Page 35 of Make You Love Me
There’s a small scar on the ankle bone, parallel to the sandal strap circling her right foot. Three freckles in a line turn the scar into a T. Adorable.
“T fer Taylor,” I slur.
“What?”
Resting my head on her shoulder, I relax for a bit while section by section my body is reconnected to my brain. It’sdizzying, but better. Energy follows sensation in my feet, legs, arms, and finally torso, allowing me to sit up.
“You have a natural tattoo on your ankle.”
???
Thanks to a host of reasons I don’t care to rehash, Nora and I do not cross number six off the bucket list during our stroll. But that’s okay. I’m still upright and able to experience something new with my girl. A moment worth capturing for a lifetime.
Retrieving my phone from my pocket, I wave her over for a photo. She must feel sorry for me since it takes only two pleas to get her to agree, begrudgingly, of course. The woman hates selfies more than PDA and making her step out of her comfort zone when it comes to us is my favorite pastime.
As we make our way back to the car, I swipe through the photos of her leaning over my shoulder and smiling. The sun’s rays highlight her face and hair like the angel she is to me. I hold up the phone to show her my favorite shot.
“You’re so beautiful,” I tell her, in case I haven’t already said it today. The brain is a little foggy these days.
We load into the car minutes later, and I dig into the charcuterie sitting on my lap in a to-go container before we back out of the parking space.
“How is it?” she asks, eyeing me with interest. We both skipped lunch—thank you embarrassing episode—and the lot of salty meats, crackers, and flavorful cheeses is calling to us both.
“Heaven,” I answer with a moan. Snagging a piece of smoked gouda from the lot, I hold it in front of her mouth. She takes it with her teeth and merges onto Interstate 81.
“To where are we heading next, my beautiful tour guide?”
“What number, obviouslynotnumber six, is climbing a mountain?”
I stare at her like she said something ridiculous, which she did.
“What?” she asks with an indignant smirk.
“Have you looked at me lately?”
“I got a pretty close view this morning.”
“What makes you think my ailing body can climb a mountain?” I toss a grape into the air, catch it in my mouth, and chew while she continues to revel in her grand scheme.
“I didn’t say we’d need your body for this task.”
“That’s a shame. But how else are we—” And then I see it—the wayfinding sign for a scenic mountain drive.
“There are about a dozen different places we can stop along theclimbto the top to look out at the valley below.”
“Clever.”
Halfway up, we pull into a parking spot at an overlook. Since we can see everything through the windshield, we don’t bother dragging my heavy ass out of the car. In this area and time of day, it’s the valley’s turn to be in the sun’s spotlight. The nearby trees showcasing their fall colors and the bluish-gray rolling mountain chain in the distance, is so breathtaking I can’t take it in fast enough.
“Do you know why the Blue Ridge Mountains have that bluish hue?” she asks.
I take another look at them. Surely, I’ve heard the reason, yet it doesn’t populate. “I don’t remember. Why are they blue, beautiful tour guide?”
She swallows and looks away before answering. And when she does, her voice is oddly guarded, “They look blue because of a chemical the native trees release. It scatters blue light from the sun and makes them look like a kindergartner painted them.”
“That’s right. It’s all coming back to me.” It wasn’t. But who’s keeping track? “What other trivia do you have in there?” I nod toward her head, and my right hand begs to run its fingersthrough her silky hair. She curled it this morning, and knowing she fixed her hair for today contradicts the retreat I felt from her at the winery.
“Well, did you know that the Blue Ridge Mountain chain is one of the oldest in the world?”
