He lowers himself to the ground a few feet from the lip of the canyon. Not a foot dangler, then.
“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks.
“Not tonight,” he says, and it sounds likeNo, never.
“I hope you carry bear spray.”
“If you’re challenging me to a duel, I believe I select the weapon,” he says dryly.
She pulls her can out of her pocket. “Actually, the bear gets to choose.”
He turns toward her, startled. “Good Lord. There aren’tactualbears?”
“Ohhhh-kayyyy,” she breathes. She will not ask him how long he’s been prowling around without bear spray—and apparently without a clue. “We’ll get you some tomorrow.”
“Much obliged,” he says, sounding faint.
The conversation lapses. She imagines they’re both absorbed in bear-related thoughts.
“I’m not talking to my dinosaur. I’m trying tofeelher,” she says eventually.
“You prospect for fossils by feeling them?”
As a woman in STEM, she normally wouldn’t answer aquestion like that. Smithson sounds genuine, though. Curious. Non-asshole-ish.
“Maybe I want to believe I can. Maybe I’m willing to believe in a lot of things right now.” Which makes it a dangerous time for her. She has a history of believing all the wrong things. And all the wrong people.
He makes a considering sound she likes a lot: deep, encouraging, veryDo go on.
She wants to go on. Wants it in the desperate, will-I-or-won’t-I way you want something you know is really stupid. She swipes at a lone mosquito and pretends she didn’t hear the unspoken question. He leans back on his hands and pretends he didn’t ask it.
To her surprise, the silence grows easier the longer it stretches. Smithson idly scoops up handfuls of pebbly sand, lets it run through his fingers. Ripley spies a few shadows swooping by—bats, or maybe a nighthawk. When sitting feels too effortful, she stretches out on her back, watching the international space station sail across the star-choked sky.
It’s easy to forget everything other than how nice it is not to be the only one awake.
“Why birds, Ripley Adams?” Smithson sounds calm and a little dreamy, like he’s ascended to a philosophical level of exhaustion. “Why notT. rexesor velociraptors?”
“Hmm,” she says on a breathy huff. “Birds are just…fun to think about. Like how eagles and condors and hummingbirds all descended from a single dinosaur with beautiful iridescent feathers. Or how the Neornithes subgroup survived the Cretaceous-Paleogene extinction when every other dinosaur died. They’re so graceful and pretty and so damn tough. You kind of have to love that about them.”
He looks over at her. “You do, yes.” The undercurrent in hisvoice has deepened to a riptide. She can almost feel it tug at her ankles, dangerous like only a bad idea can be.
“And why taxonomy, Professor Smithson?” she asks, with a lightness she doesn’t feel in this moment. “What was it about gathering other people’s data and making it into pretty pictures that appealed to you?”
He makes a soft, wry sound. “You’ve encapsulated it rather well. I like taking raw material and helping it realize its maximum potential. The art…well, taxonomy is a lot like drawing. How can it be done in as few lines as possible, how can the design support its validity? The pictures are merely to sell the science.” He tacks a little yawn onto the end of his sentence, the rhythm of his speech noticeably slowing.
She yawns too, turning her face into her shoulder. “Cute. You rescue stray data and give it a cup of hot chocolate and a little scarf and a whole bunch of new friends.”
“You’re so odd, Ripley.” His voice curls aroundoddwith a delighted almost-laugh that feels like a quick caress.
“The way you sayoddis odd, Smithson.” She’s getting punchy and repetitive and too wrapped up in what she imagines he’s not saying. It’s the darkness, the soft air, the vulnerability of being awake together. It’s not real.
She rolls to her feet, prompting him to do the same. He’s probably constitutionally incapable of staying down when a lady stands, but the way he’s watching her makes the gesture of respect feel personal somehow. Like it’s specifically for her.
“I’m heading in. Take this,” she says, holding out the spray. “If you see a grizzly, stand your ground and try to look big.” She has to tip her head back a fair way to meet his eyes. “Well, bigger, anyway.”
She means to press the can into his hand and leave, but hecatches her wrist. His fingers are warm despite the cool night air, his grip firm without being unbreakable. She falls still, watching his shadowed eyes, waiting for something she can’t name.
“Thank you. I…thank you,” he says. “And, Ripley?”
