Page 64 of When The Rain Falls

"You're fucking impossible," Finn murmurs, shaking his head.

“I’mimpossible? You’re the one who cheated in the corn maze,” I say, recalling how not more than ten minutes ago, Finn got so frustrated by coming across the same section of corn maze for a third time, that he literally walked through the corn stalk wall and grumbled something about corn being food, not entertainment.

“I didn’t cheat,” he mumbles. “I gave up.”

I shake my head disapprovingly at him and he runs a hand through his hair mumbling. As I peruse more candles, my hands land on a dark blue one. I pick it up and sniff it.

"Ooh, this one is called Midnight Sky," I say.

"What the fuck is a midnight sky supposed to smell like, anyway?” Finn asks.

"I don't know. Something romantic. A soft bed of grass. Glowing moonlight. Quietly chirping crickets."

"Aimee, none of those things are smells."

"You have to use your imagination,” I chide.

"Yeah, ok.” Finn takes the candle from me and sniffs it. “Midnight Sky. Let’s see. Footsteps behind you, but no one’s there. The rustling of bushes. An ear-piercing scream.”

I tilt my head and give him a look of annoyance. His lips are pressed tightly together and I’m beginning to recognize that as suppressed humor. There’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. The tiniest, itty, bittiest hint of it. Now that I think about it. All of his glares contain tiny nuances of emotions. So faint you could easily miss them. I think I’m learning to read him.

“I hate your imagination. It sucks,” I declare, like a wounded five-year-old. “Actually, all these candles are disappointing,” I say, swooping my hand over the both in front of us. “Vanilla. Eucalyptus. Cinnamon roll. Boring.” I watch Finn watch me. “Give the people what they really want.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?” Finn humors me. “What do the people want, Aimee?”

“Sawdust,” I say. Finn snorts, not unlike a horse. “New car smell,” I add. “Oooh, fresh lumber!” I clasp my hands together excitedly.

“Mowed grass,” he adds. I smile. Because it pleases me beyond measure to learn that he, the troll, has a playful side.

“Fresh paint,” I add. “There is nothing better than walking into a freshly painted room and wondering if you might get slightly high.”

“Gasoline?” Finn offers, his tone light and playful. He begins to wander away from the booth. I take his cue and join him.

“I know it’s bad for you. But no one can resist a small whiff of gasoline,” I agree. We wander aimlessly down two long rows of booths, our shoulders brushing every few feet or so.

“A freshly opened deck of cards,” Finn adds.

“Really?” I look up at him with uncertainty.

“Fantastic.”

“I’ll have to test that one myself,” I decide.

Without warning, without so much as any kind of prelude, Finn wraps one of his large hands around mine. He clutches it softly. So casually. Like it’s as automatic as breathing. Like it’s nothing. But it’s not nothing. It’s everything. No one has ever held my hand before.

His hand is rough. His fingers slightly dry. But it’s perfect. I glance down and admire how delicate my fingers look next to his. I’ve never enjoyed a single thing in my entire life as much as I enjoy this moment right now. And all he did was take my hand. I try to catch his eye, but he’s not looking at me. Like he’s trying to paint a veneer of insignificance over what he just did. He may be calm and cool. But I’m squealing inside.

“Next year, let’s open our own booth,” Finn says. “We can do so much better than Murder Sky.”

“Oh my God,” I scold. “It’sMidnightSky! And it’s supposed to be romantic.” I let him guide me down the row of booths, past funnel cakes, and corn on the cob, and fall quilt displays, and other homemade goods. Our fastened hands sway gently between us. His thumb caresses the back of my knuckles.

“Yeah, well, guess I’m not romantic.”

But I completely disagree. Right now, I can’t think of anything more romantic than this man claiming my hand in the middle of a busy pumpkin patch as we trudge around mud puddles. That’s when I realize the art of romance is subtle. It’s the power of a small gesture to make you feel like treasure. And right now, I feel like treasure. His treasure.

“So,” I say, swinging our arms just a little bit higher, my footsteps feeling light, the ground turning into clouds beneathmy feet. I feel like if I jumped right now, I might float away. “What exactly is it that you owe me?”

“What are you talking about?”

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