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“Hmm,” he grunts.
“Hmm?” I snap. “Hmm?What does that even mean?”
“You’ve got a bad habit of putting me in awkward positions,” he says. “Are you hungry? We’ll have to eat a cold dinner.”
“Can’t start a fire,” I say as he stands and walks toward his bike, “since we’re probably not supposed to be here.”
He had to push the Harley most of the way, churning up mud in places and splattering the gleaming material with dirt. There’s no way a biker does that by choice, just for thesakeof it. Earlier, when I asked, he said he wanted a change of pace.
“Hungry?” he asks, returning with the cooler bag.
After the picnic, we loaded up on meat and bread for the evening.
I nod. “Sure.”
We don’t say anything for a while, which is sort of becoming our thing. Lots of talking and then nothing. Silence as we wait for the other person to do the right thing. One of us should get angry, say something we can never take back, or do something unforgivable to sabotage this relationship.
Isthatwhat this is? A relationship? I wish. No, I don’t. I can’t.
“Did you hear me before?” I ask once I’ve prepared some sandwiches.
He takes his. “Thank you, Kay.”
“You’re ignoring me.” I sit down, taking a bite from my sandwich. After washing it down with some bottled water, I say, “I think it’s because you don’t want to lie to me. Something’s up. Why did we suddenly change motels in Vegas? Why the secret lake in Utah? Whyhere?”
“Just leave it alone,” he snaps. “Accept it. You’re coming with me. That’s it. End of story.”
“Are we in danger?”
“Goddamn. You ask more questions now than when you were a kid.”
“I didn’t need to ask you anything then. I had everything I wanted.”
He looks at me sharply, eyes narrowed. Okay, message received. He doesn’t like any hint of the crush talk. I guess he doesn’t want to think of me as a little girl anymore, considering what we’ve done.
“I deserve to know,” I go on. “Does it have something to do with that guy in Vegas?”
He stands abruptly. “Will you just leave it the hell alone?”
He marches over to the forest like he’s going to walk off. Then he stops, turns, and returns to his seat. It’s strange. He moves almost like a robot when returning to the log.
“What was that?” I say.
He smirks, but it’s somehow fierce, somehow pissed. “Another question.”
“Ithink you were going to storm off, but then you remembered you can’t do that because something’s up. So you came back. That’s my theory.”
He clenches his fists and unclenches them.
“What? Are you going to hit me?”
His mouth falls open. He stares, looking boyish and hurt. Immediately, I hate myself. What a terrible thing to say.
“Never say anything like that to me again,” he says, not even angry. “I mean it.”
“I’m sorry. I won’t.”
“I’d never do that. I’d never hurt you. I’d die before I hurt you.”
