Love on the Run

by Gemini Jensen

  I never could quite grasp why so many people out there, could be completely blind to the facts. But now, there’s a shift in my logic and I’m ashamed of thinking badly of others. I consider Gray to be my friend. I definitely lust after him, and all from one kiss I can imagine a whole story playing out, one where I end up falling in love with him.

  What would I be feeling if we hadn’t stopped at simply a kiss?

  How disillusioned would I be if we would’ve went all the way? That’s what frightens me.

  Will being frightened deter me any? No. I’ve always liked that sensation you get from being a little scared. It’s like riding a rollercoaster, watching a scary movie, or walking around through an old abandoned house at night. Your pulse picks up, your spine shivers, your stomach feels like it’s undergoing the “crocodile death roll” and the hairs rise on the back of your neck. But, your adrenaline is amped up and coursing through your veins, giving you a high unmatched by nothing else.

  That’s how Gray makes me feel.

  All that, and then some.

  XoXo

  After breakfast, Gray and I decide to head on over to the Fall Festival before the afternoon sun gets to be too much. Although it has been a little chilly in the mornings, this past week’s high temperatures have been record-setting. Mid-morning seems like the most amicable time to visit.

  Cars line the streets, no available parking place in sight, so we leave the jeep parked at the diner. Walking side by side down Backstreet, we round the corner onto Main, where at least 40 vendors set up under matching blue tents. Fall decorations are displayed everywhere and I’ve never in my life been around so many pumpkins. They must have robbed several pumpkin-patches to procure this amount. Scarecrows are fastened to every street sign; bales of hay featuring mums, daisies, and multi-colored ears of corn being the main décor surrounding each streetlamp.

  I spin around in a slow circle taking everything in. “Wow, I’m so overwhelmed, I don’t know where to start,” I admit.

  Gray chuckles before suggesting, “We’ll just start at the beginning of the street here and walk down one side, then double-back and check out everything on the opposite side.” The way he approaches things is so methodical and organized, unlike my scatter-brained way of thinking, and it’s another factor in what makes him sexy. Most other guys his age are out partying all the time, playing video games, making it their life’s mission to bang as many girls as possible.

  Not Gray.

  He’s a family man, working on tractors, running a farm and several rental properties. He’s also Mr. Fix-it, dabbling in carpentry, landscaping and gardening, vehicle maintenance, even housing repairs. The fact that he’s so multi-faceted makes me wonder if there’s anything else he’s good at. But I also wonder what things he actually enjoys doing, and more importantly, what did he want to do before all these responsibilities fell into his lap? So many unanswered questions are between us. If I had it my way, I would know already know everything about him.

  Gray grabs a printout map that listing what vendors are here in conjunction to which stores. Being unfamiliar with much of the crafts and popular items being produced in rural communities, I’m not sure what most of the booths are. I attempt to memorize the schedule of events on back of the printout, a few being contests for best jack-o-lantern, costume categories divided into age groups, even a best pet costume one. There’s also some local singers, cloggers (didn’t know that was a thing), musicians, and a cakewalk planned for this evening.

  What the hell is that? Cakes don’t walk.

  “Keeping in mind that I’m not familiar with most of this, can I ask you a question without you going all judgmental on me,?” I ask, turning to face Gray.

  “I can promise that I’ll give it my best shot,” he replies, throwing me a sideways glance and smirking in amusement.

  “What the hell is a cakewalk?”

  His smile instantly fades, his demeanor growing gloomy for some reason.

  “I didn’t realize they still did that. I haven’t been to the festival in years. My mom suggested the town start doing those every year so we could raise a little extra money towards helping women and their kids who are fleeing toxic relationships. Even though we’re a small town, we have a combined domestic violence and women’s shelter, believe it or not. There’s a lot of that going on around here, more women need help than people even realize. Helping them was Mom’s passion. The cake walk was just one of the things she did to raise money,” he explains, “I still try to donate things to them and help out whenever I can. I know it must have hurt them when mom died, losing one of their biggest supporters in the community.”

  Another fissure develops in the walls around my heart, so powerful I can feel it in my chest, leaving me more vulnerable than ever. I find it to be an uncanny coincidence that Lyra and Gray’s mother was so passionate about helping women fleeing abusive relationships considering that’s the exact description of my mother and I (even if our case is more extreme than most). And, the fact that Gray still tries to help despite his age and all the other duties that fall on his shoulders, just shows he’s an amazing person. How anyone can be rude, disrespectful, and unfairly judgmental to him, is beyond me.

  After he’s explained his family’s background with the cakewalk benefit, Gray proceeds to go into answering my question, providing me with the definition of what a cakewalk is. According to him, a bunch of people from the town donate cakes. There’s a big circle divided into two lanes, each divided into smaller square sections with numbers. Music plays and when it stops, the people walking on the circle stop on whichever square they are on. Someone calls out a number, and whoever is standing on that number wins a cake of their choosing. You pay to walk, which is where the raising-money aspect comes in. Sometimes there’s even an auction for items that people have donated.

  “I’m intrigued. Cakes and music and an awesome cause combined? Yes, please. Do you think we could come back to participate in that? I really want to try it!” I exclaim.

  “Of course, you’re the birthday girl,” he promises.

  Most of the time, Mom and I stuck to the medium-sized cities. I’ve always hated the few small towns we’ve “visited.” Now I’m wondering if my opinion formed because I didn’t want to experience all the little things giving them their charm, or if it’s just this one town in particular that’s so special. Mom and I have this long-running joke of being nomads, only having a home in each other. But here in Central Valley, I feel like I belong, like this IS my home.

  Mom isn’t the only person I care about anymore either, my family has expanded. Lyra and Gray mean the world to me too, even their father who I’ve only interacted with a handful of times. Mr. Knightley has been kind to me, allowing me to imbed myself into his family’s daily lives, and with each passing day it becomes evident Mom’s goal when moving here has been achieved.

  The first booth on the street is ran by a little lady with corn-shuck dolls, which in my opinion, is an awesome craft to be displaying at the fall festival considering corn is staple during the autumn harvest. I hesitantly pick up one of the little dolls to inspect it, being very careful due to its fragile appearance. The corn husks have been dried out and manipulated to look like the silhouette of a woman wearing a dress. She even has hair made from the silk of the corn, and a simple little face drawn on like an old timey doll. This one I chose to pick up has angel wings, and her “dress” has been dyed a beautiful hue of blue, similar to a morning glory.

  “What’s the story with these, like how did you start making these and what influenced you to do so?” I ask the little lady running the booth. She smiles kindly, pleased someone is taking an in-depth interest in her craft.

  “My mother taught me how to make them when I was little. Back then, there weren’t many toys available to us, and being farmers, my family didn’t have the money for toys anyway. We had to make our own if we wanted something to play with. Me and my sisters played “dolls” with these. The boys mostly did o
utdoor stuff, making things like sling-shots,” she informs me.

  “So, you had a lot of siblings?”

  “Yes, three brothers and two sisters.”

  “Are your sisters still making corn-shuck dolls as well?” I ask her.

  She shakes her head and sadly replies, “No, they are all passed away except for one brother I have left.” She glances at the doll in my hands and says, “The angel ones were always my youngest sister’s favorites too.”

  Pulling out my billfold and holding up the little doll in my hand, I ask, “how much for this one?”

  “That one’s not for sale,” she tells me, before she smiles and says, “but you can have it, though.”

  What a sweet little lady. She hands me a plastic bag to put the doll in, and I can’t thank her enough before we go.

  “That was really kind of her,” I remark.

  “Yeah, it was. She’s one of the only ladies who doesn’t make a show of gossiping in this town. Just tends to her own business and is polite to everyone she meets,” Gray replies.

  We continue on down the line of booths, taking in the various kinds of hand-made jewelry, homemade soaps and candles, furniture, and bird-houses. I stop again to admire some hand-blown glass, being most interested in the orbs made to hang in windows, causing beautiful shards of light to scatter in every direction. Like a baby staring at a light-up mobile, I stand completely mesmerized by the simple beauty, its splendor having a calming effect on my mind.

  I’ve been standing like this for some time before I even realize it, and I look around frantically trying to locate Gray, if he’s even still nearby.

  He’s probably gotten annoyed and moved on to another booth.

  That’s all I’m thinking, but relief washes over me when my eyes settle on him within seconds. He’s standing in a corner of the tent studying me, staring with a strange look on his face that I’m unable to define, yet still allowing me the freedom to take my time.

  I shrug my shoulders apologetically.

  “Sorry, I got kind of caught up I guess.”

  He just smiles politely at me, but doesn’t speak, not even when I look at the price tag regrettably and walk out the tent. Like a silent guardian, he begins following closely behind, intently watching me and our surroundings.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Gray

  She stands there, completely still, gazing at the crystal object dangling in front of her as if it were some work of art in The Louvre. If it were anyone else, it would have annoyed me after about 30 seconds of pausing, and even that’s being very generous. But it isn’t just anyone, it’s Sloane.

  Just like she can’t look away from the orb of glass, I’m unable to peel my eyes away from her. As she’s observing the light refracted all around her, she probably doesn’t even realize how beautiful she looks in the aura its created, how it only enhances the soft natural glow she always carries. I’ve never regarded anything more beautiful than her in this moment.

  Just a girl standing there, hardly doing anything at all. Pretty simple stuff, right?

  Only her simplicity isn’t really simple at all, not to me. And that’s scary as fuck.

  I watch as she takes a step back and begins scanning the area around her, for me I presume. Yep. Her eyes finally settle on where I’ve faded into the background and a soft rosy blush spreads across her cheeks as she bites down on her lip for a few seconds, before releasing it with a nearly audible pop.

  Mother fuck.

  Does she not know those actions would have weaker men groveling at her feet? Her naivety of the powers she holds is even sexier than the lip-biting.

  Good thing I’m not a weaker man…

  “Sorry, I got kind of caught up I guess,” she demurely apologizes, before laughing nervously.

  Throat constricted, I don’t trust my voice so I say nothing. I only smile to reassure her she can stop and look at whatever the hell she wants, for however the hell long she wants. I’m just along for the ride, and apparently, I’m still riding the high from that kiss this morning. Or is it from just being near her? I’m not complaining either way.

  Sloane walks ahead of me, and I decrease my tempo, creating a safe distance between us. I’m only a man after all, and that fine line between gentleman and rogue begins to blur when you tempt yourself beyond your limits of restraint. Since I’ve already went beyond my restraint once today, I’m playing it smart.

  My eyes track her as she walks past several more booths, none of which appear to pique her interest as much as the corn-shuck doll or the blown-glass orb. Every now and then she throws me an over-the-shoulder glance, part shy and part smolder, that has my heart tingling in an unfamiliar way.

  Near the end of the line, she happens upon an apparent acquaintance from school who’s posted up at a booth for student council. They fall into easy conversation, and sensing she’ll be occupied for a few minutes, and idea sparks.

  “I’ll be right back.” I lay my hand on her arm as I speak.

  “Okay,” she says slowly, her perfectly arched brows snapping together for a split second.

  As I walk back in the opposite direction, I replay the scene from the diner. Secretly, I was—still am, smug as hell because of Sloane’s attitude over our waitress’s forwardness. It was amusing to watch, and a little endearing, although I wasn’t sure if it came from jealousy or from just trying to look out for me. Little does she know, I already had that back in high school. Eight years later, Trina still tries to hook up every time she sees me, never quite getting the hint that I’m just not interested. Maybe Sloane finally clued her in.

  I finish up the task in record time, navigating the crowd with knots in my stomach. Ever since that night of the party, I’m nervous to be away from Sloane. Which is ridiculous. I can’t be around her every second of every day, but I still try to blend into the background and watch our surroundings for any sign of trouble, any sign of something that could hurt her.

  Things are getting so out of hand.

  Finally in view of the booth I left her at, I stop, noticing that a third person has joined Sloane and her friend’s conversations.

  Damn. That same pesky little fucker from this morning.

  My first consensus of Miles is that he seems nice enough, and to my knowledge, doesn’t come from one of the druggie families around these parts. Walking over and sitting down with a girl who was there with someone else (even if it was just as friends) was a gutsy move. I’ll give him that. Sloane is going to end up dating someone around here because, hell, she’s an 18-year-old girl and she’s drop-dead, stop you in your tracks, get smacked because your girlfriend catches you staring, gorgeous. It’s only the natural course of things. In all likelihood, the dude is as good as a candidate as any.

  Still, he isn’t good enough, there’s no way in hell I’ll accept it.

  Watching him standing there beside her, smiling, laughing, brushing up against her as they joke around, I don’t like it.

  At all.

  I can’t fucking stand it, and I have no right to such emotions. My hand balls into a tight fist, the clenched muscles aching, as I take in the sight.

  “She’s not even yours,” a voice in my head whispers.

  I don’t care if she isn’t my girl, and I don’t care if she never will be. I’ll still look out for her best interests, just like I do for my sister.

  Too bad your feelings go far beyond that of being brotherly.

  My feelings aren’t brotherly. I’m the sick bastard who’s infatuated with his sister’s best friend. The same one who took advantage of her this morning, even if she claims she wanted it. Her mother trusts me in the way of allowing Sloane to come over to my family’s home, trusts that she’ll be safe there and I’ll keep a watchful eye on the girls and make sure they don’t get into any trouble. In all reality, it’s like she’s wandered into the wolf’s den every time she’s around, and I’m the starved creature fighting the urge to completely devour her.

  I’ve stood her, watchin
g, as long as I can handle. Now that the third wheel has gotten back to her booth management, my boots strike the pavement with purpose. Sloane catches sight of me on my way over before the kid does, her eyes going round as she takes a step away from him guiltily, causing my clenched fist to loosen. I don’t know how to explain it other than, watching her increase the proximity between them, makes it easier to breathe when I didn’t even realize I couldn’t.

  “You ready to move along now?” I ask Sloane, not looking at her as I speak, but instead directing a death stare at the Miles boy.

  “Y-yeah,” she stammers. Maybe I’m coming off as too territorial, but damn it, I can’t control myself when it comes to her. “See you Monday, Miles.” She gives him an apologetic look as we move on down the line to check out the remaining booths on this side. The rest of the booth-meandering goes in quick succession, Sloane not quite as enthusiastic about what the last ones are comprised of, probably because they’re more business oriented than anything.

  When lunchtime finally rolls around, we opt for a multitude of different things, promising to share some of each with each other. My suggestion stemmed from knowing this is her first time, figuring it would be the best way for her to try as many things as possible. And I’m more excited than I should be to implement my lunchtime idea for the occasion.

  Damn, Gray, you’re turning into a damn pansy.

  It’s overcast, but we’ve chosen the right time to make our exit. The hot and humid air clings to my skin as we walk toward the diner, to-go bags in hand. Reaching in my back pocket, I retrieve my phone, pulling up the texting app.