Page 63 of Fated

“Hungry?” he asks, and when I nod he pulls the lemonade and the food from the pack, setting the dishes in a small circle in the center of the blanket.

His head is down and he concentrates on his task. His movements are quiet and efficient. I’ve noticed he doesn’t waste movement. Everything he does is purposeful. It makes me wonder again what he does, who he is, what he wants.

I sit on the edge of the soft cotton blanket and fold my legs under me. Closer to the ground, the scent of crushed pine needles floats up.

When McCormick finishes setting out the food he leans back against the craggy trunk and gives me a smile.

I take that as my cue and pull open the lid of the black bean and mango salsa. When I do, a bright, tart lime-and-mango scent greets me. I glance up at McCormick. “Who made this?”

He flashes his grin. “You did. Friday.”

I nod. “I thought maybe you did.”

“You’ve never shared your secret recipe.”

And I’m not about to start now, seeing as I don’t know the recipe.

I take a chip and scoop up the salsa, catching black beans, cubed mango, the bright confetti of red and green peppers, and sprigs of cilantro. When I bite into the crisp tortilla chip I close my eyes at the burst of flavor. There’s the brightness of lime, the subtle sweetness of sun-ripened mango, the umami of black beans, the astringent tartness of cilantro, all dashed with sea salt, and finally, a warm heat from the peppers that grows and grows until your mouth, your whole body, is glowing with it.

I open my eyes to find McCormick watching me with a hungry look on his face.

“It’s delicious,” I say, pushing the container toward him. “Have some.”

“You’re enjoying it.”

I nod. “I don’t get to enjoy food often. Meals are rushed or skipped. And when I do sit down, it’s usually fondue, because Mila?—”

I cut myself off at McCormick’s confused expression.

“I mean, I don’t often take the time to just enjoy.”

Because McCormick’s still looking at me strangely I grab another chip and scoop up more of the salsa. I close my eyes and enjoy the experience. After a moment I hear him shift, take a chip, and then join me in feasting.

It doesn’t take long for us to finish the salsa and chips. The crumbly sweetness of the banana bread follows, and then the fresh mango.

McCormick pulls a knife from his pack. He holds the mango and slowly scores the fruit, slicing the orange flesh into perfect cubes waiting to be plucked free. Juice runs over his fingers. The heat has lulled me, the gentle breeze has soothed me, and I have that floaty feeling that arises when you’re full and content.

McCormick holds a mango half out to me, and our fingers tangle as I take the slick fruit. Then, smiling at him, I bring it to my mouth and pull a square free. The juice coats my tongue. It’s warm and sweet and tastes just like a lazy afternoon under the hot sun, ocean waves cresting at your feet.

I look at McCormick to see if he’s enjoying the fruit as much as I am. His lips are glossy and he takes a final bite. Then, without knowing I’m watching, he licks his fingers, taking up the last of the juice.

My heart crashes in my ears like the roar you hear when listening to a conch shell. The world is ultraviolet bright, all the colors more saturated than real life. My skin tingles and prickles, and all I want to do is crawl across the blanket and taste his lips.

He looks up then, alerted maybe by the shuddering sound of my exhale.

“Becca?” When he sees the expression on my face he stiffens and leans forward. “What?”

It’s the “Becca” that does it. A cold splash hits me and I tumble down from the high. I want to kiss him. Desperately. But then what happens when I stop dreaming? Will I hurt him again? It’s not fair to pull him in one direction and then push him in another.

So instead of running my fingers across the dark stubble lining his jaw, I scoot across the blanket and ask, “Can I lean against you?”

He considers me, and then he leans back against the tree and opens his arms.

I settle against him, cradled between his legs. Then I drop my head to his chest and listen to the steady beat of his heart. After a moment he drops his arms around me and begins to stroke my back.

“Tell me about you,” I say, listening to the drone of a dragonfly flitting overhead.

“What do you want to hear?”

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