by Sally Henson
Floating back to Lane's words, I hear him finish his story as we walk out of the woods and into the open area of the creek. He lets go of me and strides to the bank.
“I'll try a lure first,” he mumbles to himself, laying everything gently on the ground. “Tackle box, please.”
I trudge through the grass and hand it over.
“Thanks.” He opens it to a particular set of lures. Lane picks through them like a debutante picks through her jewelry box.
I turn to find a spot under the big shade tree to settle under. There's a cooler on top of the bench with a folded quilt on the lid. It's not my dad's. “Where did that come from?”
Lane couldn't have carried it just now. As tired as I may be, I would’ve noticed. I look around to make sure there's no one else here.
“I brought it before I came in for dinner earlier. A few drinks for this afternoon.” He stands, reeling the line of his fishing pole and casting.
I drag my lead-filled legs over to the bench and tug on the quilt, digging through the ice and drinks. Fritz Cream Soda. “My favorite.”
He has IBC Black Cherry and water too. Water sounds good...too full to drink a soda.
Lane peers over at me. “Use the quilt. You'll be more comfortable.” He turns his back and casts his line again.
“This is fine.” The towel’s already down and I don't want to put forth any more effort. Yawning, I lie back, cross my ankles, and rest my arm over my eyes to block some light. I'm so tired, but my muscles won't relax. After a minute, I turn on my left side, tucking my arm underneath my head as a pillow and attempt to blow out some of the frustrations in an exaggerated sigh. A few moments pass. This isn't working. I scoot back and roll to the other side, trying to stay on the towel, searching for a comfortable position.
“You're scaring the fish away with all that racket and floundering around.”
“Argh!” I sit up. “I'm sorry. I can't get comfortable.” I'm almost at my limit with fatigue. I know he's only teasing me, but my brain isn't thinking straight and I feel bad for scaring the fish away. My chest constricts and tears sting my eyes.
Lane reels in his line and lays his fishing pole down on the bank. He walks to the bench, studying me on the way.
Judging by the tangled mess my clothes are in, it’s a good thing I changed out of that dress.
He picks up the quilt and strides over to help me up.
I narrow my brows, worried. “Are you mad?”
He smiles and chuckles. “No, Regan. I'm not mad.” He spreads out the quilt and rolls the towel up. “Your pillow,” he says, handing it to me.
Arms hanging, crazy hair falling down my back, droopy eyes, I stand watching him—dumbfounded at his brilliant simplicity. “Thanks.”
A dazzling smile flits across his face, framing the beauty hiding behind the sunglasses. I snuggle into the quilt and allow the cicadas to lull me to sleep.
20
Regan
I awake with a fresh memory of a dark-haired young man stroking my hair away from my face. Ocean waves lap at my feet. Turning over, keeping my eyes closed, I try to remember more. His skin was smooth and the color of honey and his eyes were....
Fingertips brush a piece of hair away from my face again. Am I still dreaming? The ocean waves aren’t crashing the beach anymore. And the aroma of field-corn mixed with dry grass combined with the trickle of water flowing and squirrels barking indicates exactly where I am.
Slowly, I raise my eyelids and see denim. My eyes follow the outline to the waistband where I discover bare skin fit with smooth, tanned muscle.
Once again, fingertips graze across my jaw along my hairline to my forehead and back again.
Leisurely, my eyes continue up a muscled chest and up to a handsome face, seeing dimples, lips full and wide. I close my eyes, fueling the mental image of long lashes behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses. Comfort from waking next to my Lane makes me sigh.
A rich, soft chuckle calls my attention.
I answer by raising my eyelids to meet his dimples and obscured irises—sandy hair lifting at the ends. He continues to brush his fingers through my messy hair. I want to live in this moment, savor it for a few more minutes.
“Feel better?”
I roll on my back, reaching my arms and legs out in opposite directions, stretching as long and tall as possible, reflexively shutting my eyes, and I murmur, “Mm-hm.” Following the trees where the branches and leaves meet the sky, I search the horizon. The sunlight is softer. “How long did I sleep?”
“A couple hours.” He plays with my hair.
I close my eyes again; it feels nice.
A feathery touch traces the outline of my face. It’s so light I’m not sure it’s real. The delicate tickle moves from my hairline, across my brow, down my jaw, returns and begins again.
My body is weak; unable to move or speak, only be. I know I’m awake, but it still feels like a dream. I want to roll over and have him skim my back and run trails down my arms.
The feather traces my lips and Lane whispers, “Your skin … is so soft.”
A bolt of lightning shoots through me, stiffening my body. I’m afraid to open my eyes, embarrassed by my thoughts and afraid of what he might be thinking. Warning sirens go off in my head. My eyes pop open.
“I need to pee,” blurts out of my mouth. I scurry to my feet and dash toward the woods to find a tree to hide behind.
Reality has knocked the wind out of me. I do need to pee, but…. Oh, my gosh! I think Lane crossed some kind of unspoken line. Maybe my mind has entangled dreamscape and reality. He messes with my hair all the time. That was nothing new. But he’s never touched me like that, tracing my lips with his fingers. He’s never said my skin is soft. I’ve never heard him speak like that. Not in that tone. Not in a sexy whisper in my ear. Wait…did I think his voice was sexy?
No, Regan. You do not think he’s sexy.
My heart beats as if I just finished a sprint. Find a tree. I look around to make sure there's no one in sight and shuck enough clothing to squat and pee.
As I'm walking back, my heart rate returns to normal. The warning alarm going off inside me must’ve been my imagination. It was just the combination of my dream, the pressure on my bladder, and getting to my feet too fast.
I creep back to the bench and find Lane standing at the creek with his bare back to me. I pick up the water bottle on the quilt and watch him. Everything seems normal.
“Did you catch any fish?”
He turns and walks toward the cooler now beside the quilt. “Nah. They weren't biting.” He takes off his sunglasses and picks up his gray T-shirt. His arms pass through, lifting the shirt up over his head, tightening his skin over his upper body. The T-shirt slides down his torso, and I follow it down, ending my gaze on my shoes. “The moon isn't right for good fishing anyway.” He sits on the quilt where he was before, the cooler at his side.
“Why’d you even bother if you knew they wouldn't be biting today?” I sit next to him on the quilt.
Ignoring my words, he focuses on something in the distance.
I turn to see what he's looking at. There’s nothing out of the ordinary—just Indian grass, weeds, a few saplings, and cottonwood trees. He’s lost in his own thoughts.
I lean forward and wave my hand in front of his face. “Hey.”
“Hm?” He glances at me and opens the lid of the cooler. “You want a soda?”
Delving through the partially melted ice, he pulls out one cream and one cherry soda and offers them to me. I slide the cream soda from between his fingers. We open the lids and take a drink. I keep my eyes on him.
“You know, I use to think we'd go to college together.” He glances at me, then back into the distance again as if he could see that future in front of him. “The plan was, I'd come home on the weekends until you graduate from high school. Our dorms would be next to each other. We could hang out and study together all the time. After I graduate, I'd go to work at Shawnee National
Forest here in southern Illinois or maybe somewhere in the mountains of Colorado.” He dangles his hand over his bent knee, rolling the neck of the bottle between his thumb and index finger. “Then it would be your turn to visit me on the weekends...” He smiles shyly.
Aw, it’s so sweet he wants us to stay best friends. I start to tell him I think I’d like that too, but he continues.
“Until you get your degree. Then you’d work at the same place as me, or at least somewhere nearby. I thought we'd be inseparable.”
I watch the bottle rolling back and forth between his fingers, considering his whole plan, wondering how long ago he came up with it.
He clears his throat and asks, “Tell me, when does volleyball start?”
“Tomorrow. Morning practice and open gym at night.”
“And school?”
“Mm, the seventeenth, I think.”
“And you plan to continue working at the pool?” He moves a little closer to me and leans back against the tree.
“If they'll work with my schedule. Probably every Saturday until Labor Day. Why all the questions?” I scoot back, leaning against the tree beside him.
He stares off into the distance again. “Starting next week, you will either be at volleyball practice or working—six days a week. I'm working five days a week until I move into my dorm—the same week you go back to school.” He closes his eyes like he’s trying to shut out something he has yet to make me realize. “Reality is...my plan...” He slowly shakes his head, “I've been naive.”
Trying to decipher this conversation, I sit up and face him. Using the term reality makes me think...
I tilt my head and ask, “Are you talking about our fight at the cliffs last week?” I've been trying to put that behind me.
“Sort of.” He finally opens his eyes and turns toward me. His expression holds a bit of pain, fear, confusion.
I search his intense gaze for some hint of an explanation behind this bizarre conversation.
“What are your feelings toward Cameron?”
My lips spread into a thin line and the muscles in my shoulders draw up like the hunch back of Notre Dame. I'm losing my patience. “He's our friend, isn't he? Of course, I—”
He interrupts. “I've seen the pictures of you two at the cliffs, Regan.”
Oh. All the air in my lungs blows past my lips with his verbal kick in the gut. I see where he's going.
Lane lets out a loud breath as he glances to his palm where he’s rubbing a callus with his thumb. “Do you have a thing for him?” His voice is a little shakey.
I go off, nearly yelling at him. “Of course not! He's such an idiot sometimes. How could you even think that?” I'm a little hurt and insulted he thinks I would violate any of the rules.
He drops his head back against the tree, dropping his rigid shoulders back in place. “Good.”
“That's rule number three. How could you think I’d break any of our rules? I told you the pictures look really bad. They are so not what happened. You were there.” I shake my head. “What’s going on with you?”
His brows squeeze together, his lips tighten, and concern covers his face. “Starting tomorrow, for the most part, we won't see much of each other anymore.”
My hands lie limp in my lap as I sit here and think about what he's just said. He’s not thinking about the rules of friendship? Why wouldn’t we see each other all the time? My mind races through every day from today until the first day of school. He’ll be leaving for college.
“Two weeks,” I whisper. My best friend is leaving in two weeks. “You'll be home on the weekends,” my voice cracks and I swallow before allowing my eyes scour every inch of his face, memorizing it.
He reaches for me. I crawl over and slide under his arm. “That was my plan.” He leans his head against mine. “But life isn't working out the way I thought.”
Tears now dropping over my lashes one by one I ask, “What do you mean?”
He clears his throat and answers, “I've come to realize—my dream”—he pauses, taking in a couple rushed breaths,—“it's not what I get my degree in, or what my future job is.”
I pull back to look at him. “We've talked about you becoming a conservation officer hundreds of times. How is it not your dream?”
“Last week at the cliffs … Do you remember when I said maybe we’re okay with settling?”
A twinge of pain stabs me in the heart. I nod.
He pulls away from me, his eyes follow his hand as it slides down my arm. “I'm not okay with settling. I don't want to settle.”
Hope swells in my chest. “Then don't. You don't have to settle.” I crawl up on my knees and face him. I squeeze his shoulders and look him straight in the eyes. “You choose your own path, Lane. You choose your future.”
I frown and sit back on my heels. “What is your dream if it's not becoming a conservation officer?”
He looks away, out in the distance again.
“Lane.”
He licks his lips and rubs them together. “It's you,” he breathes. I'm not quite sure what he said.
I squint with my face scrunched up.
His eyes connect with mine. I can't decipher his expression, but a soft shade of red spreads from his hairline to his cheeks.
“Regan, you are my dream,” he utters with his eyes jetting back forth from my eyes to my mouth.
21
Regan
Oh, my gosh! The scowl I’m wearing smooths as the blood drains from my face. My body wants to crawl back into his arms, but my mind is saying run. I hold my breath, peering at his translucent blue eyes. I once thought I could see through them, to his soul. Arrogant enough to think I knew what he was thinking. Obviously, I was wrong, because he said I’m his dream.
I realize my mouth is hanging open and snap it shut as I lean further back over my heels. We’re best friends. Best friends don’t think that about each other. Do they? I mean, he is kind of hot but, my dream is getting out of this town and studying marine science. We’re just friends. My stomach quivers with the beginning signs of panic welling up inside me and exhale, nearly gasping for my next breath.
Wait, maybe he doesn’t mean it like you’re thinking, Regan.
I try to swallow the cotton ball in my throat and ask the looming question, “What are you saying?”
He swallows, his eyes are round as he leans forward.
I lean back even more.
“All of my plans—you’re in them. My dreams—you're with me. Degree, career, life—all of it would be miserable without you. I don't want to settle for anything or anyone else but you.”
He does mean it that way. My body shakes with every beat, it’s pounding so hard. “I....” I'm shocked. Pressing my own fist against the pressure in my chest, I stand and search across the creek for the words to speak. Tobi warned me, and I thought she was full of crap.
I look all around, except at Lane. I'm freaking out here. I can't deal with this. My body is choosing flight. I need to get out of here.
Lane stands, spreads his fingers wide, and runs both hands through his hair, clasping them behind his head, watching me. I step toward the cooler, turning my back to him, but he places his hands on my shoulders to still me. It works. I freeze at his touch.
“This may seem all of a sudden. But it’s not sudden.” His voice is a little uneven. “Obviously, you're surprised.” He turns me around to face him. Bending to meet my eyes. “Things are—changing, Regan. I'm leaving soon. We won't see each other all the time like we do now.”
My eyes well up again and I bite my lower lip as if that will stop the tears. My best friend is leaving. And now he’s telling me he likes me? That’s not in my plan. No boyfriends. No breaking the rules. No boy distractions, only friends. I mean, I knew he was leaving, but I guess I chose to ignore the reality of it. I'm not ready for him to leave.
He hugs me tightly, and I hug him back, holding on to my best friend as if he were to disappear if I let go.
“I'm scared
, too,” he whispers roughly into my hair. “But I don't want to leave without you knowing the truth about what I feel for you.” He lets out a nervous chuckle. “I don't want to lose you because of it, either.” He clears his throat, covering up emotion that's getting away from him. “I mean, we're best friends no matter what. That won't change.”
I pull away. Tears are streaming down my face now. He’s twisting my insides with everything he’s saying and I just want to cover my ears and run away. “I don't know, Lane. What about the rules of friendship? The whole point was to keep the group together and not let something like this screw everything up.” I don't want to see Lane as more than a friend. It can’t happen.
“I'm leaving for college. I think I've outgrown the rules.” He paces back and forth on the quilt. “You and I have been friends long enough to know how to treat each other.” He stops and lets out a frustrated grunt. “I don’t know if this is coming out right.” He steps close to me. “Our relationship is much more than friendship and has been for a while.”
This can't be happening. Our G5, friendship, future…it’ll ruin everything.
I close my eyes and raise my face to the sky before I look across the creek. The sun is beginning to sink into the horizon. Any other day I would love to sit here and enjoy its beauty, leaving a glow of orange and pink rays behind. And, ironically, I’d delight in doing so with my best friend. But today, right now, my mind is saying get the heck out of here.
So, I throw the empty bottles in the cooler. “It's getting late. We should go.” I wipe the tears away, toss his sunglasses to him without looking, and pick up the quilt and towel.
Lane picks up everything else and hands me the tackle box. We each grab one end of the cooler and walk, without words, to the path leading home.
The welcomed silence amid the activity ends once we’re on the trail a few feet.
“You haven't dated anyone or even seemed interested in anyone else.”