Take Me On

It’s been like this for the past three hours—a comfortable steady stream of conversation. Earlier, Lincoln kissed me...and I kissed him back. Before coming out here, we spent a couple of hours wrapped in each other’s arms on my bed, alternating between talking and kissing.

My heart aches when I think of him leaving in the morning, but we have a plan and both of us are sticking to it.

“When did you know?” I ask. “That you had feelings for me.”

Static on the other side. Crap. Maybe I went too far.

“I don’t know,” he says. “It grew over time. I guess I first knew something was up when I wanted to scratch out Stephen’s name from your letters.”

I giggle, totally unashamed that I like that he was jealous.

“Honestly, though... You wrote me a letter back before school started and I took it with me on one of my climbing trips. At the top of the rock, I read your letter and realized you were the one person I wished I could share the view with.”

My lips tilt up with his words.

“What was the letter about?”

He chuckles. “Nothing. That’s the strange part. You’ve sent me letters about Echo and Stephen and Grace and your family and Florida, and I loved those letters. I knew you were sharing your soul with me. But this one letter, you talked about lying in your backyard and watching the leaves in the trees blow. When I was done reading, I found a four-leaf clover tucked into the envelope. I knew then that I wanted to share the big moments with you, but more important the small. I want to climb rocks with you, Lila, then spend quiet time at the top sharing the view with you.”

Warmth curls around my heart. I want the same exact thing. “I sent you the clover so you’d have good luck with your admissions letter.”

“It worked,” he says. “And it’ll work again.”

“So I have to find you another clover?” I tease.

“Nope. I still have the first one tucked safely in my wallet. I like having something from you close to me.”

Overwhelmed, I feel my throat swell a little. He kept a gift I gave him. In his wallet. That is unbelievably sweet.

“How about you?” he asks hesitantly. “When did you know?”

“The night of the meteor shower,” I answer automatically. “And then the letter you sent after it.” I think of the hundreds of lights dancing across the night sky. “I knew you were watching. I know it sounds stupid, but I felt you with me, and then when you sent that letter describing that night...” I drop off, unable to find the right words to explain the emotion.

Lincoln rescues me. “I know. Me, too.”

We sit in silence for a few seconds, both of us absorbing the moment. Finally, I clear my throat and ask, “How many hours is the University of Florida from you again?” We’re going to take turns driving back and forth to visit on the weekends and we’ll talk on the phone and use Skype and, of course, write letters.

“About four if I stick to the recommended posted limits.”

“It’s the law,” I remind him. “Like the get-a-ticket-if-you-break-it type of law.”

“A suggestion,” he responds.

Before I can compose my comeback, Lincoln breaks in through the radio. “Incoming.”

My chest tightens. They’re here. My eyes sweep the yard around my house and my pulse begins to beat in my ears.

I wipe my hands on the side of my jeans to dry them of sweat and lie flat on the ground. Movement out of the corner of my eye causes my breathing to hitch. Three forms skulk against the side of the house. One of them raises its hand in the air, waving for the other two to head toward the front porch.

The lone stray shadow creeps to my bedroom window. Asshole. This has to be Stephen.

I ready the paintball gun, the tank tucked into my shoulder. I align my sight and decide against the shoes, aiming for the heart. Let’s see how he feels after I sink a couple of balls into it.

Lincoln’s under strict instructions—he’ll shoot only after I fire, and Stephen is mine.

After a few seconds, Stephen raises his hand and rakes his fingers down my window.

It is so not your night tonight, buddy. Last night, I was terrified. Now I feel empowered.

I pull the trigger. Pop, pop, pop, pop. The figure yelps and bends over as each ball pummels his body. Shouts from the front of the house tell me that Lincoln has hit his prey.

“They’re on the move. On the move.” Lincoln’s voice crackles on the radio.

His silhouette swings down from the tree in effortless grace, and once on the ground he takes off for the front of the house. I refocus on Stephen. His head whips back and forth, looking for his attacker in the bushes. “Who’s out there?”

I drift up from the ground. Still hidden by the rain of branches from the weeping willow, I plug two more balls into the ground, right near his feet.

“Hey!” he yells as he dances away from the paint.

With a snap, I flick on my flashlight and aim it at his face. He places his hand above his eyes in an effort to see who approaches. Paint smears his favorite shirt and jeans. Good. I aimed too low, though, and barely stained his two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar athletic shoes.