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Battle turns down a narrow path off the main road on to Old Man Parson’s wheat farm. Long sprigs of wheat pelt loudly against the car. I’ve never been down this path, but I can’t imagine anything exciting at the end of it.
When Battle stops and turns off the ignition, I’m unable to hide my curiosity and ask. “Why are we here?”
“This is my favorite place. Come on, let’s get out.” Battle grabs my bag from the backseat and slips out of the car. He sets the bag on the hood and stretches, exposing his defined and drool-worthy abs. Quickly, I glance away before he catches me staring.
My nerves are on full attack. I’m anxious and excited as I push the door open against the wheat. Once outside, I shut the door, glancing around for signs of life. There are none. The long grainy strands of wheat tickle my legs, and some reach my waist. The interior light of the car shuts off, leaving us in the dark.
I say a silent prayer. Something along the lines of please don’t let Battle be a deranged serial killer.
Thankfully the moon is nearly full, casting enough light to see my way to the front of the car.
“Old Man Parson’s place is the Battle McCoy’s favorite place on Earth?”
He chuckles. As my eyes adjust, I make out a smile on his face.
“Do ya hear that?” he asks, jumping up on the hood of my Mustang.
“No,” I answer and hop up next to him.
“Exactly, you don’t hear a thing.” Battle pulls the bottle of Jack from my bag. He twists the lid off and tosses it into the thick dark night. My eyes stay on his full lips as he takes a long draw from the bottle. He finishes and says, “You can’t hear a damn thing, but you can see a hell of a lot.”
I have no idea
what he’s talking about. This desolate place harbors no interest for me. It’s a wheat field. There’s nothing to see. He, however, has my undivided attention.
He scoots backward, resting his back against the window and looks up into the night sky.
I lift my chin. The stark-black sky littered with thousands of stars paints a remarkable canvas, one far more breathtaking than my suburban backyard where light filters the view. I lie back next to him and lace my fingers together, resting them on my abdomen.
“When I come here, it reminds me how short life is, and I can see plainly how insignificant I truly am.” His voice is low and pained with a hint of what he’s hiding from the world.
“You think you’re insignificant?” I ask.
“Aren’t we all?” Battle asks, completely serious. “Think about it. We’re only specks in a vast universe.”
“I guess I try not to think about the universe,” I admit and take the bottle of Jack from him. Seeking courage, I take a small sip and continue. “But here on Earth, you’re the Battle McCoy.”
Battle turns on his side to face me, propping up on his elbow. He peers up at me from under his dark-brown hair that’s fallen in front of his eyes. “And who exactly is that?”
I laugh. “You’re the fearless superstar bull rider with panty-melting eyes, who has thousands of adoring fans.” I’m teasing him in hopes of lightening the tension of this conversation. Battle doesn’t laugh, nor does he smile. His expression maintains a seriousness that makes me uncomfortable. I giggle to mask the awkwardness. “See. You’re not insignificant.”
“You’re hardly so naïve. Who am I really?” he asks more incessant.
I exhale loudly, delaying my answer, because I don’t want to admit it. I was having fun before he went all philosophical on me. “I guess I don’t actually know.”
He shifts and lies on his back again. His hands move underneath his head for support with his elbows out to the side as he stares at the stars. “That’s my point. Even in your small universe, I’m insignificant.” His lighthearted voice clashes with the seriousness of his words.
“Yeah, well, you’re also cynical.”
He laughs deep. I feel the vibration through the glass. “Maybe, but I prefer to think I’m experienced.”
“Or scared,” I say bravely.
Without a reply, Battle grabs the bottle of Jack from my hand and brings it to his lips. His deliberately long, slow swallow proves I touched on something he doesn’t want to talk about.
“Don’t think you know me,” he says, his playful voice gone. Bitterness mars his words as he continues, “We’re all scared of somethin’, sweetheart.”
He’s absolutely correct—I’m scared of him, of being without Wyatt, and of failure. “True, and since neither of us feels up for sharin’ what scares us, let’s talk about somethin’ else.”
