I don’t trust anyone. “Not really.”
She bursts into laughter and I feel the sound in my bones. “I’ll order lunch. You find us a spot in the shade.” With a flick of her wrist, she shoos me toward a picnic bench that happens to be under the shadow of a large paloverde tree.
I wipe my palms on my jeans and try to shake off this woman’s effect as I sit on the tabletop with my feet on the bench. The light, tinkling sound of Shyann’s voice carries toward me on the breeze and it does little to calm my nerves. I peruse my surroundings for a diversion.
Four men dressed in sweat-stained and dirt-covered clothes speak Spanish and eat like they’ve worked a long day in the sun. It looks like they’re eating tacos, but these are bigger than a standard taco, fluffy and wrapped in yellow paper. One of the men catches me looking and studies me.
I drop my gaze and pull down my hat, my heart thudding in my chest. No matter how much time passes I can’t shake the paranoia of being recognized. Even though I look nothing like the emaciated boy I was ten years ago, and this is a different town, different time, different me.
“Don’t look so sad. I promise you’re going to love it.” Shyann steps up to me with a paper plate in each hand and a can of soda under each arm. She shoves a plate into my lap and drops down beside me before handing me a Coke.
I study the yellow paper that cradles a puffy circle of bread and what looks like shredded meat, cheese, sour cream, and lettuce. “What is it?”
She cracks open her Coke and takes a long swig, smacking her lips. “Fry bread taco.” She motions to my plate. “Try it.”
With her plate balanced on her knees, her long, slender fingers delicately unwrap the end of her taco and she brings it to her mouth, bites, and moans. “Oh wow, it’s even better than I remember.”
I stare down at mine, wondering where to start.
“It won’t bite you,” she says through a mouthful of food.
“I . . . I got food poisoning when I was a kid.” A lot.
She licks sour cream from her finger. “From a taco?”
“No, but . . .” There are very few foods that didn’t at one point make me deathly ill. “I don’t eat food I didn’t make myself.”
She hums and I’m afraid to look at her out of fear that she’ll see me as the freak that I am.
But then my plate disappears. I watch as she unwraps the end of my taco and takes a bite just like she did hers, chews, and swallows. “There.” She returns my plate to my lap. “Now if we get sick, we do it together.”
My cheeks ache before I even realize I’m smiling. She risked getting food poisoning for me. As much as the thought of ingesting this food is enough to make me sick, I refuse to disappoint her.
Imitating her, I peel the paper back and bring it close to my mouth, praying if the poisoning hits, it does it when I’m back home so I can be miserable in private.
“Go ahead. It’s fine, I promise.” She presses her fingertips to my hand, guiding the food toward my lips, and the heat of her touch has me squirming in my seat.
Slowly I place the taco into my mouth, bite, and chew. The flavors explode against my tongue. “Good.”
“Right? My mom used to say that Mexico stole tacos from her people. She said the Navajos owned all things made of corn, and that included tacos, although”—she holds up her food and studies it—“pretty sure this is all flour.”
Her mother was Navajo. That explains her complexion compared to her father. “You and Cody, you guys look like her.”
She smiles sadly. “Mom said Navajo genes are always dominant. Said my eyes are a fluke.”
As if responding to being called, the clear blue orbs light with acknowledgment.
“They’re pretty.” I suck in a breath and drop my gaze to the dirt ground. Stupid, stupid, stupid. “I mean, as far as color . . . goes?”
“Thank you.” There’s a smile in her voice, but I don’t dare look because the way she stares at me sometimes I’d think she knows how often I’ve thought of those eyes. How many times I’ve mimicked the curves of her body into my drawings. The gentle dips and feminine flares of her form are masterpieces, like a playground for the eye. I’ve considered carving her into wood, dreamt of using her bare body as a canvas. I’ve fantasized about more than I’d ever be willing to admit.
My stomach tumbles with that same uneasy feeling I had when we first met. Flutters mixed with something dark, a need that makes my toes curl and my skin electrify. No, this can’t be good.
If this is me being uninterested, I’m in so much trouble.
TEN
SHYANN