Walk on the Wilder Side by Serena Bell

15

Brody

“When do you have to be back?” I ask Rachel, when we’ve made the rounds of the shops in town and climbed back into the truck.

“No particular time,” she says.

Our rounds in town went really well. People loved the idea of hosting an event on the boat. Kiona of Five Rivers Arts and Crafts said she could do beginning weaving and had friends who might be interested in basketry and simple jewelry-making. Nan from Rush Creek Bakery said she didn’t know what services she could provide, but if I was interested in having her prepare baked goods or sandwiches for the outings, she was all in. (I said hell yes.) The day spa signed up for two different events, chair massage and reflexology. They said no to mani pedis because precision’s tough on a boat, and I was relieved. And the game store said they had a bunch of simple games that would work even with a breeze.

When people expressed wariness about partnering with me—the game store even brought up my hostile reviews—Rachel stepped in and talked me up. She said I kept the boat clean and well-maintained, was a careful, responsible skipper, and quick on my feet. She told the story of how I’d defused a fight (not getting into the details of how it started), and said I was friendly and easy to work with and that they shouldn’t be fooled by how little I talked. That was where they came into the deal! she said cheerfully. And there were really positive reviews, too. She pulled out her phone to show them.

Looking at myself, like that, through Rachel’s eyes?

I almost didn’t recognize myself.

I wondered if that was how people felt after getting makeovers.

“Makeovers on the boat would be really cool,” I told Rachel.

“Tricky not to stick an eye pencil in the wrong place,” she pointed out. “And the mascara’s a nightmare.”

“See. This is why I keep you around.”

I’m feeling pretty damn pleased with myself, I have to say. My calendar is full of events, basically through the end of tourist season.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, I caught Rachel watching me with this thoughtful expression. Not the look I’m used to seeing on women’s faces, which lands right around my center of gravity, with a brief trip up only to make sure there’s a face attached to the rest of me.

Rachel’s eyes on my face feel like approval in its purest form. As if everything she said out loud, selling my idea, is truth.

Like I said, it’s been a long time since anyone looked at me that way.

It feels good, and a little scary.

I don’t want it to end.

“We’re going for a picnic,” I announce. I pull the truck out and point us toward the wilderness.

“Wait!” she says. “We can’t just go for a picnic. I’m not ready for a picnic. I would have dressed differently.”

“You’re dressed perfectly.” My gaze falls to her legs, smooth and warm brown beneath the mid-thigh hem of her sundress. They’re slightly paler inside, and my fingertips desperately want to explore that softness.

“And I would have made sandwiches! Or, well, I would have gotten my mom to make Cuban sandwiches.” She wrinkles her nose. “And we don’t have a blanket. Or water bottles.”

I frown. “Rachel, baby. We don’t need a plan to have a picnic.”

“I need a plan to have a picnic.”

“Do you trust me?”

There’s a long silence. My heart pounds. Then she says, “Yeah. I do.”

We pass out of the business district and onto Highway 25. We drive for a while in silence, before she asks, “Where are we going?”

I’m torn between laughing and wanting to reassure her. “I don’t know,” I tell her, to see how she reacts.

She slumps a little in her seat. “How will we know when we’re there?”

Now I do laugh. “I’ll know.”

“Doesn’t that scare you at all?”

I shake my head. Plenty of things scare me, but driving without a map isn’t one of them.

We continue in silence, the high desert rolling out on either side of us, brown and sage green.

“Rach?” I ask her.

“Mmm-hmm?”

“Do you always have a plan?”

“Yeah.” She’s quiet for a sec, then says, “I even had a life plan. Until I got triple whammied.”

“Life plan?” I ask. Then, “Triple whammied?” Although I think I know what she means by that.

She makes another hmming noise. “Life plan.” She ticks it off on her fingers: “One, a four-oh in high school, two, college, three, grad school, four, great apartment, five, the library job of my dreams, six, awesome boyfriend, seven, meet the parents, eight, get engaged, nine, get married, ten, have two-point-five kids, eleven, live happily ever after.”

“Holy shit, Rachel.” Her list hurts my head. And my chest. Though maybe it’s not the list that gets to me. Maybe these aches are how I imagine the triple whammy must have felt to her.

“It got blown up, though. My plan. Items four through eleven, obliterated. Triple whammied: job, boyfriend, and apartment in one day.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. I reach out and put my hand on her thigh. Not to cop a feel, although, God, she’s soft. Just to give her comfort.

“Thanks.”

I leave my hand there, and she weaves her fingers with mine. It feels so good, I almost drive off the road. I close my hand, squeezing hers.

“It’ll be okay,” she says, after a moment. “I sent out a bunch of cover letters and resumes yesterday. And Louisa is going to sublet me a room in her apartment.”

And you’ll find another awesome boyfriend.

I hate the idea, even though I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t qualify as awesome boyfriend according to the Master Plan’s criteria. I almost ask what they are, then decide I don’t need to rain on our picnic. She’s here with me today, we’re both in good moods, and I’m going to show her some of my favorite things. Then I’ll make her cry my name in the open air. That’s all the plan I need.

“I’ve never had a plan,” I tell her.

“For anything?”

“I mean, sometimes I have a plan for a day. But not usually.”

Of course, not having a plan doesn’t mean you can’t get triple whammied.

I don’t say that out loud.

We’ve been driving thirty or so minutes when I spot what we need. It’s a roadside stand, the semi-permanent variety. I haven’t seen this particular one before, but I would have been willing to swear we’d come across something like it. We pull into the gravel-and-overgrown-grass parking lot.

“Elk jerky,” Rachel reads off the hand-spray-painted sign. “Buffalo jerky. Beef jerky.”

“Mmm-hmm,” I say. “And cherries. For lunch.”

“That’s not lunch,” she says, but she’s definitely smiling.

“Do you not like elk jerky?”

“I do like it, actually.”

“Cherries?”

“Love ’em.”

I buy a bunch of both and a couple of bottles of water. “Lunch,” I say, holding the paper bag out to Rachel. “Do you have any paper towels?” I ask the cowboy behind the stand.

He tears a bunch off a roll and hands them over.

I take the opportunity to inspect the back of the truck. There’s no blanket, but there’s a scruffy blue tarp that hasn’t seen too much wear and tear. “Will this do?” I ask Rachel.

“Yeah.” She’s definitely smiling.

I pull her close and kiss her nose. She lifts her chin and our mouths meet, a soft settling into each other.

I could kiss her for hours, but I let her go as another car pulls into the parking lot.

“Anything else worrying you?” I ask her.

She shakes her head.

“See?” I say. “No plan, no problem.”