“Fine,” I say, squeezing his hand before releasing him. “You’re always sweet, even if you have a few nerdy secrets you’re keeping from me.”
“I’m full of secrets,” he deadpans.
I nod toward a painted turtle basking on a log. “What do you know about that guy?”
“Right off the bat, he’s a total pro at chilling.”
I bark out a laugh, and the heron flaps its wings, eyes darting in our direction before determining we aren’t a threat.
“You’re so loud,” Eric teases, unsuccessfully fighting his grin.
“Says the guy who just gave me a ten-minute TED Talk on migration routes.”
He shrugs, unrepentant. “You loved it. Admit it.”
“Maybe a little,” I concede, letting my arm brush his as we keep walking. “Tell me more, nature boy. What else do I need to know?” He launches right back in, and I let myself relax into the sound of his voice and how it always makes the world feel smaller and safer.
The trail rolls gently, dipping close to the shore then rising again to offer glimpses of Lake Norman. Crystal blue water glitters through the trees, surrounded by shockingly bright greenery and flowers of every color blooming over grass and branches.
Every so often Eric bumps my shoulder when the path narrows, or his hand brushes mine as we step over roots. For as long as we’ve known each other, Eric has always been very touchy with me, but this feels different.
It feels deliberate.
Each contact sends a small spark up my arm, and I fight to keep from touching him back. More than once, I catch him watching me, but he only glances away.
I don’t call him on it. The air feels too good, and this feels too easy to interrupt.
After a couple miles we find a perfect clearing near the water. There’s flat ground, privacy, and plenty of shade from the overhanging oaks. I spread out one of the towels we brought while Eric swings the pack off his shoulders.
“Behold,” he says, unzipping it with ceremony. “The masterpiece.”
He starts unpacking, and my heart stutters at the things he pulls out of the bag. They’re cheap and easy, nothing fancy. But they’re all things he knows I like, even if I’ve only mentioned it once or twice in passing. Turkey club sandwiches on sturdy bread, but with no mayo or tomatoes because he knows I hate the texture. There are a few individual bags of those spicy chips we both crave during late-night study sessions, and slicedapples with the same peanut butter packets I’ll scarf down in place of a full breakfast on early mornings. There’s even a bag of the little chocolate-dipped pretzels he caught me binging on in the practice room one day.
I stare at the spread, throat suddenly tight. “You remembered the pretzels.”
He busies himself arranging paper plates. “Yeah, well. I pay attention. Sometimes.”
“This is really thoughtful, Eric.”
His ears pink up and he avoids my eyes for a beat. “Don’t get sappy on me. Eat before the ants stage a coup.”
We sit and eat, legs stretched toward the water as the lake laps softly against the shore. Conversation drifts like it always does, shifting between complaining about our latest obscure assignment, to him mocking how predictable my taste buds are, and to me ribbing him for the landscaping gig that’s leaving him with permanent dirt under his nails. Then it turns more serious, and Eric shares how guilty he feels about not being able to visit his family often, while I tell him how phone calls with mine feel like walking a tightrope.
After we finish and pack the remnants, Eric stands and stretches. “Swim time. You in?”
I eyeball the swimming beach in the distance. It’s a sandy, roped-off area with the bathhouse nearby, but it’s deserted. “Are you sure that water isn’t freezing?”
“Freezing would mean ice, D, so yes, I’m sure it’s not freezing.”
“Ass,” I mutter as we strip to swim trunks. “It’s going to be so cold.”
“Nah,” he says as we pull the towels out of the daypack and drop everything on the sand. “It’ll be perfect.”
Eric stops at the edge of the waterline, and I let my eyes trace the broad expanse of his back. He’s been outside more lately, and his upper arms and torso are noticeably paler than the deep golden tan on his lower arms and legs. He twists to face me, and my gaze travels down his frame. Golden hair bisects his chest and forms a trail under his navel, and though his pecs are well defined, there’s a noticeable layer of softness covering all that strength.
His eyes follow mine, and he shifts under the scrutiny. He’s always too hard on himself about his body—always trying to fix what he sees as flaws.
“C’mon,” he complains as he nods at my stomach. “If you’re not careful, I’m going to start comparing myself to you, and then I’m going to get jealous.”
