Grant’s truck is new.Leather seats, screens, and enough buttons that the dash rivals an airplane’s cockpit. It’s quiet as it effortlessly rolls along the dirt road. It’s different from clunky sounds, dents, and a hard bench seat.
I reach for the button to roll down the window, the fragrance of dirt and lingering heat beginning to make its way into the cab.
“Hey—” Grant says quickly. “Can we keep the dust out?”
I pause with the window halfway down, then roll it back up. “Sure.”
“Sorry,” he adds, sheepish. “I mean, I can wipe the seats down later if you really want to.”
“It’s okay,” I say, too fast. “No problem.”
“Do you want to know where we’re going?” he asks as he shifts in his seat.
I look over, noticing his hands are still at ten and two while his attention is directed at the road ahead. We turned east out of town when we left. There’s not much down this road that I know of.
I shrug. “If you want to tell me.”
He smiles slightly. “It’s a place I’ve been going since I was old enough to remember it. My parents took me out here a lot.”
“How is your family?” I ask.
“Wondering about you,” he answers playfully.
My cheeks dare to warm in the crisp air conditioning. “About me?”
“Mainly, they’re wondering why I didn’t pursue you earlier.”
I wring my hands in my lap. “Pursue me?”
“Well . . .” He fidgets with the window wiper, spraying fluid on the windshield to wash a few bugs off. “I know we’re not dating, but we’re hanging out.”
“Right.” I sink my teeth into my bottom lip before I add, “Asfriends.”
He lets his foot off the gas, the truck slowing. “Yeah. Friends.”
“So, why didyou wait?” I ask. It’s been a nagging question I’ve had.
Why now?
We’ve lived in the same small town all our lives, working across the street from each other. Proximity wasn’t the issue. In fact, we’ve had plenty of proximity.
He shrugs. “Maybe it just took me some time to gain the courage. I mean, it can take us a while to realize we need to try something new.”
His words land a little more heavily than they should. It’s an offering, one I understand because sometimes life passes by when you’re too busy living it.
Routines and responsibility. Days turning into months, months into years. Time passing while you’re busy doing what needs to be done. Or doing what you think needs to be done.
There’s nothing wrong with what Grant is saying. It’s exactly why there’s a list folded back home in my nightstand drawer.
“That makes sense,” I finally say, but something about his answer still doesn’t feel completely honest to me.
His hands loosen their grip on the steering wheel slightly, and he turns onto a narrow dirt road, his truck easing through the ruts.
“We’re almost there,” he says with a grin that dimples his cheeks.
Five minutes later, we’re parked beside a small pond surrounded by river birches and soft grass. It’s an oasis.
Grant glances at me. “I come here every Sunday evening.”
