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

I can’t resist. “You missed a spot,” I say, dabbing more on his nose.

Wesley smiles, eyes crinkling. “So did you. Here, I’ll help you out.” He presses my forehead, leaving a green handprint.

“Thank you so much.”

He winks. “No problem.”

Tree canopies blocking the sunlight throw off our sense of time, and when we saunter into a clearing the sky looks more like late evening than noon. Dark clouds gather ahead, rolling our way.

“That doesn’t bode well,” I mutter.

Wesley grabs my pack from me, leaving our shovel behind. “We’ve gotta hurry.”

“I am physically incapable of going any faster. My shoulders are still angry that they didn’t get a mattress last night.”

“I’m kind of used to the sleeping bag by now,” he replies, calling to mind the image of his sleeping bag in the loft, and the colored-pencil Maybell I discovered there. “You need me to carry you?”

Is he serious?

He is. Of course he is.

Wesley’s offering a fantasy and doesn’t know it. If I say yes, forcing this poor man to carry a fully grown adult on top of everything else he’s already carrying, I truly will go to hell.

I spend a handful of seconds considering it anyway. “You’re strong,” I sigh, relinquishing this opportunity, “but not invincible. That’d kill you.”

“I’m not that strong at all,” he replies modestly, head ducking, “but for you, I can be strong enough.”

He quickens, shooting forward so that I can’t see his face. I’m so glad he can’t see mine, either. It’s of paramount importance that we get back as fast as possible so we can get away from each other. If I’m in Wesley’s company for another hour, I’m going to irreparably embarrass myself.

I have feelings for you, I hear myself hypothetically gushing. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to. They snuck up on me. Wesley’s hypothetical shock, followed by mortification, is bad enough to hasten my pace. The detail that my muscles are melting marshmallows is irrelevant—self-preservation demands sacrifice sometimes. It’s growing increasingly clear that I need a week of no contact to salvage my wits. I can’t be trusted anymore.

Wesley doesn’t get the memo. He does horribly destructive things like passing me his canteen to make sure I get the last drink and pointing out which animals the angry clouds resemble. He touches my wrist gingerly between two fingers; I grind to a halt at once, and my soul twirls up out of my body when he kneels to retie one of my shoelaces.

I can’t watch. I clench my teeth, staring resolutely at the approaching rain clouds, but he’s ruined clouds for me, too. I’ll never be able to look at one again without thinking, Hey, it’s a floppy-eared bunny, in his deep, pleasant rumble.

Head bowed at my waist, one of his knees digging in the mud without so much as a flinch, a second thought, Wesley’s long, callused fingers that paint sea monsters on ballroom walls and make things grow from the earth are delicately handling my dirty shoestrings. He murmurs, “Over, under, cross the bridge, make a loop and right on through.” A mnemonic device about tying shoes cannot be what sends me over the edge. I forbid it.

“We’re getting pretty close, right?” I ask when we take off again, more than a little desperate.

Wesley throws me a sidelong glance. “You getting sick of me?” His tone is playful, but I detect apprehension.

“Listen, I’m just trying to protect you from the rain.” I return his smile with a wobbly one of my own. “Lest you forget, you’re wearing a white T-shirt.”

He barks a laugh. “So?”

“So, people in wet white T-shirts are distracting. Don’t look at me like that, this is a thing. Everybody knows.”

His brown eyes glint, then glide down my tank top and jeans. “Your shirt is white.”

I have to do a double take. So it is.

His eyes are darker when they meet mine again. I’m hanging from this cliff by one finger. A cold raindrop taps one shoulder, then the opposite one when I turn to look. Wesley squints at the sky. “Here we go.”

We crest a hill, Wesley’s truck materializing in a field a hundred yards off like a mirage.

Tap, tap, tap becomes a downpour, slicking my hair to my face and neck, clothes sealing to skin. Wesley’s hair darkens, curling, dripping over his cheeks, spiking his eyelashes.

“It’s cold it’s cold it’s cold it’s cold!” I squeal, running as fast as I can. Wesley flies alongside, and even with the burden he’s carrying all by himself, I think he’s putting a damper on his endurance. He’d be at the truck already if he weren’t matching my speed.

The heel of his palm meets the base of my spine, jolting me forward even faster. We’re fifty yards down. “Should have stayed in the tent,” I sputter. “For another night. We’d be dry right now.” Relatively, anyway.

“I didn’t know that was an option,” he responds, fingers curling into my waist and gripping harder. I’m not sure he’s aware of it.

“I guess”—I’m out of breath, panting—“that we couldn’t, after all. Not enough food.”

“I’d find some berries.”

“You can’t subsist on berries. I’ve seen how much you eat. You’d need bushels.”

“I don’t need anything.”

It’s a strange thing to say. I turn to study him, but we’ve made it to the truck at last and he’s yanking my door open for me. Small lakes are collecting around all four tires, but before I can try to hop over one to get inside Wesley picks me up handily by the waist and deposits me on the seat. He then flings our equipment into the back and darts around to the other side. When Wesley slams his door shut behind him, safe and soaked, we take a moment to slide down in our seats. Eyes closed, breathing heavily. Rain pummels metal and windows, so much louder in here than outside.

When I open my eyes again, he’s watching me. Sure enough, his shirt’s so wet that it’s nearly see-through, molding to every contour. My focus