Twice Shy by Sarah Hogle (i am malala young readers edition .TXT) 📗

Which I feel guilty thinking about, but I can’t help it.

“I’m honored you trust me enough to tell me something like that.” I bite down hard on my tongue, reaching for his hand. He acknowledges it with a mellow squeeze, rubbing his thumb across the back of my hand.

“The only reason I was able to admit it is because you’re so easy to talk to. It feels like you . . .” He inhales sharply. “Like you pay attention.”

My body is rigid with tension, collecting in my temples. I could be imagining it but I think his muscles have tightened, as well. I am burning alive.

“I don’t know what I’m saying,” he mumbles.

Before he’s finished with his sentence, I jump in: “You’re right. I see you.”

“Oh.” His voice is light as a feather. Winded. “Good.”

This is the part where he adds, I’m paying attention to you, too, and descends on me with a fiery passion, but that never happens. He only says, “Anyway.”

“Anyway,” I echo.

“Good night, Maybell.”

Disappointment crushes every bone in my body. “Good night, Wesley.”

I don’t close my eyes. We lie there with our arms still touching, his golden curls brushing my ear, a million microscopic points of contact. Maybe he falls asleep immediately, maybe he lies awake for as long as I do, staring unseeingly at the stars.

•  •  •  •  •  •  •

I’VE SPENT THE BETTER part of the night debating whether I’m in heaven or hell, but this morning has clinched it. I am for sure in hell.

Deservedly so. There’s a pair of warm arms around me, a sleeping man’s chest rising and falling against my back, and the sinful thoughts won’t stop coming. Morning breath is the only factor keeping me from rolling over onto my other side to stare at him. Also, manners. But mostly morning breath.

“You awake?” he asks.

I stretch and yawn, pretending I’ve been out of it. “What? Oh! Mm-hmm.” I could lie here forever. Maybe he’ll bury his mouth in my neck and tell me how badly he’s wanted me, and we’ll roll around in this field all day—

“Good. I want to get an early start.” He unzips his sleeping bag and climbs over me, grabbing his bag on his way out of the tent. His hand pats my head like I’m a golden retriever. I fall back onto my elbows, shooting a cross expression at his back.

Apparently I’ve misread last night’s signals.

By the time I’ve changed my clothes and joined him, he’s wearing a fresh change of jeans and plain white T-shirt (Did he change behind a tree? Or out in the open? None of my business!), munching on granola.

When he glances at me, I automatically flush and stumble. “Uneven . . . this grass is all uneven,” I mutter. “Gopher holes or something.”

He raises his eyebrows at the ground, still munching. Nods. “Mm.”

I should have packed a mirror. I could have dried patches of drool on my cheek for all I know. I’m sure my hair’s on its worst behavior. My hair always has such an attitude problem whenever I especially need it to look good. But on days I’m not going anywhere, with no human witnesses? That’s when I could be a Pantene Pro-V model.

After I zip off into the trees for a few minutes (nature calls), I help Wesley roll up our sleeping bags, tent, and supplies. The metal detector is still nowhere to be found.

“Maybe Sasquatch took it,” I suggest, enjoying myself. “You said he lives in Appalachia, right?”

Wesley shakes his head. “Not even going to respond to that.”

“You just did.” I try to sprint away before he can get the last word in. “Last one home has to clean out the gutters!” This is a terrible threat. The gutters have saplings and who knows what else growing in them.

“Have fun with that. I’ll just be over here, then.” He juts a thumb. “Going the right way. See you in a week.”

I veer left. Check his expression. I veer right. He laughs, dispelling some of my unease about waking up to business as usual. This isn’t anything like last night, but it also isn’t anything like any other morning. We’re off the map.

“Ready to see what the fifth treasure is?” he inquires when I circle back.

The brown envelope weighs heavily in my pack, waiting to be opened, but I’m still not ready for this to end. “When we get back. It’ll be our reward for not getting eaten by bears.”

“Bears are solitary creatures. If we meet one, we’ll outnumber it. Meaning no bears will be running after me when I outstrip you.”

“Hey!”

“You snooze, you lose.”

“I can see why they didn’t like you at camp.”

Wesley laughs again—I’ve got to start counting them, comparing numbers to yesterday’s best score. “No, they didn’t like me at camp because I wouldn’t do this.” He stops short in front of me and leans backward.

“No!” I cry, but it’s too late, he’s already tipping back. My arms reflexively snake around his middle as if I have a prayer of holding this enormous specimen up, but he’s stopped tipping. Wesley locks his arms over mine, holding me to him. He turns so that I can see his grinning profile.

“Gotcha.”

“Thank goodness,” I sigh. “You’re too much man for me.”

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” he replies, releasing his hold after another beat. I can’t tell if he’s wistful or joking.

This is the trouble with crushes. You begin to doubt whether they’re reciprocated, even if on paper the signs are all there. If I ever get married, I think I’ll be wondering all the way down the aisle if the wedding’s an elaborate prank and the groom will say Gotcha! at the end. I can’t trust my own judgment here.

The hike home flies by much faster than the hike out, since we’re not stopping to hunt for treasure, and we’re making good enough time that I don’t think the lunch I packed for today will be necessary. We stop mostly for my benefit, my poor legs and back aching. Wesley makes me reapply that minty