obviously.”
“But not as much as something European,” I say. “It’s more exotic.”
“How did we go from debating James Bond to accents?”
I toss my pitchfork into the wheelbarrow. “I don’t know, but I’m sure you’re wrong on all accounts.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Landon pulls open the passenger door, motioning into the truck, and I slide onto the leather bench seat, the material hot on the backs of my bare legs.
He didn’t do this for me last year. Didn’t take me on a formal date outside of the ranch. I have no idea what that means. Is my scheming actually working?
I force myself to stop analyzing his actions. Instead I fix my skirt as he slams the door, the solid steel clanging hard. It’s an ancient Chevy, something from the seventies that Landon supposedly fixed himself, back when he was sixteen. It sat, immobile, in the auto shop at our high school for almost a year. Iguess I’m lucky he didn’t fix it last winter after our breakup, or he’d wonder how it had miraculously turned into a flawlessly running machine. Man, I’m not sure how I’d explain that one.
Landon slides in beside me, and as he fires up the engine, his eyes sweep up and down my body. “So, you staying all the way over there the whole way into town, or … ?”
I roll my eyes and slide over, until I’m sitting in the middle of the big bench seat, our sides touching. He rests his hand on my knee. “That’s better. A guy doesn’t buy a truck with a bench seat for nothing.”
My cheeks flush a little as he puts the truck in gear and we back up, then turn down the long paved drive of the ranch. It was a huge expense, black-topping something this long, but Mr. Ramsey insisted that the guests who arrived in their pricey foreign cars would hate the gravel that existed last year.
Just as we’re halfway down the drive, Landon hits the brakes.
“What?” I ask when he comes to a full stop but doesn’t speak.
“Was the driveway done up like this when we got here?” he asks, twisting around in his seat.
Oh . “Uh, yeah. I mean, they did it earlier this spring, I guess.”
“That’s weird,” he says, turning back to the front. “I could’ve sworn it was gravel.”
“Nope. Been blacktop the whole time we’ve been here,” I say, avoiding eye contact and trying not to sit too stiffly.
He narrows his eyes and for a second I think he’s going to disagree, but then he just releases the brake, and we’re glidingtoward the road. A minute later, he turns onto the county highway and picks up speed, until we’re barreling down the pavement at sixty, the windows rolled down and the hot, dry desert air whipping my hair in a thousand different directions. He rests his left arm on the windowsill, moving the other from my knee to the wheel.
I watch the rolling hills and dry sage roll past the window as I reach down and flip the radio on. Nothing but static crackles through the speakers, so I punch the dial a few times, and when it still hisses, I smack the top of the dash.
Landon reaches out to bat my hand away, swerving the truck a little in the process.
I make a phone out of my thumb and pinky finger. “Hello, ‘I’d like to report a truck driver who’s been endangering my life.’”
“Duel . And I’m not endangering your life, you’re endangering my forty-year-old radio. It’s original. Be gentle.” He reaches out and spins a knob, and the static gives way to a familiar tune: the one we danced to together last year.
“Ugh, change it,” I say.
“No way. I like this song.”
I did too, once.
I put my hand back in my lap, and he grabs it, so that our clasped hands rest against my leg. I lean my head back against the sliding glass window behind me and let myself get lost in the song, in the contentedness of being with him on the highway, somewhere between our relationship on the ranch and the reality of home. His hand is warm and callused and way too perfect in mine.
Twenty minutes later,
“But not as much as something European,” I say. “It’s more exotic.”
“How did we go from debating James Bond to accents?”
I toss my pitchfork into the wheelbarrow. “I don’t know, but I’m sure you’re wrong on all accounts.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Landon pulls open the passenger door, motioning into the truck, and I slide onto the leather bench seat, the material hot on the backs of my bare legs.
He didn’t do this for me last year. Didn’t take me on a formal date outside of the ranch. I have no idea what that means. Is my scheming actually working?
I force myself to stop analyzing his actions. Instead I fix my skirt as he slams the door, the solid steel clanging hard. It’s an ancient Chevy, something from the seventies that Landon supposedly fixed himself, back when he was sixteen. It sat, immobile, in the auto shop at our high school for almost a year. Iguess I’m lucky he didn’t fix it last winter after our breakup, or he’d wonder how it had miraculously turned into a flawlessly running machine. Man, I’m not sure how I’d explain that one.
Landon slides in beside me, and as he fires up the engine, his eyes sweep up and down my body. “So, you staying all the way over there the whole way into town, or … ?”
I roll my eyes and slide over, until I’m sitting in the middle of the big bench seat, our sides touching. He rests his hand on my knee. “That’s better. A guy doesn’t buy a truck with a bench seat for nothing.”
My cheeks flush a little as he puts the truck in gear and we back up, then turn down the long paved drive of the ranch. It was a huge expense, black-topping something this long, but Mr. Ramsey insisted that the guests who arrived in their pricey foreign cars would hate the gravel that existed last year.
Just as we’re halfway down the drive, Landon hits the brakes.
“What?” I ask when he comes to a full stop but doesn’t speak.
“Was the driveway done up like this when we got here?” he asks, twisting around in his seat.
Oh . “Uh, yeah. I mean, they did it earlier this spring, I guess.”
“That’s weird,” he says, turning back to the front. “I could’ve sworn it was gravel.”
“Nope. Been blacktop the whole time we’ve been here,” I say, avoiding eye contact and trying not to sit too stiffly.
He narrows his eyes and for a second I think he’s going to disagree, but then he just releases the brake, and we’re glidingtoward the road. A minute later, he turns onto the county highway and picks up speed, until we’re barreling down the pavement at sixty, the windows rolled down and the hot, dry desert air whipping my hair in a thousand different directions. He rests his left arm on the windowsill, moving the other from my knee to the wheel.
I watch the rolling hills and dry sage roll past the window as I reach down and flip the radio on. Nothing but static crackles through the speakers, so I punch the dial a few times, and when it still hisses, I smack the top of the dash.
Landon reaches out to bat my hand away, swerving the truck a little in the process.
I make a phone out of my thumb and pinky finger. “Hello, ‘I’d like to report a truck driver who’s been endangering my life.’”
“Duel . And I’m not endangering your life, you’re endangering my forty-year-old radio. It’s original. Be gentle.” He reaches out and spins a knob, and the static gives way to a familiar tune: the one we danced to together last year.
“Ugh, change it,” I say.
“No way. I like this song.”
I did too, once.
I put my hand back in my lap, and he grabs it, so that our clasped hands rest against my leg. I lean my head back against the sliding glass window behind me and let myself get lost in the song, in the contentedness of being with him on the highway, somewhere between our relationship on the ranch and the reality of home. His hand is warm and callused and way too perfect in mine.
Twenty minutes later,
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