Everything Under The Sun

As I walked to the nearest tree, the pants hanging from my hand, I remembered Petra, how she so easily seduced the green-eyed soldier with her wanton behavior; how he visited her in the night; the awful, but strangely arousing things he did to her. I could never bring myself to do such things—I was too shy, and found even the possibility I could act that way toward Atticus, embarrassing. But the fact I was thinking of Atticus in that way at all made me question everything I thought I knew about myself.

Never did I think of men how I began to think of Atticus: mostly I imagined him bending to kiss me; I thought of what it might feel like to lie next to him; what his arms might feel like around me; what it might be like if his hands touched me—my face had never been so red!

Maybe it was seeing the way Rachel acted toward him that opened my mind, as though if I didn’t start seeing him in another way, someone else would. Or, if I didn’t act on how I already felt, then someone else would. I didn’t know, but what I did know was that Atticus was something more to me than just my rescuer, or my traveling companion. What exactly, would continue to eat away at my thoughts.

“Well just so you know,” I said as I stepped behind the tree to put on the pants, “this dress was the only one I had. In case you forgot, my wardrobe was chosen by crazy women.” I stepped into the legs, slipping my sandaled feet through the roomy material, and I dropped the dress over the pants. “So, before you start thinking I put it on to seduce you, or something ridiculous like that—think again.”

(Turning back to the gear strapped to my horse, I smiled to myself.)





31


THAIS





The restless whinnying of the horses, and the sound of feet shuffling through dead leaves woke me during the night. I sat bolt upright when a shadow darted past in my periphery, followed by whispering voices and the clatter of metal on glass on plastic.

“ATTICUS!”

He woke with a start on his cot next to me, knife gripped in one hand, gun in the other.

“Go! Go!” a man’s voice hissed in the darkness.

Atticus was to his feet in under two seconds; he vaulted past me, clearing my head and the quilt spread out on the ground without so much as grazing it.

The thief dropped a bag and ran.

“Shiiit, Billy, ruuun!” shouted the woman with a heavy southern drawl.

The woman had our heaviest backpack, but once Atticus went stampeding toward them, she also dropped her loot and tried to make a run for it.

Atticus speared the man from behind with his shoulder and they rolled several feet over dirt and leaves in a tangle of camouflage and grunts. The man hit the dirt with an oomph! and Atticus was on top of him in a blink, raining his fists down on his head.

“Don’t you touch him!” the woman cried, and she ran toward Atticus.

I raised my gun on the woman and she froze, arms shot up at her sides.

My body shook; I wondered how long I could hold the gun before I dropped it, or accidentally pulled the trigger.

The sound of Atticus’ fists pounding the man’s face reverberated all around me; it was becoming more of a distraction than the woman. Images of the brute, beaten to a bloody, unrecognizable pulp before he was shoved out an eight-story window, assailed my memory.

“Atticus stop,” I said, quietly at first, because I wasn’t yet aware of the volume of my own voice. “Atticus…” I raised it just a little.

“He’s going to kill him!” cried the woman, looking to me for help.

“Atticus, stop!” My voice was much louder this time, enough that Atticus should have heard me, but he was lost in his rage. “ATTICUS! I SAID STOP!” My voice quaked and roared.

He stopped.

I never realized I’d dropped the gun at my side, and for a second I thought to raise it on Atticus instead, but I didn’t.

“We didn’t come to hurt nobody,” the woman pleaded, hands out in front of her. “We just needed your stuff. Please let my husband go, please let my Billy up; he’s all I got in the world.”

My eyes darted between them.

Atticus pushed himself up and moved away from the man, stamping back in my direction, picking up his knife on the way. He wouldn’t look at me as he passed.

The woman rushed to her husband’s side, sinking to her knees next to him where she touched his bloodied mouth; she propped her arm behind his back, and with her aid he stumbled to his feet.

“We’re sorry,” the woman said.

With the man’s arm secured over the back of her shoulder, they went to leave, the man limping through the dried leaves.

“Wait,” I called out.

I shoved my gun in the back of my pants just like I’d seen Atticus do many times, and I strode over to the horses.

“Thais, what are you doing?” Atticus came toward me.

I put my hand up and he stopped.

Then I went back to digging inside the bag affixed to my horse, retrieving the aluminum foil pouch with bread. I went past Atticus, ignoring him—I had to, otherwise that glaring look of disapproval he was giving me might’ve weakened my resolve.

“Take this and go.” I held the bread out to the couple.

“Thais,” Atticus growled under his breath as he came up behind me. “We can barely feed ourselves.”

I turned brashly to face him, my hair whipping around my head. “They’re hungry, Atticus,” I snapped. “We have a little more for ourselves. Not to mention”—I looked at the gun in his hand—“we also have the means to hunt more food—they don’t.” It was as much a demand as it was a plea.

Atticus stood back, giving me what I wanted, although I knew that he vehemently disagreed with my decision.

I turned back to the couple, putting the bread into their view and urged them to take it. “Please,” I said. “We’re all hungry, but if we continue to rob and kill each other over a few scraps of food, then there won’t be anyone left.” I stepped closer.

Still unsure, the couple kept glancing at the towering threat near me.

“Take it,” I insisted.

I glanced over to see Atticus shaking his head, figuratively throwing his hands in the air; then he turned and left us standing there.

“Thank you,” the woman said. “Thank you.”

I watched them go. I was glad I did what I did, but I was equally worried about the repercussions from my older, much, much taller, not to mention bigger in every imaginable way, traveling companion.

Atticus sat down on his quilt, legs drawn up and fallen open, back hunched over, arms propped on his knees at the forearms. He just looked at me as I moved through the darkness toward my own cot.

“They were just hungry,” I said.

“And we’re not a grocery store,” he shot back.

I glowered at him.

“I don’t regret giving them food,” I snapped, and then readjusted the quilt beneath me.

“You might regret it later,” he pointed out, frustrated, “when we don’t have anything else.”

“Then we’ll hunt and fish and forage for more.” My voice was calm and I did not look up.

Atticus sprang back into a stand and paced.

“What if they’d slit your throat while you slept?” he said crossly, stopping once. “And what if—”

My head shot up and I looked right at him. “They didn’t,” I said, cutting him off. “They didn’t hurt either one of us; they just wanted our stuff.” I pushed my head forward so he could see the intensity of my eyes in the dark. “And because they didn’t hurt us, or kill our horses for food, that’s why I gave them our bread.”

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