Page 68 of In The Weeds
I huff and puff my way up the hill, the second sweatshirt Beckett pulled over my head before we left the house making it difficult to move. I give his t-shirt a pointed look, my lips pressed in a thin line.
“Yes, I’m warm enough.” I’m too warm, but every time I try to take this damn sweatshirt off, Beckett looks like he wants to wrestle me right back into it. Which could be fun, but I’d much rather him wrestle me out of it.
He had appeared at my bedroom door at six on the dot with a large, greasy paper bag clutched in his hand and a backpack slung over his shoulder. A single, perfect white peony held between thumb and forefinger.
“Told you I’d bring you flowers,” he said.
I toy with the stem of it now as we wander our way through the fields, the branches of the pine trees catching on my sleeves. It’s warmer tonight, the first real spring evening we’ve had since I arrived. The dark sky blinks to life above us, the moon beginning to rise over the trees. I can see the glow of it, stars scattered behind.
“Not much further,” Beckett tells me.
It better not be. I’m being tortured by the way he looks in those jeans. The crisp white of his t-shirt against his tanned skin.
I bump his shoulder with mine.
“Do you take all the pretty girls out in the fields late at night?”
“Nah,” he shakes his head and bumps me back. “Just you.”
A flicker of warmth lights in my chest as he slows to a stop at the edge of a field. A clearing rolls out from beneath our boots to the edge of the woods. He looks at me from the corner of his eye and slips the backpack from his shoulder.
“Do you know where we are?”
I spin on my heel slowly, trying to remember. Two giant oak trees overlook over both sides of the entrance to the clearing, towering like guards to the forest beyond. I have a hazy memory of standing between them last fall with my arms outstretched, trying to touch both at the same time. Big, rusted orange leaves—almost the size of my hand—drifting down around me.
“The trees,” I say. “I remember them.”
He nods and pulls a blanket from his backpack, letting the edges fly out with one flick of his wrist. It settles against the grass with a quietswish. A bottle of wine comes next, anchoring the corner. Two glasses, one of them my jam jar. The other, a chipped coffee mug.
“This is very impressive,” I say. He gives me a skeptical glance but I mean it. The last date I was on was close to a year ago and the guy took me to a shooting range where his ex still worked. Needless to say, there wasn’t a second date.
“You haven’t even seen the best part yet.”
“I’ve already seen your dick, Beckett.”
He barks out a surprised laugh, shaking his head. In the light of the moon, I can barely make out the little lines that appear next to his eyes with his grin. He grabs the greasy bag by his feet and holds it out to me, letting me peek inside. Cheeseburgers from the cafe, two overflowing cups of crispy french fries that are somehow still hot. I moan and reach for one, but he snaps the bag shut before I can, placing it by his feet.
“Hold on a second.”
“But … french fries.”
“They’ll still be there when we get back.” He starts walking backwards, closer to the edge of the woods where the twin trees stand. “C’mere.”
I laugh. “C’mere, what?” But still I follow after him. The moon lights up the constellations tattooed on his skin, the sky dipping down to twist around his arms.
“You haven’t had your happy today,” he tells me, hands already reaching, stars on his skin and in his eyes and in the sky above.
My heart flip-flops in my chest. “And you’re gonna give it to me, huh?”
“Yeah,” he smiles, as full and bright as that damn moon. “I’m gonna give it to you.”
He’s wrong though. I have had my happy today. I’m practically drowning in it—in simple, quiet joy. The warm comfort of a perfect moment with a good man.
I stop right in front of him and he stares down at me. I trace the lines of his face and I feel like one of those meteors he loves so much. Tearing through the atmosphere, a giant ball of light.
“The last time you were here—” He cups my face with both of his hands and presses a gentle kiss to the tip of my nose, the space between my eyes. Everything in me shivers and melts, and my hands grasp at his elbows. “The last time you were here, I wanted to kiss you under this tree.”
“You hid it well,” I murmur as I follow his retreat, silently begging for more.
