Authors: Mandy Hubbard
She frowns, staring at the directions in her hand as if they’re written in Spanish. “He didn’t even try to kiss me after our date last night.”
I put a glob of glue on a Popsicle stick. There’s gotta be a better way to do paper lanterns, like maybe buying them premade, but if Mr. Ramsey wants to pay me and Bailey to sit around constructing these in an air-conditioned building all day, I’m not going to argue.
“A guy can like you and not kiss you, you know. It’s called chivalry.”
“That’s not what that word means,” she says. “I’m down with
the opening doors and all that. I just wish I’d get some kind of hint he’s into me.”
“Adam
does
like you,” I say. “A guy doesn’t take you out on a date if he doesn’t. I saw how he acted at the river too. He seems into you.”
“He’s premed,” she says abruptly. “I have to be smart around him.”
“You are smart,” I point out. “You would’ve had a perfect four point oh if not for PE.”
“I know, and we have all these great conversations!”
I laugh, reaching for a napkin and wiping the excess glue from my fingertips. “I don’t think you’re confused,” I say.
“I’m not?”
“No. I think you’re scared.”
Bailey reaches for the scissors, then grabs a piece of fragile tissue paper, staring at it. “I am.”
“You’re such a pain,” I say, trying not to enjoy the feeling of having the tables turned. “You’ve convinced me all year that I’m dumb for being stuck on Landon, and you’re totally hung up on a guy you just met, like, a month ago.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she says, finally slipping the scissors onto her fingers. “Just make sure you punch me if I start sounding like an idiot, okay?”
I punch her in the arm. “That won’t be a problem.”
She laughs as she cuts into the tissue paper. “Speaking of idiots, you and Landon seem to be getting cozier,” she says.
“Landon is not an idiot.”
“I was talking about you,” she says, completing her cut and setting the scissors down.
“Hey!”
“I mean that with all the love in the world, of course.” She reaches for a little Popsicle-stick structure, one we completed an hour ago and whose glue is completely set. “But you have to remember what I said. He’s not boyfriend material. He’s going to hurt you if you don’t get over the idea of you two getting together for real.”
“I know,” I say, pinching two sticks together and then holding them still for the required time it takes to set. “It’s, like, my brain is
screaming
to stop enjoying the time I spend with him, but I can’t help it. When we’re together, no matter what I tell myself, I still want to have this stupid happily ever after.”
“That doesn’t exist,” she says.
“It could.”
“If it could exist for you two, he would have picked you last year. You’d still be together. But he decided he found something better. When we’re here at the ranch, you guys get thrown together a lot, and he figures he’ll have fun for the summer. But he doesn’t see you the way you see him.”
“He could’ve changed,” I say. I stare down at where my fingers are pinching the Popsicle sticks, watching as a drop of glue squeezes out from between them and drops onto the newspapers we’ve spread out on the ground.
“Let’s go along with this delusional scenario and say he
has
changed. That he has genuine feelings and wants to live happily ever after with you. What happens in a couple of weeks when you’re all,
Surprise! We broke up a year ago! I’ve been lying all summer!
”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I haven’t gotten that far.”
“It’s just … I’m worried about you, is all. You guys are
hugging and kissing and laughing right now, but he’s still the same guy who destroyed you last year. I don’t want to pick you up off the floor again.”
“I know,” I say glumly. She’s right. I’m getting too swept up in this. I need to hold back somehow. I sigh, setting down my lantern. “Do you want to take a break? I think the glue fumes are getting to me.”
“It’s Elmer’s,” she says.
“So?” I say. “I still feel like I need air.”
She shrugs. “Yeah, sure, I guess I could use something to drink.”
We stand, and I stretch out, arching my back like a cat. Sitting on the wooden floor for five hours has done me no favors.
Bailey puts the cap on her glue, and then we step back into the sunshine.
“Holy crap, it’s roasting out here,” I say as we step onto the pathways leading to our cabin.
“We should go buy Popsicles later. Grape.”
“That’s very … specific.”
“Shut up,” she says, elbowing me.
Moments later, we’re stepping onto our front porch, and I yank open the door, eager for a cold soda and our dinky little fan. Instead, I stop in my tracks. “Oh. My. God,” I say, staring into our cabin, blinking several times to see if the image in front of me goes away.
Red Solo cups.
Thousands of red Solo cups, all half-filled with water.
They cover the floor so fully that I can’t even see the hardwood. They’re balanced on the armrests and cushions of the
couch. The windowsills. The kitchen counter. The top of the fridge. The microwave. The stools. The end tables. Even the top of the half-open bathroom door.
“Holy crap,” Bailey says, stepping up beside me. “How did he even do this in half a day?”
“I had help,” a voice calls out.
I whirl around to find Landon sitting on the front porch two doors down, watching us. It’s not his cabin, but an empty one.
I cross my arms. “From who, an entire troop of Boy Scouts?”
He grins, propping his feet up on the railing and taking another sip of what looks like sweet tea. “I would never reveal my accomplices,” he says.
“Of course it’s plural,” Bailey mutters under her breath. “He probably had half the cowboys on this ranch filling Solo cups all morning. How did we not catch wind of this?”
I ignore Bailey’s commentary and stare down Landon instead. “We’ll get you back for this you know,” I say.
Landon grins. “Aw, just look at your face; ‘it’s vacant, with a hint of sadness. Like a drunk who’s lost a bet.’”
I drop my jaw.
“Shaun of the Dead
does not count as a classic horror movie. It’s a satire at best. A total blight on zombie movies everywhere.”
His grin just widens, so I shake my head and close our cabin door, not ready to deal with dumping out the water and stacking up thousands of cups. Landon is entirely too smug over there in the shade, enjoying his iced tea.
I stomp away, heading back to the cafeteria, Bailey on my heels.
“Is it wrong that I’m kind of impressed?” I ask, screwing my lips to the side. “I mean the mousetraps were awesome, on a purely physical level, but this is genius. It’s going to take us hours to clean it up and it required no actual pain.”
I never saw this side of him last year. Everything was so simple. So … beautifully easy. This year, though, is so entirely different in such an amazing way that it’s hard to believe he’s even the same guy.
But he
is
the same guy.
He is, he is, he is
.
And even if Bailey’s wrong, and he decides he wants to be with me, how would he react once I told him I’d been lying all summer?
God, how would I ever get myself out of this mess in one piece?
“So maybe he outdid you this time,” Bailey says. “But it’s not over yet.”
We ride through the gates just as the sun makes its appearance over the rolling foothills, an orange beacon to guide us on what will be a full day’s ride. Unlike in the movies, there’s no covered wagon carrying our meals, no rustic squeak of wheels or toothless man we’ll call Cookie.
No, tonight a guy in a big SUV will arrive at our destination using the highway, and he’ll bring along a full-sized barbeque. So we’re not slowed down by a wagon, instead it’s the portly guy in a brand-new cowboy hat, holding on to the reins so tightly his horse keeps stopping and backing up.
I shift my weight and Zoey slows, moves out of the group of ranch hands and guests leaving the campus behind as we head toward the hills.
“I got it,” I call to Landon, peeling away from him and trotting back to the rider, passing the dozen guests who are joining
us. All in all, there are eighteen sets of hooves kicking up dust—in addition to the twelve guests, there are six staff members: me, Landon, and four longtime, year-round ranch hands. We’re the six who will actually control the flow of the cattle. The other twelve are more like extras on a movie set, here to experience a dying tradition.
I reach the greenhorn and ride up alongside him, then pull to a stop like he has, watching as his horse tosses his head in frustration, annoyed to be held back when the rest of the group is walking casually ahead.
“Your reins should have slack in them,” I say, demonstrating by wiggling my reins, showing him how loose they are. The man darts a look at me but doesn’t loosen his grip. Instead his knuckles turn even whiter. “You can trust me. Zeke has done this ride a hundred times, and he’s our most reliable horse. I promise that if you let go, he’s not going to take off.”
The guy rakes in a shaky breath, looking at me long enough that I can see the apprehension in his eyes. I keep talking in a low, even voice, like he’s a cornered animal. “He’s not a leader, just a follower. He will only go the speed of the rest of the horses, which is going to be a walk. All you have to do is sit up there and relax, and he’ll autopilot you the whole way there, okay?”
His shoulders relax as he loosens the reins.
“It’s okay to hold on to the horn until you get comfortable. After an hour or so you’ll be totally relaxed. I swear.”
He nods, smiling the slightest bit, and reaches for the horn.
His horse picks up an easy walk, and in a few minutes we’ve caught up to the back of the group. I walk next to him for a few more minutes, until I’m sure he’s okay, and then I pull
away and pick up a trot, swinging wide around the group and checking to be sure the other riders are doing okay. Just as expected, the horses are plodding quietly along, occasionally snorting or tossing their heads. They’re all happy to be out of the arena and on the trails, but they’re just as well behaved as always. These dozen horses have been ranch horses their whole lives and would never spook, even if a snake jumped right out at them.
I meet back up with Landon, who is at the front of the “herd,” his often hyper horse just as relaxed as the others, and slow to a walk.
He smiles from beneath the brim of his cowboy hat, his eyes dark and sexy, his body swaying with the walk of his horse, his shoulders squared and strong yet his hands light on the reins.
He has never looked this good. This in control of his domain. I want to hate him for it, but part of me thinks this is the only time he’s truly honest—with me, with himself. Not in a romantic sense. Not in a career sense. In that core way that matters. Deep inside, when all the BS slides away and you know what someone is made of.
It’s out here on the trail where sometimes I think I see deep inside his soul, those moments he’s utterly content, and somehow I finally
get
him. It doesn’t mean we’re meant to be, doesn’t mean he won’t break my heart.
It just means deep in his heart, he’s something different. The guy who would gallop to the edge of a cliff to save you, in a dramatic scene like in
City Slickers
. He’d share his last drop of water with you, or if your horse went lame, he’d offer you his own and then walk, even if his boots made his feet blister and the sun dang near killed him.
He might still dump you for another girl, but out here, under the never-ending sky, he’s mine. The guy I fall for over and over and over again.
“All good?” he asks.
“Yep. Just a little nervous.” I glance back at the rider again, and he’s already relaxing into the lull of his horse’s easy walk. “He’ll be fine in an hour or so.”
“He probably should not have declined the pre-roundup lesson yesterday.”
“Seems like it,” I agree, nodding. “He’ll probably be bow-legged by this time tomorrow.”
Silence falls over us, and I’m content, listening to the gentle thud of hoofbeats, the occasional snort of a horse, or the jingle of a buckle as a horse tosses its head. I’m lost in a place a century or two ago, where cars and lockers and cell phones don’t exist, and life was simple. “Can I ask you a question?” he says, a moment later.
“Shoot.”
“If you could have
any
superpower, what would it be?” I glance up, surprised by how utterly left field his question is, but his expression is neutral, calm. He legit wants to know my dream superpower.
“There’s only one right answer to this, isn’t there?” I ask.
“Obviously.”
I watch Zoey’s ears swivel back and forth, trying to figure out which power Landon would choose. “Invisibility,” I say.
“Now
that
is lame!” he says. “How can you pick that over flying?”
“Because anyone with a few hundred bucks and a passport
can fly. If I were invisible, I could watch people when they think they’re alone.”
“Well that’s not creepy.”
“I don’t mean it like that. I just mean, everyone has a public self. A way they behave because they think they have to or because they want you to think they are a certain kind of person. But if I were invisible, I could see who they really are when they’re alone, and their defenses are down.”
“You say that like you’ve met some two-faced people.”
“I don’t know. Not necessarily two-faced, but maybe I’m just bad at reading them,” I say. “At seeing beyond what they present to me. Maybe if I could be invisible, I’d understand them better. See them in their native environment or whatever.”
He furrows his brow, unconvinced. “Still not better than flying.”
“Guarantee, once you fly for a few weeks you’d be totally over it.”
“There’s no way
flying
would get old.”
“All it does is get you from point A to point B. There are way too many options for alternative transportation. You can’t waste your
one
opportunity for a superpower on
flying
.”