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“I have a cooler there with some food and drinks in it.”
That gets my attention. I open it to find some sandwiches, cut-up fruit, and bottles of water.
“Never had a picnic lunch on a date before,” I say, and then, even though I’m still sure I’m gonna fall out, I kick off my flip-flops and mimic Orson. My feet hang over the opposite side to his, and propped up on my elbows, I have a clear view across at his handsome face.
“Technically,latelunch,” he says.
“Whatever you wanna classify it as, my point stands. This is the most wholesome little outing I’ve ever had.”
“Including me pinching your nipple?”
I wave a hand at him. “What’s a little tweaking between friends?”
“I suppose it depends what you’re tweaking.” He pumps his eyebrows at me, stare steady, and the look heats me beneath the collar.
“Well, let’s start with one of them sandwiches and go from there.”
His tongue swipes over his lip before he reaches down into the cooler to grab one. He hands mine over, along with some water, and we drift along, eating and thinking, in perfect silence.
“Favorite childhood memory?” he asks.
“Breaking my arm.”
Orson’s mouth drops. “You’re going to have to explain that one.”
“It was almost the end of summer in middle school, and I’d been showing off to the boy next door. I had an inkling I was gay but never really thought about myself in those terms. He was so impressed by how high up the tree I made it, but then he tried to throw the ball up to me, and I slipped, fell straight to the ground, broke my arm in two places.” I’m still smiling, even though Orson looks horrified. “He thought it was his fault, looked after me for the rest of the summer, and one day, when our parents were both at work, he kissed me.”
“How romantic.”
“All very PG with him, but that’s where my obsession with guys started.” I tilt my head. “You?”
“My favorite memory or my obsession with men?”
“Memory, obviously. We both know when your obsession with men began.” I drop my tone suggestively, and Orson’s gaze finds mine again. It’s intimidating, looking him right in the eyes. He doesn’t seem to feel the same weight of it that I do, but connecting like this feels a thousand times more intimate than when I had my hands all over him.
“I have two.”
“Oh yeah?” I’m more interested in his answer than I should be.
“Tinkering with cars in the shed with Dad, and on cool nights, Mom would make me a hot cocoa with marshmallows, and then we’d sit in front of the fire while she painted my toenails.”
Neither of those answers is what I expected. “You still do that? Either of those things?”
“No.” He bites his thumb, gaze far off. “Don’t even do the hot cocoa thing.”
“You should.” I’ve never much thought like that. I’m pretty go, go, go with anything fun, whereas Orson likes the soft moments. The quiet ones. Ones like we’re having right now.
It warms my chest that he brought me here.
“I’ve changed my mind.”
He narrows his eyes. “About …”
“Canoeing. It’s awesome.”
Orson’s lips hitch up on one side behind his scruff. “Yeah, I’m enjoying myself too.”
Movement to my left makes me glance down in time to see a small turtle swim up to the side of the canoe. It extends its neck, trying to get a good look at me before ducking down again.
