Page 47 of Because of Logan

She looks so alarmed, I have to laugh.

“No, I never bring it back with me. Strictly catch and release. Grandma is a vegetarian. She never allowed Grandpa to bring the fish home either,” I say as I finish setting up the rods.

* * *

I hear a click,and when I look, Skye has her phone out and she’s taking pictures. She points the phone at me.

“Is this okay?”

I smile and she takes a picture.

“That’s okay,” I say as I get closer to her and take the phone, switching the camera view, “but this is better.”

I hold the phone and take a dozen pictures of us smiling, me kissing her, her kissing me, and her laughing when I pull her body in front of mine, holding her with one hand and taking the pictures with the other.

Then I step back, grab my phone, and take a few more pictures of her alone, the kaleidoscope of fall colors at her back. Her looking shy, eyes downcast, and of her looking straight at me, lips parted and inviting.

I give her phone back to her.

“I want all of those. Send them all to me.”

We sit at the water’s edge for the next two hours, talking in hushed tones as if in church and listening to nature’s songs, birds chirping, the rustle of trees, and the ripple of water over rocks and sand. We don’t catch a single fish.

“Hungry?” I ask.

“Yes. I’m always hungry when I’m outdoors.”

We walk to the blanket, take our shoes off, and sit on it. I’m in charge of lunch and Skye is in charge of dessert. I start unpacking.

“I got us some sandwiches, fruit, veggies...”

I stop talking when I see the container she pulls out of her bag and opens it. Three different kinds of cookies, chocolate chip, peanut butter, and sugar cookies.

“Marry me.”

She laughs, and I swear I hear Grandpa’s voice saying,“attaboy.”

* * *

“Tell me about your home.”

Skye packs away the food we didn’t eat before answering me.

“I grew up on a farm. An organic farm, to be exact. It’s not huge, but it's not small either. We grow different fruits, depending on the season. But we have a line of organic maple syrups we produce year-round. Traditional and flavored ones. We even have an adult-only version. It has bourbon, and you have to be over twenty-one to buy it.”

“You can harvest maple all year?”

“Not harvest. Produce. Harvesting time is late winter into early spring. But we have different flavors being produced at different times of the year.”

She leans back, propped on her elbows, back arched, face up to the sun, and eyes closed. The sides of her gray zip hoodie fall back, revealing a white T-shirt and a sliver of skin where the shirt meets the top of her black yoga pants. The outline of a pink bra is visible under the thin and nearly see-through fabric in the bright daylight. I watch, fascinated as the breeze swirls locks of golden hair around her face and shoulders. Eyes still closed, she inhales the cool, clean air deeply, her chest expanding, her flat stomach contracting.

It takes everything I have not to pounce on her. This level of trust she’s giving me is something I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around. If I were her and a guy I’d just met drove me to the middle of nowhere, I’m not sure I’d be so relaxed.

Skye drops from her elbows to her back, arms crossed behind her head and legs crossed at the ankles. She’s a picture of peacefulness. I envy her ability to just be.

Unguarded.

Open.

---