
He mirrors my posture, head tilting against his own headrest.
“I’m scared I’m already in love with you.”
“I’m scared you won’t want me because of the sex.”
“I’m scared I don’t care about the sex.”
“I’m scared you’re married.”
“Me too.”
Then we’re quiet, sitting in our own seats, looking at each other. Knowing without saying it, something is happening .
“Birdie!” Huck’s call pulls my head in the opposite direction and the dog starts to whine from the back seat. There, blocky smile in place, his face fills the open space beside me.
“Hey, Huck!” I say with a grin.
“Hi, Bo!” he shouts.
Bo lifts his chin and smiles. “Huck.”
George Strait clambers to my lap from the back seat and jumps through the opening and onto Huck who immediately forgets about me and starts chasing the dog around the yard.
I turn back to Bo. “Did you mean what you said about adopting him?”
He nods. “I did.”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” he says as I get out of the Jeep and turn to face him from the open passenger doorway.
“Now what?” I ask. “I don’t know what any of this means.”
His easy smile covers his face, dimples carving his cheeks when he says, “I want to take you out next weekend. Friday?”
Grocery night?! I know he sees my struggle because he laughs. “Yes, grocery night . There’s something that only happens on Fridays. And it’s for the list.”
I shake my head with a snort. “The list? Haven’t you accomplished your goals with that?”
He shrugs. “I need a reason to keep seeing you. Friday?”
My nod is met by his toothpick-holding smirk.
“And, Birdie?” He lifts his chin. “Lucy is staying with her cousins overnight. ”
Like everything else he’s just said, I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with it as I watch him drive away.