Page 42 of Trade
“He wasnot.”
“You really love plants, don’t you?” He asked me that as I was considering the maple seeds I’d gathered while we ate lunch, deciding what I could bear to sacrifice from my little collection to keep a few of the adorable mustache-shaped thingies.
“I do.” I wedge a few of the mustaches into the very last space in my bulging pockets.
Dalton takes one of my leftover seeds, breaks it in half, and sticks it to his upper lip with its milk sap. He winks at me. “How do I look?”
“Like an idiot.”
He grins, the seed falls off, and my belly clenches. Smiling Dalton is dangerous. He is so beautiful that he fries my nerves, and my brain reverts to however old I was when I discovered boys, and seemingly overnight, they became mysterious and fascinating instead of loud and annoying.
I’m a grown woman. I know my reaction is hormones, possibly some kind of Stockholm syndrome, and most certainly a crush rather than any real kind of feeling, but oh, I’d forgotten that a crush is powerful stuff.
I blush and take off again for the lake so he doesn’t see. Dalton catches up in less than three strides, and he notices immediately, grinning even wider.
“Why is your face so pink, Glory?”
“Shut up, Dalton.”
“It’s pretty when it’s pink.”
“You flirt a lot for a man who says he’s never done it before.”
“Am I getting better at it?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Your face is almost red. I’m getting better.”
I don’t dignify that with a response.
That night he lies down on the blanket while I sit by the fire and stare up at the stars. With the cloud cover, they weren’t visible the first night, but they are now, and they’re glorious. In books, whenever a character gazes at the night sky, they feel insignificant, but not me. I feel like I finally have a front row seat to the universe. Like all of this was made for me.
I stargaze for hours while Dalton watches me. When I can’t hold my eyes open anymore, I crawl onto the blanket next to him, and he draws me to his chest, wrapping me in his heavy arms.
“Why are you always watching me?” I ask him as the fire crackles, the faint traces of rosemary, lavender, and cedar blending with the fresh scent of the gathering dew.
“I lived twenty-three years before I first saw you. You think I’m wasting a second now?”
“The novelty will wear off.” I don’t intend to be bitter, not after marveling at the cosmos, but it slips out anyway.
He tightens his arms around me. “Go to sleep, Glory,” he says, taking no offense, offering no argument.
How can it be so easy? If I wasn’t the model of graciousness when Bennett said something nice, it would be World War III, yet more evidence of how I can never just be appreciative. I always have to be critical, always looking for the rain cloud inside the silver lining.
But then again, Bennett never said anything nice unless he was mending fences, buttering me up, or heading me off at the pass when I wanted to hash an issue out. He was very strategic with his sweetness. I didn’t really see that clearly before, but I intuited it. That’s why in recent years, whenever he made an effort to be sweet, it vaguely pissed me off.
I don’t want to be the kind of person who’s suspicious of good things. I wasn’t that person when I was young. That kid was entranced by pictures in books, fascinated by the trees and plants and old bones and artifacts in our collections.
That’s who I am. My default isn’t bitter and wary and defensive. It’s awed and delighted.
I wriggle, snuggling closer to Dalton. I can tell from his breath he’s still awake. Seconds later, something hard pokes my butt cheek.
“I watch you, too,” I say softly.
“I noticed.” I can hear his smile in his voice.
“Go to sleep, Dalton.”
