She’s at the trailhead, coming out of the woods and stepping into the clearing, a wide smile on her beautiful face. She looks proud. Awed.
The look is better for my posture than any visit to a chiropractor ever.
“Is it ready? Can we try it?” She jogs the last few steps until she’s almost directly under the H-frame, tipping her head back to take it all in. Squealing, she bounces on her toes and claps.“EEEE!I’m so excited! Can we harness up now? I wanna try it now.”
It would be wiser if we had a spotter, but she looks so happy, so gravity-defiantly happy, how can I tell her no? It’s been weeks since she’s looked so joyful.
“Let’s do it.”
Fifteen minutes later, she’s fussing about me making her wear a helmet. “You don’t know what these things do to curls,” she grumbles, eying the light blue helmet I’m offering like it’s a clump of horse manure.
“Yes I do. You aren’t the only one with big hair. I also know what hitting your head on that log would do to your brain, so you’re wearing it.”
“Hmmph.” She yanks the helmet out of my hands and mashes it onto her head. The curls that crowd her shoulders stand out even more beneath the smooth shell of the helmet. I’ve never seen anything cuter.
She scowls. “Don’t laugh.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I pick up the second helmet and flatten my own unruly hair. “There. Feel better?”
Her eyes widen, and then her lips part before she shuts her mouth like someone trying not to laugh.
I can feel my too-long hair flattened to my forehead, giving me a fringe of bangs that are usually swept back in waves. I probably look ridiculous. “Go ahead and laugh. I’m way overdue for a haircut.”
Greta giggles but shakes her head. “No, I love your copper top.”
It shouldn’t mean anything, but it means everything.
My heart stutters in my chest. Yes, sure, she just used the wordlovein a sentence connected to me. That’s enough to cause a cardiac event.
But that’s not all. She’s right here. Within reach. Beaming at me. Happy. Excited. Locking eyes with mine.
And it’s been a while since that happened.
The last few weeks have been a little strained.
At first, it was hard to put my finger on what was different.
She started sitting a few extra inches away from me at the kitchen island.
Now, if she comes out of her room in pajamas, she has on a robe. Yeah, it’s October now, but it hasn’t cooled offthatmuch. We’re still running the air conditioner in the camper. And it’s more than just that.
She’s stopped touching me.
She flinches when I touched her.
The first time that happened—maybe a week after that night in her bed that I still can’t shake—it was like someone injected hydrochloric acid straight into my heart.
She was standing at the sink in the fifth wheel, filling her water bottle before bed. I edged past her to grab a paper towel, and I put my hand on the small of her back.
I don’t know why I did it. I guess because I had been getting comfortable doing it. Touching her just a little when she was near me.
Feeding this monster inside me that demands more and more of her.
And she jumped away from my hand.
All at once, all of the other signs of distance she’d been erecting between us blazed like a meteor.
I don’t like you like that.
