Page 62 of Our Long Days
florence
For once,I’m not angry because I opened my big mouth.
I’m angry at him for keeping his closed.
Just when I think his walls are lowering, they snap into place. Round and round we go. I’m dizzy and tired and still so stupidly infatuated with him. This is what happens when you listen to your heart. My brain told me to put a stop to the silly game we’re playing after the incident in his bedroom.
Not a week later, we were dancing in the rain.
The longer we do this, the higher my hopes rise and the harder they fall. His intentions might be good, but we were stupid to think this would ever work. My feelings for him will only grow too big for him to ignore. Eventually, it’ll become too awkward.
I need to protect the hopeless organ in my chest.
The thud of his footsteps barely fade before I drop my head into my hands, muffling my frustrated screams. He returns with our packs slung over his shoulders and fisting two canteens of water, his grieved expression wiped clean. We trudge through the thick, green undergrowth, barely saying anything.
If he didn’t like what I said, he should call me out on it, notshut me out with his sour mood, grunts, and half-assed responses.
The route is short, a three-mile loop around the campsite. When we reach the two-mile marker, I’m ready to combust.
He lets me walk ahead, easily keeping up with my angry footsteps. Maybe I overstepped with talk of babies and marriage, but that doesn’t give him permission to shut me out. Every time I’m open, he clams up like a big, stupid, muscular…clam.
We reach an overgrown point in the path, and as I hold back a branch for him, he gives me a tight-lipped smile.
I lose it.
The fernthwackshim in the round slab of his stomach.
“The fuck?” He rubs a hand over his T-shirt. “What was that for?”
I point at him. “You’re a big, stupid clam!”
“Aclam?” he asks slowly.
“Yes. A clam.” I fold my arms over my chest, not breaking eye contact.
He shifts uncomfortably under my gaze. “I’m not sure what that means. Something tells me it isn’t positive.”
“It means you don’t talk to me. I say what’s on my mind, and yes, sometimes without thinking. Tell me if I’m pushing you out of your comfort zone, but don’t push me away.” I eat up the distance between us. “I’m calling you out on your shit, DexterRobertMoore.” He flinches when I jab a finger into his chest. “This is supposed to be a fun trip, and you’re really raining on my charade.”
His mouth twitches.
“What?”
“It’s parade.” Crickets. “It’s ‘raining on my parade.’”
My blood boils. Steam rises from me. I’m a woman scorned. “Are you mansplaining to me right now?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” His amusement blinks out as hescrubs a hand over his tired face. “I’m sorry if I upset you. I’m not shutting you out, but I don’t…” He drags the cap off his head, clenching it in his fist as he fights to find the words. “Can we forget about it? Don’t let me ruin this weekend.”
The shutters behind his eyes fall—my cue to leave.
I pivot on my heel, ignoring the scratch of thorns on my bare skin as I march away. Dex’s footsteps thump behind me, his brooding stare burning a hole in my head the entire mile back.
By the time we return, the sun kisses the horizon. Frustrated and breathless, I take an angry swig from my canteen and flop onto a camp chair. My hands twitch, the ring he gifted me burning my skin. I don’t dare touch it.
Dex goes about his business, starting a small fire.
Vibrations wrack my body, my emotions are uncontainable. I’m ready to explode like Mount Vesuvius, leveling the forest and wiping out everything, including my last drop of patience.
