Page 64 of Stuck With the Smokejumper

“It is.”

She turns to look at me, genuinely delighted in a way that makes every hour I spent researching this completely worth it. “I haven't been here since I was a kid.” She cranes her neck to see the massive screen as we pull into a spot.

A few minutes later, I've got the bed of the truck set up, blankets spread out, a couple of pillows I borrowed from the crew house without drawing any attention, a small cooler with drinks and some snacks despite the dinner we just ate. Nothing elaborate. Just comfortable.

Ivy climbs up and takes it all in, the blankets, the pillows, the whole setup, then looks at me.

“You really planned this.”

“Told you I could do better than plants.”

She laughs, settling in beside me as the previews start, and for a minute we're just two people watching a screen light up against the darkening sky, warm evening starting to cool now that the sun's fully gone.

I notice her shiver a little before she says anything.

“Cold?”

“A little. Should've thought that through.”

I've got a spare clean shirt in the truck, something I keep around. I dig it out and hand it over. She pulls it on over her dress, the long sleeves swallowing her hands, the hem falling well past where the dress ends. Something about the sight of her in my shirt does something to my brain that even the dress hadn't quite managed.

I pull the blanket up over both our legs and let her settle against me, her head finding my shoulder like it belongs there, which, at this point, it does.

The movie starts. We watch some of it. Ivy narrates her disagreement with a character's terrible decision-making under her breath. I whisper back that the character clearly has no survival instincts. Somewhere next to us somebody shushes us, not unkindly, and we both go quiet, trying not to laugh.

I lose track of the plot about an hour in, not because anything's wrong, just because I'm paying more attention to Ivy than to the screen. The way she reacts to things. The warmth of her against my side. How completely unbothered I am about missing whatever's happening in the movie.

She catches me looking. Again. “What?”

I don't answer. I kiss her instead, slow, nothing behind it except wanting to, and she kisses me back like she'd been thinking about it too.

When we finally separate, she looks at the screen, then back at me. “We missed something.”

“Probably.”

“I have no idea what's happening in this movie.”

“Neither do I.”

She laughs, settling back against me, and I put my arm around her again. The movie keeps going without either of us paying it much attention.

I don't know when it happened, but somewhere along the way my relationship with Ivy stopped feeling temporary. I don't want it to end when summer does. I don't know yet what that means, in practical terms. Ivy's future isn't settled any more than mine is. My winter work will take me somewhere, same as always. Her graduate program's nearly finished, and after that, who knows.

But the uncertainty doesn’t feel like a countdown. It just feels like something we haven't solved yet. We'll figure it out. I pull her a little closer and let the movie keep playing to an audience that isn't really watching it.

By the time we head back to Blackpine, the night's cool, stars thick overhead, Ivy still wrapped in my shirt with the blanket draped over her lap for the drive.

At the crew house, she pulls the shirt off over her head, dress underneath slightly wrinkled, and hands it back to me.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

I take it from her, and she looks at me for a second, something warm and a little soft in her expression.

“You did better,” she says.

“Good.”