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“Am I the boomerang?” I ask Chasen.
“What do you mean?”
“I dunno, it’s like a metaphor.”
“Ah.” Chasen nods, like he actually gets it. I don’t even get it. “Guess either way you sort of are.”
“Either way?”
“If you leave, you’re going back,” Chasen answers evenly. “If you stay, you’re coming back.” He proffers a smirk. “You’re the boomerang.”
I send him a look. “Who said there was a chance I’m staying?”
“No one did.” I can finish the rest of that sentence. But you’re thinking about it, aren’t you, Hazel?
Am I ever.
Chasen throws the boomerang. It whistles back. Landing clean in his hand like a guided missile.
“Showoff.”
“Maybe a little.”
Over his shoulder, the sun appears humble and heavy as it arcs toward the landscape. And painting the sky in swirls of angry, beautiful, impossible color.
“Wow…now that is incredible.” I point to the heavens.
“The clouds should clear up,” Chasen predicts. “Should be an awesome night for stargazing.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. I got the best spot, too.”
The best spot, it turns out, is the bed of Chasen’s pickup truck. I am not complaining. He makes it extra, driving us out into the openness and laying down multiple layers of soft blankets. We climb over into the back. He leaves the radio on, country music turned up low.
We settle in, keeping company with a kind of contentment that settles in with us. Chasen draws me into his chest like it’s second nature. As the stars wink into existence one by one, my eyes try to appreciate them but all I am aware of is his warm body so close to mine. He reaches up, his fingertips stroking mindlessly down my hair.
I turn my nose into his sternum and breathe him in. I can’t help the little moan that rolls off the roof of my mouth. “That feels good, Chasen.”
“Hazel…” his voice bristles. When I look up his eyelids seem to grow twice as heavy. We linger a beat. He wraps his arms around me tighter. I hold him, too. My hands busily feeling the hard musculature of his back.
Then, slowly, Chasen dips his head toward mine, taking a soft pull of my lips. I hear his ragged inhale as he breaks the kiss.
“Stay.”
“What?” I ask, unsure how else to reply. Heat is thrumming into every cell in my body. It’s hard to think. I press myself closer, feeling his unmistakable arousal against my thigh, and to my utter regret Chasen loosens his hold on me, rolling onto his back with a mournful groan.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry, Chasen, I didn’t mean to—”
“Shhh.” He draws me to him again, but this time it feels placating. He drags his hand down his face, up, and down again, heaving a sigh. The cowboy hat hangs halfway off his head. “Let’s just…talk.”
“Okay. Um. Well I’ve been talking all day,” I point out. “It’s your turn. What’s your story, Chasen?”
Gradually, he opens up to me. I start to understand more of his relationship with the Hardins, especially Hank. Chasen didn’t have the picture-perfect family growing up. But Rosie always accepted him. When he hit a rough patch in his teen years, Rosie was there, a supportive friend, an encouraging force. He needed her help. She had his back, and one day begged her dad to help Chasen out and see his potential. Hank reluctantly offered Chasen a job, and Chasen worked hard until he could afford to build his little shanty on their land.
“You love her,” I say.
“Hmm?” he mumbles.
