“What the fuck is a stamen?” I ask.
“It’s the male reproductive part of the flower.”
I squint at the plant and frown. “So, what you’re saying is that the flower has hairy balls?”
Hunter bursts out laughing. The sound startles me.
In the past, I’ve been described as broody, stand-offish, and grumpy, but neverfunny. It’s a pleasant surprise to hear someone laugh at one of my dumb jokes.
“Yeah,” he says between chuckles. “I guess you could say that.”
I return to eating my sandwich, and the sound of my lips smacking around peanut butter fills the still air between us. Next to me, Hunter picks at the chipped blue nail polish on his fingers.
“Do you have a favorite flower?” he asks, not looking up.
I swallow. “Um. Notreally.”
“Oh. Mine is the Dwarf Lake Iris,Iris lacustris. They’re native to northern Michigan and Ontario, but I’ve never seen one in the wild,” he rambles.
I just stare.
“Sorry,” he mutters, starting to move. “I’m being weird. You probably want me to leave you alone—”
“I like sunflowers,” I blurt.
He stills and settles back on the bench. “Yeah? Sunflowers are cool.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, hard enough to taste the metallic tinge of blood. “I used to plant them with my mom. She used to like gardening. They were her favorite flower.”
The words tumble out of my mouth with a surprising amount of ease. It’s usually difficult for me to talk to strangers at all, let alone about my mom.
“Sounds like she was really cool,” Hunter says gently.
“She’s not dead,” I clarify, realizing how that probably sounded. “She just… doesn’t garden anymore.”
“Oh.”
I finish eating my sandwich in silence. After I swallow the last bit of crust, I grab my venison jerky. I bite off a large piece, ripping the tough flesh with my teeth. As I start chewing, I eye Hunter wearily.
“You’re not offended by me eating meat next to you, are you?”
He rolls his eyes. “No. I don’t care.”
“Good.”
“Honestly, I’m more offended bythat,” he says, nodding at my plastic water bottle.
I frown. “What?”
“Do you know Americans throw away 60 million plastic water bottles each day? And a bunch of them end up polluting the environment. You should get one of these instead.”
Hunter pats the metal water bottle tucked in the mesh pocket of his backpack. Like all things in his life, it’s covered in stickers.
My hand constricts around my own bottle, the cheap plastic crinkling in protest. I don’t say anything.
“Oh, and don’t even get me started on your truck,” he groans. “What’s that thing get, five miles per gallon?”
That’s it. I don’t want to hear another word out of his mouth. I slam my lunch cooler shut and stand.
