I lean a hip on her counter, crossing my arms over my chest as I watch her. “There’s nothing simple about it.”
“I don’t even need the recipe. I make this all the time.”
My lips quirk. “Now you’re just showing off.”
She takes the wine I extend in her direction and sips from the glass. The color stains her lips a deep red. Her tongue darts out, licking away a droplet from her upper lip, and I’m unable to look away. Transfixed.
“Let’s get cooking, Jim,” she says, and sets her wine glass down on the counter. She stands on tiptoe, reaching behind me, her body barely grazing mine as she pulls a wooden cutting board down from one of the shelves. Just that brush of her against me is enough to send a frisson of want barrelling down my spine.
“Jack,” I say.
She pulls back, holding the cutting board against her chest between us. I don’t know what my eyes look like, but they must be transparent enough for her to see the thoughts written in my head, because her breath stutters, and I watch as her throat bobs in a swallow. The air around us is thick, syrupy.
We both wait, time suspended, to see what will happen, who will break the spell first, put an end to the moment.
It’s Stevie.
She swallows again, backing up. “Let’s cook, Jack.”
While I begin to dice the carrots, onions, and celery per Stevie’s instructions, she hooks her phone up to a bluetooth speaker and turns on an indie-folk playlist. The music diffuses the tension, making it bearable again, as I assume was her intention.
She sidles back up to me, sorting through the rest of the ingredients before beginning to peel and finely chop the garlic.
“I talked to my mom and Wren,” she says a few minutes later.
I look over at her, watch the way she deftly chops the garlic, scooping it up with the edge of the knife before putting it into an oiled cast iron Dutch oven. There are scars on her hands, small knicks I’m assuming are from all the time she spends in the woods, and freckles on her forearms that are barely darker than her skin, only visible up close.
“How did it go?”
She leans a hip against the counter, letting the garlic brown. “Good.”
I wait for her to say more, but she only reaches for the vegetables I’ve been chopping, cupping them with her palms and dumping them into the pot with the garlic.
She finally looks at me, hazel eyes searching mine. Her hair is down today, hanging loose around her shoulder, a canopy of rich brown, and she tucks a strand of it behind her ear. “Are you happy with your life?”
For a moment, I’m unsure how to respond, but then I say, “Yeah, I’m happy. Are you?”
Her chin dips, and I watch as she picks at something stuck to her countertop. “I’m happy. Wren just said something, and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head.”
“What did she say?”
She shakes her head, and reaches for a wooden spoon, using it to stir the vegetables in the pot. “She was just talking about her life. And the way she made it sound…it felt like magic. And I just don’t know if that’s what we all get, you know? It feels, I don’t know, selfish? To wish for something like that, to expect it.”
Her words prick at me, and I stare at her for long seconds, taking in the curve of her jaw, the fringe of her lashes. She’s so beautiful, but she’s so much more than that. She’s kind and good and giving and selfless and loyal.
“You deserve magic, Stevie.”
Her eyes lift to mine, snagging on my gaze. “I’m happy with my life now,” she says. “I have it so good—my family, my friends, my hometown. I don’t need more than this.”
She says it with conviction, but it comes out almost as a question, like she’s asking for my reassurance.
So I nod, and we go back to cooking.
She asks about my work week, and I ask about what she’s been reading. We don’t talk about happiness anymore, but I can’t shake the question. The way she looked when she saidmagic,because while I may be happy in the broadest sense of the word, I don’t think my life feels like magic either.
Thenexttwoweekspass in a blur. I am officially done with hiking as the air grows more and more cold and the park and trails close for the season. I do, however, go into the office most mornings to fill my time now that I’m finished with repairs on the Airstream and trying not to hover around my parents’ house as often. Uncle Silas and I clean the office and store the gear away, taking time to repair or log anything that needs replaced. We file paperwork and send out client follow-ups. It’s quiet and monotonous, the usual song and dance we perform every year before closing shop until March.
A flu hits the hospital, taking out staff left and right, so Jack works more often than not, but on the days he’s home for dinner, he shows up at the Airstream with groceries and a new recipe to try. We don’t do anything besides cook and watch TV, but each time, it gets harder for me to say goodbye. He feels it, too, I know, but neither of us say anything about it. We’re on a precipice that both of us refuse to tip over. We’re trying to be smart, but I don’t think it’s helping. Regardless of whether we’velet things become romantic between us, we’re two plants whose roots have tangled, growing into something indistinguishable.
