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Among other things.
“Okay.”
I’m here for one night, and this is how I want to spend it—with him.
This time, he picks me up bridal-style to carry me through the center aisle that the cows love to decorate.
I can hear them shuffling about. Fans circulate the smell of hay and farm animal. It’s not unpleasant, but it’s become unfamiliar.
I try to focus on it, but I’m more preoccupied by his hands on my bare legs. The steadythumpof his heart, audible through cotton and skin, muscle and tissue.
The rhythmic beat sounds faster than normal. I’m guessing mine is just as rapid right now.
As soon as we’re outside, he sets me back down in the grass.
We walk side by side toward the cottage nestled just past the main pasture. I slip my hands into my pockets, so our hands don’t accidentally brush.
The trace of his touch lingers on my skin, a steady tingling that’s impossible to ignore. He smells like laundry detergent and the same cologne he wore in high school. There’s not enough of a breeze to blow his scent away. It sinks into me the same way his fingers dug into my skin. And unfortunately, I can’t juststopbreathing.
Lights glimmer through the trees as we near his home.
“Do you live together?” I ask quietly. I should have asked sooner.
He knows who I’m asking about. “No. We’ve only been dating for a few months.”
“Oh.” It shouldn’t matter, shouldn’t make a difference. But I recognize the emotion flowing through me.
Relief.
He holds open the screen door for me.
“Thanks.”
I’ve only been in here a couple of times before, and it’s never been just me and him, but it feels familiar all the same. The walls are painted light pink. The couch is navy. He hasn’t changed any of the furnishings since his Grams died.
I wander over toward the bookshelf. Run my fingers across the firm spines. Graze my palm across the neck and the strings of the guitar on the stand next to it. “Do you still play?”
There’s no doubt in my mind that he does. I knew he was good the first time I heard him play, and my appreciation has tripled tenfold since I’ve worked with a wide array of guitarists considered to be the best in the business.
You can learn music, but you can’t teach talent.
“Yeah.” Then, he grows modest. “I mean, I fool around with stuff sometimes. Nothing serious.”
I smile, mouthing,Fool around with stuff sometimes. “You know my stuff?”
He doesn’t hesitate, although I know he realizes the implications of what I’m asking. Maybe even why I’m asking. “Yes.”
I run my fingers along the textured strings and smooth wood before lifting it up. I carry it over. Hold it out to him. “Do you still know the chords for ‘I Walk the Line’?”
A slow,dangeroussmile curves up the corners of his mouth as he takes the guitar from me. “What sort of disservice would I be doing to my middle name if I didn’t?”
“Play it.”
“And you’ll be my June?” he asks.
I nod. Swallow.
My.
