Authors: Mandy Hubbard
“Not true. Can you imagine the things you could do? Good or bad. Rob banks or save people from burning buildings. Unlimited options.”
“But with invisibility, you could still rob the banks, and they wouldn’t even have a description of you. And you could go to any concert you want without tickets. You could go to movie sets and watch them film. You could stay in five-star resorts and no one would even know.”
“Hmm … I can see how that would be nice. …” he says, screwing his lips up to the side, his eyes narrowed. “I mean, I’ve always wanted to hike up to the Hollywood sign, but it’s got, like, thirty bazillion cameras and No Trespassing signs. They treat that place like Fort Knox. Even if I flew up there, I’d probably end up in handcuffs.”
“No
way
,” I say, incredulous.
“What?”
“Did I really just
convince
you of something?”
“Hey, I didn’t say it was better than flying,” he says, like he just realized I swayed his opinion. “Just that it had its merits.”
“That’s good enough for me,” I say gleefully. “I practically won a debate with you.”
He just shakes his head, and our conversation falls away as we continue to plod along, the horses in front of us kicking up dust. He reaches forward and pats Storm on the shoulder. “You know, it must have been weird, to do this for real.”
“Yeah. I mean, sometimes out here, it really is real. We are actually moving the cows.”
“But we don’t have to. Or at least not like this,” he says, motioning behind us to the tourists. The ones out here for the experience and not a purpose.
“What you really mean is it must have been weird to live then. When this was an actual way of life, and there were no … guests involved.”
“Exactly.”
I take in the desert landscape, the rolling hills, the chatter behind us. The sun beats down, and already I’m sweating, and the day’s hardly begun. The comforts of my bed, a hot shower—they
all fall away behind us. And yet, there’s this inexplicable pull forward, to the draw of a hot meal tonight, followed by a long dip in the cool river, where an honest day’s grime rinses away, and we feel new again. “I’m sure it was hard, but it was probably pretty amazing. To live this way.”
He nods. I reach over and poke him. “It would have suited you. I bet you could’ve handled it.”
“I’m sure you could’ve too,” he says.
“Nah,” I reply, grinning at him. “I don’t think they would appreciate my freakish stylings.”
“You’re not a freak,” he says, like the suggestion is idiotic.
I don’t say it was
him
who nearly called me a freak several weeks ago, that first day we talked again. I don’t know why he’s denying he thinks I look like a freak now—if he doesn’t think that way anymore, or if he’s faking that he likes it.
I don’t know how he feels about anything, anymore. I used to think I did. I used to think I had him figured out.
“Are you looking forward to the dance?” I ask.
“Sure. It sounds like it will be fun.”
“Can you dance?” I know the answer. We danced together last year, and then I watched him at homecoming with Natalie. Before I heard about her dating that other guy.
“Yeah, my mom used to make me go to these swing dance lessons with her because there were always more girls than guys. I was, like, twelve, so I didn’t realize how uncool that made me.”
That explains why he was so good at the country-style dances last year. I picture twelve-year-old Landon dancing with his mom, and it fits. It also matches up with what he’s said about stepping in for his dad.
I don’t understand how, if he’s such a good person, he let me fall for him and then walked away. I should stop searching for the answer, because clearly there is none.
I’ll never again make fun of those dumb girls on
The Bachelor
who get dumped in favor of someone else and want the bachelor to give them a reason, like he’s going to be all, “Oh, it was because you had spinach stuck in your teeth, and also you have a really annoying laugh.”
But there’s never really a reason he can give them. The fact of it is that he just loves someone else more. And last year, that someone else was Natalie.
But this year, it wasn’t supposed to matter. I was supposed to be over him.
But now it
does
matter.
And that can’t be good.
Two hours before dusk, we find the cattle milling about in a small valley tucked near the Columbia River. There are only two dozen of them—the ranch no longer makes a living on the cattle, so they only keep enough around to maintain the façade.
“You seemed rather deep in thought this afternoon,” Landon says as we approach where we’ll camp tonight.
“Yeah. It’s quiet out here. Makes it easy to think.”
“About?”
“You,” I say, before I can stop myself.
“I
am
pretty amazing,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “I know, right? Truly one of a kind.”
“But no, seriously, what about me?”
“A lot of things,” I say. “Like what’s going to happen next week when our stay here is over and we …” I pause, catching
myself before I say
leave for college
. “We go back to Enumclaw.”
“What do you mean, what’s going to happen?”
I purse my lips for a second, telling myself not to go down this path, but I can’t help it. “Are we going to be together?”
I want him to tell me of course we’re going to be together, forever and ever. I want to hold on to this fantasy that he’s falling for me this time around, that he finally sees me as that girl he can live happily ever after with, that there’s no thoughts of Natalie in his head, no idea that he intends to kiss her and leave me behind.
And if that’s true, if he wants to be with me, I’ll find some way to make it work, make him understand why I had to lie to him all these weeks.
“Why wouldn’t we be?” He looks so genuinely surprised, my heart does a little pitter-patter.
“I don’t know. I don’t know what I am to you. If this is a summer thing.”
“I sure hope it’s not just a summer thing,” he says, adjusting his reins so that he can loop them around the horn. His free hand rests on the saddle pad, just behind his leg.
But why is this summer different, to him?
“I don’t know. We haven’t talked much about what happens in September.”
“Don’t you want to stay together?” he asks. Either I’m horrible at reading him, or he means it.
“Yes,” I finally answer. “I want to stay together in September. And October and November and December.”
As the words pour out, I know they’re true. I want to be with him. I want to know what we could be.
“I believe you, so why do I feel like you don’t believe
me?”
We’re approaching the group now, and it’s time to help them dismount and untack and set up camp. “Can we finish this conversation later?” I ask.
“Yes. Because I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me.”
Sometime after dusk, I get up from my seat on a folding camping chair, tossing my paper plate into the fire. I stand still, watching as the edges turn black and it slowly curls, then disappears into the ashes.
Landon stands, his presence heavy beside me, filling the air with anticipation. We haven’t finished our conversation yet, and I know he’s been confused all evening about my questions, my concern. And now I don’t know what to tell him. Don’t know how to say that I fully expect to be dumped in a week—if I didn’t beat him to it—and what does he have to say for himself?
That would be stupid.
All around us, the guests are getting their bedding set up in their tents, some of them disappearing already, too sore from the day-long ride to hang out. Some of the others are forming mini-groups, enjoying the beverages and treats supplied by the ranch’s SUV. It sits at the edge of camp, the windows rolled down and the radio humming with a quiet country song that floats out with the summer breeze.
“Where do you want to crash?” Landon asks, staring into the flames.
“That way, I guess,” I say, pointing into the darkness, to where a log is vaguely visible on the ground, a natural barrier between what will become our bedroom for the night and the herd of horses and cattle that mill about.
Before I can respond, he reaches out and interlaces his fingers with mine, pulling me away from the other campers and toward a darkened corner of the camp, far from the heat of the fire and the light of the lanterns hanging from scrawny little trees. We walk in silence as the sounds of the group die out behind us and the chirps of crickets fill in the blanks. Above us, the stars twinkle, a never-ending blanket that seems so much more vivid than back at home. Those first few nights at the ranch last year, I couldn’t stop staring at them, stop trying to count them all. I gave up at 842, when my eyes got heavy.
Landon stops by where we’ve laid out our tack and saddlebags, dropping my hand so that he can untie our bedrolls from the back of the saddle, and then he carries them both toward our destination. There, I spread out a thin outdoor blanket intended to keep our stuff clean. I purse my lips to keep from grinning as I unroll my sleeping bag, and Landon unties his own.
And then he goes to unroll it.
And it only unrolls halfway before it stops abruptly.
He tips his head to the side, his jaw drops, and I burst out laughing.
“You cut off the end of my sleeping bag!”
I laugh harder, and he playfully grabs me around the waist, picking me up and spinning me around before dropping me
back onto the ground. “What am I going to do with you?” He doesn’t let go of my waist, and so we’re standing like that, me in his arms, blinking innocently up at him.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“ ‘I’ll have an answer, or I’ll have blood!’” he says, punching his fist into the night sky in an over-the-top sort of way.
“Straw Dogs
,” I say. “And fine, we can unzip my bag and lay on it. It’s warm enough tonight.”
“Deal.” He reaches down and unzips my bag, spreading it out on the ground, then tossing our pillows on top. And then like that, we’re done, and I’m staring at where we’ll sleep, side by side, with only the stars as a blanket.
It’s darker over here, private somehow even though I can see the dancing flames in the distance, can still occasionally hear a giggle or a shout.
I sit on the log, next to Landon, as we pull our boots and socks off. I put on a clean pair of socks and then reach into my bag to pull out my pj’s—an oversized T-shirt with a big cherry on the front and matching cotton shorts. I glance at him and then back to our makeshift bed. Last year I’d slid into my bag and changed inside it, struggling to put it on without him seeing too much.
Landon sees my pause. “I’ll turn around,” he says, and then spins around so his back is to me.
“No peeking?” I ask. I don’t know why I’m playing this game—he saw me in my bra and underwear when we went swimming at the start of the summer, then again in Bailey’s little string bikini. But this feels different. Personal. Probably because we’re about to sleep next to each other.
“Promise,” he says, his voice sounding just a little huskier. “Unless you’re plotting to steal all my clothes and run again.”
I chuckle softly to myself as I stand on top of my sleeping bag.
“I had to cover myself with two palm fronds and run all the way to my cabin, you know.”
“Sounds very Tarzan,” I say as I swap my too-warm dirty button-up with the T-shirt, then shimmy out of my jeans and into the airy, comfortable shorts. “Done,” I say, and he’s spinning around on the log, then standing up. His eyes bore into mine with such intensity, I’m lost in his gaze. Until I realize that while he’s staring at me, he’s unbuttoning his pants. I jerk in an almost theatrical way and whirl around.
“Aw, modest?” he asks, chuckling under his breath.
“Just trying to return the favor,” I reply.
I count to thirty before glancing back at him. He’s in his boxers, shirtless, as he threads his arms through a clean T-shirt. When he pulls it over his head, his chest and abs tighten, completely drool-worthy.
I clear my throat and walk to my sleeping bag, busying myself with fluffing my pillow up so he won’t notice how awkward I’m acting, all herky-jerky, like I can’t remember how to work my arms, let alone breathe. I lie back and then he’s beside me, and we’re staring up at the sky, completely invisible to the group a couple hundred yards away.
For a moment, I let myself believe we’re the only two people left on earth, and there was never Natalie, and there will be no other girl at WSU for him to choose this fall.
It’s just me and him and the stars.
“I think this is my favorite place in the world,” he finally says.
I nod. “It’s breathtaking.”
“I think no matter how old I get or where I am, this is one of those nights that just … imprints on you. Stays a vivid memory even a decade or two later, you know?”
I do know. Because he might not remember this from last year but I do, and I still remember every twinkling star, every snort of the nearby horses, every time his hand found mine and squeezed. Still remember how tired I’d been that next morning after spending almost an entire night listening to him breathe.
“Yeah. I know
exactly
what you mean,” I finally say quietly.
“Where do you think you’ll be?”
“When?”
“When you’re remembering tonight,” he says. “In a week, a month, a year. Are you applying anywhere?”
“UW and WSU. I want to stay in-state.”
I don’t tell him I’ve already accepted entrance to WSU, in Pullman. A few hours east of here, putting even more distance between me and my hometown. Classes start in a few weeks. I have my dorm assignment and meal card and everything.
“You?” I ask.
“I don’t know yet.”
But he does know. He’s going to WSU, like me. He wore WSU T-shirts to school last spring, and at graduation, it was in the little program.
“You have time,” I say, knowing he doesn’t.
“Mm-hmm …” His hand finds mine in the darkness, and he squeezes it. “Why didn’t we ever talk at school?” he asks. For a heartbeat I think he means after he chose her, and my mind races, spins into a million different responses. But then he says, “Why didn’t you ever notice me like I noticed you?”