Page 42 of Off the Trail

He glances at me, surprised. Did he think I wouldn’t notice? “Yeah. It’s my sister.”

“Is she okay?”

“She’s okay. She’s fine. She told me some news today.” He fiddles with his spoon, half his cake left uneaten on his plate. Clearly something’s up, but he doesn’t say any more.

“You want to talk about it?”

He rolls his shoulders and looks at the remains of his dessert. I remember how easy he was with me up on the mountaintop. Maybe that’s where we should go—not on a hike exactly, but outside.

“Come on.” I stand up from the table and take our dishes to the tub provided for the purpose.

“Where are we going?” he asks when I motion for him to get up and join me. I push out the side door, and after making sure he’s following me, walk down to the dock. It’s chilly and fully dark, but that’s perfect. I look up and stars wink back, a spray of light over the inky black blob of the water and the jagged ring of trees.

“Cosmic insignificance therapy.” I gesture to the stars and know he understands.

Beside me, he lifts his face to the sky. He exhales one long breath; it sounds as if he’s been holding that breath all day. The lap of the water against the wooden pilings of the dock is the only other sound I can hear. I glance over, imagining I can see the light of the stars reflected in his eyes.

We’re silent for a while, and I let my spine go slack. I’m tired from the work I did today, unaccustomed to the rhythm and motions of measuring, sawing, sanding. I take a dose of perspective for myself, worry and doubt falling away like stones settling at the bottom of the lake, leaving me grateful for everything else.

“Thanks. I needed this,” Blaze says.

“Just returning the favor,” I say, wrapping my hands around my elbows, because my hoodie’s not really adequate for the chill coming off the water. But I wouldn’t move now even if it were twenty degrees colder.

“What happened to your hand?” Blaze asks, concern in his voice.

I look down at the bandage across the outside of my left hand. I’d forgotten it was there. “It’s nothing. Got carried away with the belt sander and forgot to put on my gloves once. Scraped the side of my hand a little.”

Blaze does the most remarkable thing then. He reaches out, touches the pads of two fingers to the back of my injured hand. I feel them, featherlight and a brand all at once. “Does it hurt?”

It takes me a beat to realize he’s asked a question. I’m stuck on the fact that he touched me, that he’s still touching me, because I release my grip on my arm and hold out my hand for him to inspect the Band-Aid Joe slapped on at the workshop.

“It doesn’t hurt much,” I say, but Blaze doesn’t seem convinced. He traces the edge of the bandage lightly. It’s almost like we’re holding hands.

“Did you wash it and put on some antibacterial cream?”

I swallow. We established yesterday that his hands are a little smaller, but they’re strong. He’s got dark hair on his knuckles. No rings on his fingers. I stop my inspection to make myself answer. “Yeah, Joe took care of it.”

“Good.”

I hesitate. My gaze is fixed on our hands, still brushing together. I can’t see his face, so I can imagine this moment is as fraught for him as it is for me. If I look and he’s unaffected, that’ll be that. But if I look and I see, well, anything in his expression, any kind of awareness of me…of us, I promise myself in this split second that I’ll do something about it.

Slowly, I raise my gaze to Blaze’s face. His eyebrows are tilted toward each other, as if he’s asking a question. I’m not sure if he’s asking it of himself or of me, but I’m finally ready to give him an answer.

I glance at his mouth, which is parted slightly. At this distance, even in the dark, I can see the individual hairs of his beard, some brown, some lighter, a few even seem russet-colored. His lips are the color of new raspberries.

“Shawn?”

All his questions in one word, and therefore only one answer. “Yes.”

“You—?” He sounds confused, but not unhappy.

“Yes.”

“Wow.” Now he sounds overwhelmed—but in a good way, I hope.

“Can I?”

His turn to say, “Yes.”