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An honest-to-God picnic basket.
This man has brought me on a romantic date. He gave me a sweet kiss.
Is the sky falling?
I’m pretty sure my mouth is open as he shuts the car door and turns, holding the basket and grabbing my hand.
“A picnic at night?” I ask, extremely curious as to what is going on inside his mind.
This isn’t us. We are sharp words and hard fucks.
I’m not sure what to think about this version of Connor. He grins down at me. Now that the lights are completely gone, we are only illuminated by the moon, and it’s beautiful and calm. Two words I wouldn’t have used to describe us before now.
We walk for a bit until we are farther in the field. The grass isn’t very long, which tells me someone tends to it. Or there are animals that eat here. I look around but see nothing to indicate which it is. I really hope there aren’t animals.
Connor squeezes my hand, then drops it and falls to one knee to begin unpacking the basket. I move to help him, but he holds up a hand.
“I’ve got it.”
I just watch. He pulls out a blanket from the top, flaps it in the air, and lays it on the ground. Then, he motions for me to sit. He reaches back in and extracts a container of salsa and a bag of chips. Then, he pulls out a cardboard box of beer with six cans inside.
I stare, mouth open again.
“We are eating chips and salsa and drinking beer?”
“What else would you eat and drink at a picnic?” he asks, flopping down on his side and opening the top of the salsa, then the chip bag.
He hands me a cold beer, and I pop the top, taking a sip.
“I can’t remember the last time I drank beer,” I muse, and he opens his.
“Now, you can,” he says, clinking his to mine like we are holding fancy champagne glasses.
I laugh. The absurdity of this whole night is starting to get to me.
“I honestly thought you would pull out bubbly and chocolate-covered strawberries or something.”
“I fucking hate chocolate-covered strawberries,” he says, shaking his head.
“Good to know for Valentine’s.”
He looks up at me, and I busy myself, reaching for a chip and dunking it in the salsa. I bring it to my lips, and a piece of the dip drips on my chin. Connor reaches up, rubbing it from my skin.
“What are we doing here?” I whisper.
“When I was a young boy and my mom was still alive, we lived in Chicago. She loved the stars, but not in a way where she knew all the constellations or anything like that. She was more of a dreamer, wished upon them.”
Connor sets his beer beside him and rolls to his back, propping one leg up. He stares up at the sky, and I do the same, then gasp.
“It’s so clear out here. There are millions.”
“Makes you feel small, doesn’t it?” he asks, and I nod even though I know he’s not looking at me. “She would drive me way outside of Chicago to her parents’ house sometimes when Bertrand was gone on business trips. We would spend the night and lie outside with a bag of chips and dip—no beer at that time since I was young.”
I look back at him, noting the small smile making his lips curl. He looks soft in that moment, approachable, young.
“We would watch for shooting stars, and she would always make a wish on the very first one we saw and have me do the same. But she wouldn’t ever tell me her wish. So, I never knew if they came true or not. I hope they did.”
His eyes close briefly, and I take another sip of beer. I cross my legs, tucking my dress in between them. I wait.
