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“Is she trying to get out?”
I smile. “She seems pretty calm right now. It’s dark in here, so she’s probably taking a nap.” I slowly move my hands closer to Fiona. “You want to hold her?”
She shivers. “I-I’m not sure.”
“She’s big for a flying bug, but small compared to you. And she’s way more scared, I guarantee it.”
Fiona nods. “Makes sense.” She still looks hesitant, and I don’t want to force it.
“How about this? I’ll show you something cool that June bugs can do, and if she keeps hanging around near us, you can try to catch her next.”
“Yeah. Okay.” More enthusiastic nodding.
I start rattling my hands, shaking up our little June bug, who already had enough trouble flying straight. “This won’t hurt her. But she’ll be confused for a second.” When I let her go, she flies in several goofy loops before straightening out and buzzing around the rosemary bushes to our right.
Fiona bursts out laughing. “No way. You made her dizzy.”
“Just a little. But I promise, it doesn’t hurt. I looked it up to find out. We used to do this as kids all the time, so I wanted to be sure it was okay.”
She looks at me with awe, the way kids often do when they try to imagine what adults were like as kids their age. I see the questions scrambling in her head, all the things she wants to ask about being a kid “in the olden days,” but before she can articulate one, the June bug comes buzzing back.
“I wanna catch it this time.” She races after it when it flies back toward the rosemary. The hem of her long shirt bounces as her feet hit the tiny rocks on the drive. The bug flies the other way, getting more excited by the pursuit.
“Come over here, Fiona. Stand still. Let her come to you.” She does as instructed, and sure enough, the June bug settles down its flight enough that Fiona can reach out and cup it between her small hands.
“Ooh, it’s tickling me,” she squeals before leaning down to talk quietly to the bug in her hands. “Don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you.”
I watch her contemplating what to do next. She looks up at me. “I’m scared to let her out. What if she flies in my face?”
“She won’t hurt you. Worst that could happen is you get a bump on the nose.” I reach over and tap her nose to demonstrate.
“Okay, then lemme give her a little shake.” She rattles her hands twice and sets the bug free. Almost like the beetle knows it’s responsible for a good show, it lurches forward, makes a tumbling loop, then flies off toward the rosemary again, bidding us adieu.
“That was so fun!” Fiona jumps in the air and flings her arms to the sky. I’m envious of a seven-year-old’s ability to find so much joy in tiny things. I feel so weighed down by my job search and the need to earn a paycheck that I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like to have fun playing with a bug.
I’ve also almost forgotten that we’ve been out here for a while, and there’s still no sign of Jackson. If she lives here with him and he’s gone off to work, I wonder who’s taking care of her.
“Do you need me to help find someone? An adult?”
“For sure not. I escaped!” Her glee is almost enough to make me want to go along with whatever she’s up to, but the adult in me knows better.
“Maybe it’s time to go back. Not too cool to run away from home. Even to play with bugs.”
She sticks her bottom lip out in exaggerated defiance and shakes her head. “I didn’t run. I walked. I live over there.” She points into the distance, where I can’t see anything but vineyards. A part of me has no trouble believing this moppet thinks she lives among the wine grapes, at least in her imaginary world.
“Oh, then, maybe I should walk you back.” I look down at her bare feet. “These rocks don’t seem too comfy on the feet.”
“Nah, I’m used to it. I don’t need shoes.”
“Yes, you do.” The deep voice rumbles from behind me, but by now, it’s familiar after I spent nearly an hour talking to her dad. His voice sends a ripple of delicious heat through my veins. The gruff hum of his words dances over the surface of my skin.
“March yourself back inside, young lady, and get dressed like I told you.”
The girl’s face immediately transforms from mischievous to pouty, with those long eyelashes only kids have fanning out over her cheeks. She blinks with dramatic, epic sadness designed to win over scolding adults. I wonder if Mr. Burlypants will buy it. “I just wanted to see the red car.” Her voice is part whine, part plaintive heart-stopper.
He shakes his head like he’s seen this drama production before, but the corner of his mouth can’t fight the pull of a smile. The tired irritation I saw earlier stands no chance against the love he feels for this girl, and my heart twists watching him fail to resist her.
I’m intrigued by the softer, tender-hearted side he kept hidden earlier, and I find myself wanting to see more of it.
