Dance With Me

-Too Much Excitement for One Night-

I bet Franklin County was beautiful in the winter, to those who enjoying that sort of thing. Me, I despised the cold, my burning hate for the weather the only thing keeping me only slightly warmer during the season. It was plain awful. Everything was wet, and slick with ice, the wind unforgiving as it slapped harshly at my skin every time I stepped outside.

And the snow.

I'd seen snow. I knew what it was. Little white frozen flakes falling from the sky. But I never seen it stick to things like it did in Franklin. Covered everything in a sheet of white; sometimes that sheet was thin, sometimes it was thick. And it wouldn't go away.

The snow was cleverly disguised as an agent of the devil. Snuffed the life out of everything. As long as it stuck around, so did an agonizing chill. Made my journey to and from home a tedious and dangerous task, fighting hard against the elements, pacing up and down the winding roads, taking care not to slip on invisible patches of slick ice. I was sure my bum had permanent bruising, and I hadn't been able to keep a pair of socks dry for weeks.

My mood darkened with the weather. If my body was miserable, so was my mind. I reverted back to some sort of primitive form of survival, in which my days passed by in a blur as I focused my energies in working, eating, sleeping, and the pursuit of warmth. Ain't no paying attention to the little joys in life when I couldn't feel my toes. I certainly hoped a harsh winter would mean the onset of an early spring.

Forrest must've listened when I said I didn't want to see him at the hospital again. Four months, and not a single whisper of him. Not any of the Bondurants, actually. Hadn't seen them at the hospital, and if they were wandering around town, I was the lesser aware. The caravans still rolled through town in the middle of the night, never failed to wake me from slumber, and I hated the whole business a little more every time it happened.

Sometimes, I'd wake with a start at the roar of motors, roll over in bed and stare up at the ceiling. It was easier to get back to sleep some nights more than others. But when the pull of noise was stronger than the lull of sleep, and I'd let a conscious thought slide over my muddled brain, that was all it took to wrench me back into the world of the awake.

Usually, that first thought came in the form of an image of a fuzzy-faced ruffian with steel gray eyes. Sometimes it was just his face, mouth turned down and eyes squinted in what seemed to be his natural expression. Sometimes I imagined him behind the wheel of one of the vehicles down on the street, both hands at the wheel, eyes staring at the trunk of the car in front of him, foot pressed hard against the gas pedal. I wondered if he did runs at all, or if he was the manager of another responsibility in the business.

Other times, I'd see him turned towards me, cheeks blazing with color, eyes shifting uncomfortably, and my stomach would churn with a nauseating mixture of emotion.

There wasn't much to Forrest Bondurant. He made his living illegally. He was a criminal, and they said he was as prone to violence as much as he was an introverted personality. His communication skills were lack if not nonexistent. He strung sentences together until he made his point, and that was the end of it. It seemed as though he threw all his initiative into his business, and left none for his personal life. I couldn't imagine Forrest making any passionate gesture of endearment, or show soft compassion towards a woman. Hell, I couldn't even picture what his smile might look like. That makes a hard man to love.

But he was also a man of polite manner. A parent to his brothers, or so it seemed. People looked up to him. They feared him, some hated him, but he was respected. To the people of Franklin County, and maybe even beyond that, he was something of a mythical creature. A fable, an apparition, not ever quite sure if you actually seen him on the streets or it was your imagination getting away from you. It was interesting, his reputation. These people knew the Bondurants a whole lot longer than I have. When they saw Forrest, they saw something unreal. The stuff of legends.

When I saw Forrest, I saw a man lying in bed, scowl permanently set on his face like a grumpy old man, aged far before his time. I saw a man taking bites of grits off the spoon in my grasp. A man who leaned against me in exhaustion, using my strength and support to return him to bed safe and sound after deliberately disobeying me. He may be immortal, like they say. Indestructible. An agent of business and order by means of brutality. But above anything, he was still a man. I knew that first hand. Still needed taking care of. Still shit himself in his two-day sleep, and someone had to clean it up.

I suppose when you reach that level of personal business with someone, it's hard to consider them with a strictly professional attitude. I'd taken care of Forrest. And I kind of liked it.

I was glad Forrest was keeping away from the hospital. But that didn't stop me from hurrying to take a peek at a new admittance each time one came in, or look over my shoulder as a vehicle drove up on the road, take care to search the faces of the people that passed by in downtown Rocky Mount. But they were never him. Part of me conceded that it was probably for the best. No good going to come out of allowing myself to be drawn toward him. It'd either be too troublesome or too tedious working to love that man. I was just fond of him, was all.

However, Franklin County was only so big, and there were three of them running around. I was bound to run into one eventually. I was beginning to think that the Bondurants for me were as unavoidable as death and taxes.

I'd been making my way home from an evening run to the grocer before the shops closed up for the holiday. Christmas was only four days away, and there was an air of joyous impatience sweeping through the streets of Rocky Mount. No one wanted to be out and about. They wanted to be at home with their families, and were counting down the seconds until they were on holiday. Only the drunk and the lonely roamed the evening, and only a couple places in town stayed open to cater their needs.

Walking along the road, I'd seen a form hunched over a parked Ford, forehead to the hood, one arm crooked over his head, the other slack like he'd intended to get in the vehicle, but fell asleep before he could open the door. It was Howard, I could tell just by looking at his size. No man in the county matched his height and girth; it was unique to him and him alone.

Howard was dead drunk, but alert as a soldier on watch, and when I called out to him, he lifted his head just high enough to peek over his arm and send a burning glare in the direction of the sound of his name. "Who is that?" he growled, and I stepped forward under the flickering light of a street lamp.

"Nurse Ellsworth," I said, and he grumbled, straightening up, and swaying dangerously with the sudden motion. I could hear the jingle of keys on the other side of the vehicle. "You aren't thinking about drivin', are you?"

Howard glanced up again, lowered his gaze and seemingly ignored my question. But his eyes snapped back in my direction, narrowing as though he were examining something real close to him, and one corner of his mouth lifted. "Edie Ellsworth, damn! Why didn't ya say somethin'? Can't hardly recognize ya without th' uniform."

His speech was loud and slurred, and my eyes shifted to our surroundings, seeing if anybody else was watching this. Cars lined the street, but there wasn't another soul for a couple blocks. "Are you going home, Howard?" I asked, stepping forward and shifting the paper bag in my arms. The closer I walked, the taller he seemed to get, and soon he was looking down his nose at me. I took the car keys from his unsuspecting hands, and turned away again. "Cause it sure looks like you are, and I ain't letting you drive in the state you're in."

"Hey now!" Howard hurried after me, sliding on a slick spot in the road, and stomping to right himself. "Hey, you give me those."

"You're drunk as a lord, Howard Bondurant. If I let you get behind that wheel, you'll kill us all and then yourself."

"Ain't never before. Give 'em!" he grabbed for my hand, but I held it away from him, and he huffed and snorted in frustration, plume of frozen air coming from him like a bull. Nothing was stopping him if he really wanted to take his keys back. I knew that, but the fact that he didn't seem to had me questioning how much liquor that man put away. "Where we going?" he asked after a stretch of silent stumbling.

"See that building just there?" he followed my nod to the brick structure a few yards away.

"Yeah."

"You're going to wait outside that building while I run these groceries up. Then I'm going to take you home, and you're going to tell me where that is."

"You give me those keys," he said suddenly, and it must've been a last-ditch effort because when I said no he shut right up.

I didn't do much more than toss the bag onto empty counter space, didn't even bother to turn on a light, and I was out the door and down the stairs again to get Howard on his way home. He shouldn't have been out so late, and certainly not doing the things he was. I knew he had a wife, and a little baby girl who wasn't doing too well. It was no secret up at the hospital that they weren't able to pay to keep up with the treatment for the little girl, but the Doctor turned his head on the matter and continued to provide routine check-ups and medicine, kept it off the books, though Howard didn't know that. When it came time to pay, the doctor would take the money. But if that money never came, it would make no difference. He was a saint, that doctor.

I think I'd seen her once, Howard's wife. If it was her, sickly little thing cradling a screaming baby to her chest, I felt right sorry for her. I bet she'd been beautiful once, but that child went and sucked the life right out of her. Financial instability probably didn't make things any easier.

We walked back to the car, me and Howard, and at one point the man stopped to wretch, though nothing came out. I rolled my eyes and kept walking, planning what I was going to say to the wife if I saw her tonight. Apologize on her husband's behalf for acting like a fool. Introduce myself. Maybe suggest a good powder for those circles under the eyes. No idea.

When we slid into the car, I held the keys out, searching the levers and mechanisms around me. Howard looked over at me, and a grumble erupted from somewhere deep inside him. It was the pause. It was always the pause that betrayed you. My eyebrows furrowed, and I stuck the key inside a familiar-looking slot as he made the accurate accusation that I didn't know how to drive. "Don't look all that hard," I mumbled, turning the key over in the slot like I'd seen others do before. The engine cranked, a painful scraping noise, then roared to life with such force, I jumped.

"What do I do now? I use this, right?" I touched the lever to my right. Howard's eyes slid over to me briefly, and he released a slow breath. Then, mumbling under his breath, he turned around in his seat, and stretched one long arm back, beginning to feel around the darkness behind our seats. When he turned around again, a canning jar was in his hand, filled to the brim with clear liquid. "Are you kidding me?" I asked, eyes wide, not sure if I was more appalled that as a known maker and distributor, he was bringing liquor out into the open, or that he was planning on drinking it. Put any more away, and he'd be fixing to die.

Howard spun the lid off and threw it behind him, bringing the jar to his lips, and taking one, two, three large gulps of the stuff. He grimaced, and sucked in a breath after the last of it had burned its way down his throat, shaking his head. Then, he reached over and cranked the lever himself. "Put your foot down on the left pedal and hold it," he ordered, and I looked down to make sure my feet were following directions. "Now turn the wheel over to the left-" he turned away to sneeze three times in a short succession. I followed his direction and waited for him to continue. "Now let your foot up off the brake – damnit slowly!" I tried to decipher if that was panic in his voice as I pushed hard on the brake again, white-knuckled grasp on the wheel, my heart pounding in my chest as we lurched forward.

I tried again as Howard chugged on his liquor, and he croaked out the order to straighten the wheel and continue on down the road in the direction we were already headed. After a minute, he reached over and cranked a lever that turned on the headlights, and the road became mighty clearer. I caught a whiff of him in his close proximity, the ripeness of sweat and dirt, the sharp stench of rotten corn and bathtub gin. My nose wrinkled in rejection of the stink, and I took a hand off the wheel to push him away. "Oh – Howard, you reek!"

"S'what a man smells like," he flashed me a smile behind the jar, and I could feel the scowl on my face as I stared out at the road. I could only have been doing twenty miles an hour, but I was scared to go any faster. The wheel lurched and twisted in my grip, fighting to be free and swerve in its own direction as the tires smacked and jumped the uneven terrain. I held on tight, forcing it to keep a straight travel. After awhile, Howard slouched in the seat, succumbing to a new wave of inebriation, holding the jar close to his face like he was smelling it, and I realized that I was driving without direction.

"Howard," I extended my hand, not wanting to take my eyes off the road, and when I felt the rough texture of scruff along smooth skin, I slapped it lightly, over and over until he lifted his head with a deep inhale and shoved my hand away from his face.

"Whatchu want?"

"Where's home?" I asked. "Tell me where to go."

"Just keep on this way," he said. Howard occupied his time finishing off the contents of the jar, and swallowed hard after a final drink to tell me to take a sharp right off the road. I turned the wheel cautiously, a little too slowly, swinging wide and narrowly missing a tree and if Howard noticed, he didn't mention it.

As I rolled into the clearing, I began to infer that home was probably not where Howard directed me. A two-level building came into view, upstairs dark, but downstairs a warm glow shined through the windows out onto the lot. Snow covered the ground, but was thoroughly treaded by feet and tires. Closer toward the front porch, a gas pump stood tall, and off to the side, several vehicles were parked side-by-side in a line, including a familiar-looking Model TT. "Howard, is this Blackwater Station?" I asked.

"Yep."

"I said I was taking you home," I said. Last thing he needed was to do some more drinking. He should be home with his family.

I stepped on the brake, and the car came to a stop somewhere close to the other vehicles. Didn't even bother trying to line up all orderly like the others did. "S'where I'm supposed to be," Howard said as he reached over, shifted gears with the lever, and then twisted the keys. The car shuddered and died. "How you plan on gettin' back?"

"Well." Hadn't thought that part all the way through. "I was planning on borrowing your car, and you can pick it up when you're in the right state to drive it."

"The hell you are," he took the keys from their slot like it was a contest to see who'd get them first. "You don' even know how to use it."

"I got here just fine. I bet you'd be in a ditch by now."

"Goddamn you're annoying." Howard tossed the jar in the back, and opened the door. "You ain't taking my car. Go on inside. Someone'll drive you home."

With a glare, I exited the car ahead of him, stomping over the snow, cursing it for being so thick in this lot. My small heel sunk right in, and the snow seeped right through, soaking my stockings. Ungrateful drunk, he was. I'd taken time out of my evening to make sure he got home safely. And if the concern was not of his safety, certainly it was the safety of those who would've had to share the road with him. And what am I? Annoying.

I could hear Howard walking behind me, and then suddenly he dropped. A distinct noise, like a sack of potatoes falling in a heap to the ground. I stopped and turned around just in time to see him expelling his last meal into the snow, on his hands and knees, head bowed.

"You deserve that," I reasoned, placing a hand on my hip as I regarded him.

"Shut yer damn mouth," he gasped, spitting at the ground. As a new wave of nausea struck him, I couldn't keep the smirk off my face. Serves him right, I thought, crossing over and up the steps of the station.

I don't know what I was expecting when I opened the door and stepped inside. Maybe I was expecting to see a few patrons occupying tables, having a drink or meal, talking amongst each other. Maybe a worker behind the grill, or someone sweeping the boards of the floor, or some other common chore. I figured Forrest might be occupied and out of sight, so I could find Jack or some other kind familiar and ask them to take me home.

But there weren't any customers. Weren't any workers either. The room was warm as an oven, and I could've moved in for the winter right then and there. It was wide-open and empty, the sound of a radio on low filling the air. Jack sat at a lone table in the center of the room, cards spread out along the surface like he'd been playing a game of solitaire. A wool cap was high on his head, and his brow was furrowed as he closely considered the amber liquid in the glass held in his hands. Forrest stood over a grill, moving a pan back and forth across the burner as its contents sizzled. An old, dirty white and green pinstripe apron fell down the front of him, hooked at the neck and tied at the waist. A cigarillo hung loosely from his mouth, and as he turned to see who'd come through the door, he didn't look the least bit surprised to find me.

"Miss Edie!" Jack may have been surprised enough for the both of them. He stood from his chair, removing the cap from his head and smoothed his hair out. "What're you doin' here?"

I addressed the eager young man with a small smile. "Hey there Jack. Ran into your brother in town. He was drunk as all hell, so I drove him home."

"Where is he?"

"Out ralphing in the lot. I was hoping someone here wouldn't mind driving me home now, seeing as I used Howard's car and all."

"Sure, sure, 'course," Jack said with a nod, and sat back down in his chair. "We's just havin' supper first. Have you eaten, Miss Edie? Chicken and greens, real good. Forrest is a damn fine cook."

"Oh, it's all right," I began, but a sound to my left stopped me. Forrest had already withdrawn another plate from the cupboard, and moved to set it as the fourth in a stack resting on the edge of the counter space. He looked up at me as he pulled the stump of rolled tobacco from his teeth, smoke billowing from his mouth and nostrils, and then turned back to the grill.

I ignored the strange jump of my heart as I stepped over to draw out a seat beside Jack, shrugging out of my long coat and hanging it on the back. "What're you playing?"

"Nothin'," he said, looking down at the formation of cards before him. "Just seeing if it's a full set. You look different, without your uniform."

"Howard said the same thing," I leaned back and crossed my legs, narrowing my eyes curiously. "What's different?"

"I dunno," Jack shrugged, keeping his gaze down. "You look nicer. Prettier. Figured you might've been one of those ladies who wore them ankle-length frocks and long-sleeved collared blouses. And there ain't nothing wrong with that," he said hastily, like he was afraid of offending me. "My Bertha's like that, and damned if she ain't the prettiest thing this side of the world. But you's real pretty, too Miss Edie."

"Well thank you," I said with a small laugh at his twisted version of a compliment. "So you have a lady, Jack?"

"I do," he said, sitting up a little higher, small smile stretching his lips. "Name's Bertha Minnix."

"You gonna marry her, Jack?" I asked, reaching over to give a light elbow in the arm.

"Sure am," he said confidently. "Someday."

Howard burst through the door, struggling to steady himself as he teetered dangerously every time he shifted his weight. Neither brother greeted him, or even acknowledged that he was there. The color had returned to his face, though I could see sweat shining on his forehead as he took a seat in the chair across mine, shooting a brief glare in my direction.

"Jack, clear your cards," Forrest called over, and my attention was drawn immediately, sure that was the loudest I'd ever heard him.

"You need help, Forrest?" I asked out of habit. Strange for a woman to be sitting, doing nothing while a man did the cooking. He looked at me, but otherwise ignored me, turning the pan over and letting the greens fall into a bowl. I stood with a sigh, and my heels clicked delicately against the floor as I moved beside him. He became intensely focused on salting the chicken, and when I asked where the utensils were, he pointed to a drawer on the other side of him. I stepped around him to gather up a collection of forks and knives as he tossed a napkin onto the plate of chicken, balancing it on his arm to grab another covered plate with one hand and the bowl of greens with the other, and I followed him out to the table.

Nothing was said for a long time. Only the sound of a crackling fire, hushed melody on the radio turned down so low you couldn't make out words, and utensils scraping against the plates could be heard. I glanced up every once in a while to see the brothers exchanging looks with each other, or staring at nothing in particular, but otherwise remained focused on my food. Jack was right when he said Forrest was an excellent cook. The chicken was cooked to perfection with the right amount of flavor, the biscuits were warm and buttery, and the texture of the greens was still firm, with just a bit of crisp still to them. Never would've imagined that.

"What's that?" I asked, referring to the glass of amber liquid Jack had been. He pointed to it in silent question, and I nodded.

Jack searched his brother's faces, but they said nothing, returning their attention to their plates. "It's apple brandy," he said, picking the glass up. "Sweeter than candy, real smooth. Wanna try it?" He offered it, but I eyed it hesitantly. Never had anything harder than wine before. But he said it was sweet and smooth, and I sure was curious about the hard sell over the Bondurant booze. So I took the glass, brought the edge to my lips, and tilted in preparation for a dainty sip.

It burned. Oh god, it burned. Numbed my lips the second the liquid touched them, scorched all the way down my throat, and I could feel it reach my stomach, setting it ablaze. I gasped at the strange feeling, then sputtered and coughed as I drew the glass away from me, Howard and Jack laughing at my reaction. But then the sweet taste of apples reached my palate, maybe even pears, and the scent of butterscotch and caramel filled the air, and suddenly it wasn't all that bad at all. Pleasant, even. My insides were warm. I'd been searching for this kind of warmth all winter. It was like magic.

"You like that?" Jack asked, and I nodded, giving it another go. I tried not to cough as the brandy burned its way down, instead clearing my throat to rid the tickle as I handed the glass back to Jack. "It's good, huh? Forrest makes it. Won't give the recipe to no one."

"If everyone knew how to make it, wouldn't be so special now, would it?"

"Suppose not," Jack said, and his face lit up like he suddenly remembered something. "Hey, Miss Edie. Forrest says you're from Louisiana. What's it like there?"

My heart gave a leap at the mention of home, then gave another at the mention that Forrest had spoke of me. I buried the latter thought and focused on the first, a smile on my face as I leaned back in my chair and thought of home. "It's kind of like here, except a lot warmer all year round. The people are kind. In New Orleans, there's always a party, always music in the streets. Everyone looking to have a good time. Most liquor is in the south. Up north, people are a lot quieter. We live our lives nice and slow."

"You ever seen the ocean?" he asked.

"Course I have," I said. "Water's blue as far as the eye can see. Sometimes it's warm even, depending how hot the day is. Sand is white, and soft in your toes. Ain't nothing else like it."

Jack sighed and sat back in his own chair, slouching as he imagined it. "I wanna see the ocean."

"You've got yourself a car," I said. "Virginia coast can only be a few hours away. Take your lady and drive east until you hit water. I bet she'd like that."

This drew the attention of all three brothers, though I didn't rightly know why. Couldn't even make a guess as they peered at me, a set of narrow eyes, like they were thinking hard about what I'd just said.

Howard had fallen asleep in his chair, and Forrest left Jack to clean up. We set off down the road in old Business Coupe, the only sound between us the hum of the motor and whistle of Forrest's long breaths through his nose. Not a single word was said until he'd navigated back into town and rolled to a stop in front of my building.

I turned to him. "Well, thanks for driving me home, again," I said. "And thanks for the meal. I appreciate it."

"Appreciate you lookin' after Howard," he said, turning his head toward me slightly. "Won't happen again."

"You and I both know that ain't true," I said, with a small smile and a breath of laughter, and he bowed his head like he was conceding my statement, though he wouldn't say it.

I was fighting to string together some parting words, more clever or lasting than goodnight. But it was a struggle, as all my words muddled together as I searched the shadowed face of the Bondurant. I was about to give up, ready to recite a simple, unsatisfying departure when a sound in the distance caught my attention. Caught his, too, as his eyes shifted to meet mine in the darkness and he froze, his head a little tilted as he listened.

A roar. It seemed to be coming from every direction. I peered out the window and Forrest followed my gaze. Headlights. A lot of them. Couldn't be the caravans, though, it was too early in the evening. Forrest's head shot up, and he stuck his head out the window of his door to look behind him, and I turned in my seat to peek out the small window in the back. Cars were coming from the other direction as well. The cars were drawing closer and closer to each other, the ones from behind flying past the Coupe, and then a gunshot sounded with a deafening bang in the air.

I ducked, my heart pounding. Forrest sat still, watching the scene unfold as several more gunshots rang, and I kept my head low at the sound of screeching tires, and the sickening crash of metal folding into metal. "Get out," Forrest said suddenly.

"What?" I asked, peeking up at him. No way was I going out into that warzone.

"Get out," he repeated, killing the motor of the Coupe, and I realized that he was coming with me. I grabbed for the handle of the door with shaking hands, trying to stay low as I slipped outside. Forrest was already there, keeping an eye on the battle. I dug in my coat pocket for my keys, and could feel a hand on the back of my neck, hurriedly guiding me up to the door of my building. I wanted to cry as I heard a bullet ricochet dangerously close to us, but Forrest's hand moved from my neck to my shoulder, and I could feel him against my back as he wrenched the door open and maneuvered me inside. "Keep going," he said, so I hurried on up the stairs to the second floor.

Damn near dropped the keys trying to unlock the door of my apartment, and once we were inside, I hurried over to the window to try to get a look at what was happening. A convoy of vehicles were lined against each other, and men, mere shadows in the night, were standing behind open doors, taking shots at each other. Between them, along some kind of strange no man's land, sat two vehicles that had struck each other head on.

Forrest was behind me, looking out the window over the top of my head. "What's going on?" I asked.

He glanced down his nose at me as I turned to look up at him in our close proximity. "Ain't our business."

"The hell it isn't," I spat. "Their business could've gotten us shot."

He returned his attention to the street for a long moment, then shifted his eyes back down to me. "Looks to me like the ATU is attemptin' a bust," he said.

"Do you know who they're busting?" I asked, and he gave a small shrug.

"Maybe. Come on away from the window, Miss Ellsworth. I bet they gon' be awhile."

I let him guide me away and over to the sofa, where we sat in silence as the sound of idled vehicles, shouts, and the pock and ping of gunfire echoed down in the street. Forrest had both feet planted firmly on the floor, forearms on his knees, and his hat in his hands. I kicked off my shoes and folded my legs underneath me, keeping me coat wound tight around me. Neither of us even bothered to turn on a light.

I was glad Forrest was there. He offered a strange sort of comfort in such an awful situation. If he'd been gone and they would've came, I bet I'd still be at the window, scared out of my wits and crying, watching as men tried to kill each other, dropping one by one, just heaps on the street. But Forrest kept me from watching. He wasn't scared, or anxious, or angry. Calmer than a baby after feeding. He'd seen me safely inside, and I bet he could've left, gone back to the station without any problem. But he stayed. And his presence brought on some sort of strange disconnect to the situation. They were just noises, outside, and it surprised me how calm I felt.

I suppose calm had translated into courageous at some point or another. Or maybe stupid. Either way, as the gunfire died, and the shouting increased, inaudible voices trying to angrily and desperately negotiate with one another, I unfolded my legs from underneath me, and slowly scooted toward Forrest. He remained hunched, his head tilted to the ground, but I could see him watching me from the corner of his eye. I took the hat by its brim, and it went slack in his hands. That was an encouraging sign on my part, and I bit back a smile as I tossed the hat onto the side table behind me. Leaning into him, mouth to his shoulder, I caught the whiff of smoke and nature, the strange, fresh scent of dirt and crisp air clinging to him. He turned his head toward me, and I sat up, grasping his chin lightly.

I didn't know what I was doing. My heart was pounding in my chest, and my cheeks burned, and I cursed myself for being so bold. But if I'd backed away then, it would look stranger than if I just went right ahead and did it. So I dropped my gaze from his curious grays to his lips, leaned in, and kissed him.

He responded, the plump bulges of his lips near enveloping mine as he pressed into them, and I could've died right there. I pulled away cautiously, only leaning back far enough to open my eyes and look at him. He was watching me through narrowed eyes, though his features were softer than I'd ever seen them. "What're you doin'?" he asked slowly.

"I don't know," I admitted breathlessly. "Trying something."

He regarded me, and I waited anxiously for a sign that would tell me what to do next. To relent, to continue. I couldn't tell, the man had an envious poker face. Finally, he released a breath I wasn't aware he'd been holding, slow and forced from somewhere within, and closed the distance between us.


"Forrest had the sudden urge to take her in his arms and bury his face in her hair. It was unlike anything he had felt before. He drank his coffee and watched her some more and wondered to himself just how foolish he really was. He wondered if this was the end of it, or if there was more, and just what it would take for him to learn." Wettest County in the World, Matt Bondurant, pg. 241.

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