Page 55 of Every Thought Taken

“Burgers or chicken?”

Snapping out of my thoughts, I watch Anderson riffle through the cooler. For a moment, I simply stare in silence. Study his slender build, his black shirt a little loose on the lean muscles of his arms and chest. His cargo shorts baggy on his hips and covering most of his slim legs.

Bulky guys have never garnered my attention. The slight muscles Anderson has have come from years outdoors, hiking through the woods and walking around town. And personally, I prefer his lithe frame to that of jocks.

“Chicken,” I finally say.

He peeks over his shoulder and narrows his eyes. “Were you checking out my butt, North?”

I push off my camping chair and join him at the cooler. Give his butt a quick slap and squat at his side. “What if I was?”

He chuckles. “I’d tell you to carry on.”

I playfully slap his arm. “You’re ridiculous.” I turn toward the nonperishables and stare down at the minimal food we brought. “What can I help with?”

He points to the frying pan. “Hand me that and I’ll start on the chicken. Want to cut up potatoes?”

“On it.”

Years of camping have taught us a lot. We may not be chefs, but we have basic cooking skills. We also know how to make something from next to nothing. The simplest of meals made over a campfire can be pretty damn good.

I get to work on the potatoes, cutting them into small chunks so they cook quickly. Anderson adds a pat of butter to the pan over the fire, then adds precut strips of chicken to the pan, sprinkling them with herbs. Sizzling fills the air, the pungent aroma of the herbs hitting my nose.

A minute after he flips the chicken, he pushes the chicken to the outside of the pan and leaves enough open space in the middle for the potatoes.

“Done?” he asks and I nod. “Toss ’em in.”

Once the potatoes are in the pan, I sprinkle in more herbs and some garlic powder. He reaches for the tote next to the cooler, grabs the roll of foil, tears off a piece, and tents it over the pan.

While dinner finishes cooking over the fire, we clean up our mess. The entire time, I peek at Anderson from the corner of my eye. Watch his every move. Notice how he doesn’t second-guess what to do next. Think how easy it is to do this with him—not camping, but existing.

Anderson has always given me a level of comfort no one else provides. We move with ease around each other. We don’t always need words to convey how we feel. As if we just know what the other feels or thinks or wants. I love our muted moments as much as the ones when he whispers words of love or adoration.

Our months apart earlier this year were nothing short of torture. I detested my parents for tearing me away from life, from my friends, from Anderson. Yes, I appreciated them for loving me enough to want nothing but the best. But being isolated had damaged so much. Not just Anderson and our relationship but with me too.

The more I lost touch with everyone, Anderson especially, the more anxiety crept in. I questioned everything and everyone. Lost trust in my intuition. After weeks of not talking with Anderson, I panicked more often than not. His dark days wiggled their way into my memory. Planted seeds and nightmares in my mind. Nightmares I couldn’t shake because he refused to talk or respond to my countless messages. Were it not for Lessa and her daily reports at school, I would’ve defied my parents and gone to him.

Part of me wishes I would have done it anyway. With his sunken cheeks and starved frame on the last day of school, I should have done something sooner. Somehow, I should have tried harder.

Thankfully, that is behind us now. And I have no intention of going back.

“Food’s ready,” Anderson says, folding the foil and setting it aside.

I grab plates and hold them near the fire as he portions the chicken and potatoes between both. He sets the pan on a small rock pile to cool as we park in our chairs and dive in.

I moan around the first bite. “So good.” Something about food cooked over a fire makes my mouth water. Grilled meats and vegetables are good, but there is magic in cooking campfire meals. The food and methods are simple, but they have something you just don’t get from home.

Anderson nudges my elbow with his, a smirk on his lips as I turn to face him. “Never heard you moan for anyone else’s chicken and potatoes.”

“Yours is the best.” I take another bite and moan again. “Duh.”

“Noted.” He chuckles. “But I also don’t think our parents would appreciate their children moaning.” He points his fork in my direction. “Not like that.”

My cheeks heat as I stab another piece of chicken and potato on my fork and shove it in my mouth. This time, I refrain from my appreciative sounds.

We finish the rest of dinner in silence, cleaning our dishes afterward. And then the first dose of apprehension kicks in.

We’re alone. Together. In the woods. Not a soul for miles.

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