Page 80 of Two-Step
From the other side, he offers me his hand to help me over the trunk. I don’t need it. I could scramble over by myself. Trees fall across trails all the time. Rangers can’t possibly keep up, especially in the spring when rains soften the earth and lightning and wind have their way.
I don’tneedto take his hand. I just want to.
And when I do, he clasps mine with a squeeze that sends a current all the way to my middle. As if my hand recognizes his as a long-lost friend.
This is all I can focus on as I traverse the giant trunk. To my disappointment, when I hop down on the other side, he lets go.
“And whatdoyou want?” he asks.
My eyes land on him with a will all their own. And then it hits me that he’s picking up the thread of our conversation.
“In a home, you mean?”
Beau nods, his gaze locked with mine.
And at least this is an easy question. Because all of my concentration is still wrapped up in the touch of his hand and the pull of attention in his eyes. My brain is pretty much good for nothing.
“Something like the house I’m renting now,” I say, and when I picture it, I’m able to come out of my Beau-trance. “You know. Arts & Crafts bungalow. Cozy front porch. Wood floors. Wood everything, really. Warm touches.”
He nods again and starts moving. “It’s nice.”
“Yeah.” I perk up. “You know what else I love about that place? The neighborhood. All those oak trees and crepe myrtles. There’s so much shade. There’s not a scrap of shade in L.A.”
He chuckles. “Didn’t think so.”
We hike for a while, talking easily the whole time. About the forest and the bird calls I don’t recognize. About Mica’s fascination with giant mounds that Beau identifies as armadillo dens. And then about the show and life in Los Angeles.
“So I’ve never been there,” Beau says, not looking particularly disappointed by this news, “But I’ve heard that having a car is essential.”
I give him my bestno kiddinglook. “It’s nothing like New York or Boston or Chicago where you can walk to the market or a cafe or take public transportation downtown,” I attest. “Youhaveto have a car.”
Beau’s gaze is soft, but he frowns just a little. “Then why…” He doesn’t finish, and his frown deepens as if he regrets even beginning.
“Why don’t I drive?” I don’t mind that he asked. Lots of people do.
“Yeah.”
I roll my eyes. “As clumsy as I am on my own two feet, it’s somehow worse behind the wheel of a car.”
He blinks. “You’re a clumsy driver?”
“I’m a terrible driver.”
Beau strains against a smile, shaking his head. “That doesn’t make any—”
“I’m as good of a driver as I am a dancer,” I interrupt.
“I don’t think you’re—”
“You know what I mean.”
I appreciate his attempt to dispute the obvious. It’s sweet. But it’s also pointless. I know I’m a bad dancer. And a bad driver.
“I’ve always been clumsy. It doesn’t matter if it’s on heels or wheels.”
Beau grins at my rhyme. I have to say, I’m rather proud of it. Anything to make him smile.
But then he frowns.
