Definitely, Maybe in Love

steps back. Still, I couldn’t keep my eyes from drifting over to his side of the car. His face was emotionless. Giving nothing away. Typical Knightly.

“So,” he said a moment later, “are you seeing anyone?”

“Ha!” My eyebrows were probably somewhere up in my hairline.

“What?”

“You can ask personal questions but I can’t?”

He raised a tiny smile.

“No,” I said. “Nothing new or exciting to report there. And yourself?”

“Much too busy.”

And that was that.

Not even my loyalty to Julia or my own morbid curiosity could compel me to keep chipping away at the proverbial man of marble. In front of us, Mel and Tyler were discussing, rather loudly, whether to listen to talk radio or music. I leaned back and shut my eyes. Their conversation was more entertaining than ours.

We arrived around ten in the morning. Our overnight spot was beautiful. To the east lay foothills, the gateway to the Cascades, with the Columbia River cutting a pass through the mountains like a blue-green snake. Beacon Rock, the core of an ancient volcano, was quite a sight, parked on the banks of the river, sporadic pines peppering its otherwise bald head.

Once outside the car, I took a deep breath and spun in a slow circle. Surrounding us on all sides were green and fragrant Douglas firs, pines, and maples. Spongy ferns filled in the lower landscape, dotted with blood red rhododendrons and a rainbow of spring wild flowers. The wind blew through the tops of the trees, and its accompanying harmony was the chatter of geese, the flutter of hummingbirds and a woodpecker hammering away on a tree above. Somewhere out there, I could hear the rippling of the Columbia ribboning its way between the trees.

Closing my eyes for a moment, I allowed a tranquil smile to spread across my face. When I stopped my spin and opened my eyes, Henry was watching me, a tent pole in one hand.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Reminds me of home,” I explained. “I’m from Oregon.”

“I know that.” He gave me a sideways look and walked off. Jeesh, what was his problem?

I turned back toward the eastern horizon. Last year, I’d read an article about this very spot of forest. Pictures from several decades earlier depicted an enormous bare patch from clearcutting. I’d been furious at the time, but as I stood there, gazing up at that same spot in person, I would’ve never known any logging had taken place all those years ago. The forest was completely grown in with tall, healthy trees as far as the eye could see. Sure, Henry had preached to me about new growth afforesting, but I’d never seen its results.

To my personal vexation, it was surprisingly impressive.

I left the dusty white Durango and wandered toward the campground. The guys were setting up the tent. Henry was down on his knees, jacket off, pounding tent pegs in the ground with a mallet. No directions were used, and in a matter of minutes, the tall orange structure was assembled.

Staring up at the finished product, something occurred to me. “Uh, Mel?” I muttered, as I handed her a sleeping bag from the back of the Durango. “I realize it’s very roomy, but there’s only one tent.”

When she grinned, I cringed. Of course this was part of her plan.

Sensing my alarm, she relaxed her devilish smile. “Don’t worry,” she said in a sotta voce whisper, as we dragged a heavy cooler toward the center of camp. “There will be no hanky panky inside the tent.” She nodded toward the guys. “Tyler knows that.”

“Good, thanks,” I said, letting go of my held breath.

“What goes on outside the tent…” She lifted one eyebrow. “Just don’t try to find us if we wander off the trail for a while.”

Henry walked toward us, his arms full of large rocks. After shooting me another intense look, he knelt down and began arranging the rocks in a circle for our fire.

“Thanks for the warning,” I whispered to Mel, watching him. “Something’s pissed him off. I think he wants to murder me in my sleeping bag.”

“That’s not what he wants to do to you in your sleeping bag,” Mel murmured.

I glared at her. “Pardon?”

“Nothing.” She snickered.

Our troop tooled around the thick woods all day, romping halfway up the trail toward Beacon Rock, then turning back a different way when the sun arched to the west. At around five, we were forced to end our hike early after I slipped on a mossy rock by the river, tweaking my ankle.

“Think of your happy place,” Henry prescribed, his left arm around me, acting as my crutch. “We’re almost back to camp.”

I winced, regarding the trail ahead of us. Mel and Tyler had disappeared into the bushes, leaving us alone. “Really,” I insisted, trying to squirm free, “it doesn’t hurt that much.” I attempted to limp away from him. “See, I can walk on my own.” It was a pitiful attempt.

“You’re favoring your right side,” he observed, wrapping his arm around me again. His hold was iron-tight this time. Even though he had a five o’clock shadow going, he still smelled like that ceramic bowl of shaving cream in his bathroom back in Palo Alto. Something about that smell was making me feel dizzy, or maybe my foot hurt more than I thought.

“Hold onto me till we get to the car and I can check it out,” he said. “I feel responsible. It was my long pass of the Frisbee that sent you flying.” He tightened his grip, hoisting me closer so that even my healthy foot was barely touching the ground as we walked.

Maybe thinking he was taking my mind off the pain in my ankle, Henry described a little Tahitian town he’d visited a few times. White sand, clear blue water, friendly and accommodating neighbors. It sounded like a little piece of heaven.

“Perfect place to finish your thesis,” he added. “Under a banyan tree, laptop shaded by an umbrella. Endless Diet Cokes.”

“Don’t tempt me,” I said, trying not to wince.

The sun was low and the fire looked warm and inviting by the time Henry and I returned to camp. But my escort made us stop at the Durango first.

“Get in.” He opened the rear door at the back of the car. “Or do you need me to lift you?”

I snorted a laugh, but he made a move toward me, so I quickly hopped onto the edge of the tailgate before he got any macho ideas.

Kneeling down, he took ahold of my ankle between his two hands, then lifted my leg, resting it on the tailgate. Gently, he pushed up the bottom of my jeans to my knee. I gasped quietly the moment chilly air hit bare skin, but then instantly calmed as his warm hands encircled my calf muscle, gently pressing in as they ran down my skin, a tender massage. When his examination paused and his lingering hands felt way more exploratory than medical, my breathing suddenly picked up speed. I stared at the top of his bent head, my fingers curling around the edge of the door. One of his hands slid to the sensitive backside of my knee while the other wrapped around my ankle, gingerly manipulating my foot this way and that way.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked. I could feel him breathing on my skin as I held my own breath.

Before answering, I swallowed then shook my head.

“No sprain,” he said, his eyes lifting to mine. “A mild bruising.” His skin was so warm that it surprised me when I felt a chill shoot through my body. His hand behind my knee slid down to my ankle so both hands were around it. For a second, I had a flash of him holding the sides of my neck…right before we—

“Ready?” he asked, leaning an inch closer.

I nodded automatically.

“Good.” He stepped back and drew my jeans down to cover my leg. “Come on.” He turned toward the fire. “Let’s eat.”