He laughs. ‘Um . . . stand there?’
‘Like a decoration?’ I say, raising an eyebrow, inviting a rebuttal from him.
But he doesn’t bite. Instead he shifts from foot to foot, looking miserable again. ‘I was trying to give you a compliment. I don’t think you’re . . . inanimate.’
‘I know. I was just . . .’ I break off, and I realize that Bo doesn’t do banter, sexy or otherwise. I don’t think he’s ever learned how.
I’ve never had to work this hard to talk to anyone, and conversation is my forte. I’m good at making people feel comfortable. That’s part of the reason I’ve always been well liked. Well, until you get to know me, that is.
What a disaster. I’m going to have to totally switch gears or this is not going to work out. And I realize that I really want this to work out. I’ve never cared enough about a guy to want that before.
‘You know what?’ I say. ‘I’d rather just learn to shoot, and if we don’t talk, we don’t talk.’
He doesn’t look like he buys what I’m saying, and I’m not sure I buy what I’m saying, either. How do I connect with a guy when I can’t make him laugh, or subtly compliment how he takes a selfie? I wonder why anyone would want to spend time with me if I’m not entertaining him, or making him feel like he’s an entertaining person. But Bo accepts my no-speaking terms and starts to lead me back to the clearing of the fallen giant.
What follows is two hours of us not saying anything except small exchanges directly relating to the task at hand. I learn how to stand, how to draw, how to aim, and how to release an arrow.
I also learn how patient Bo is. How respectful he is of other people’s personal space. How he knows how to correct you without implying that you’re doing something wrong first. I also learn that when he’s not worried about coming off as a misfit, he has all the self-assurance of an alpha, but none of the swagger. Bo is capable of being entirely himself. It’s a brand of confidence I’ve never seen before because it doesn’t require a witness. It’s humble. It’s magnetic.
I’m sure time passes, but I don’t notice a change in the light. Bo must have, because at some point he looks up to the canopy and says, ‘It’s getting late. You should probably go.’
‘OK,’ I reply. We start to walk slowly back towards my blanket. ‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘You’re a good shot,’ he replies, like I’m the one who did him a favour, although I’m not too sure what he’s gotten out of today. ‘That was fun.’
‘It was fun,’ I agree. ‘I’ve never learned so much from someone who said so little,’ I say, and I mean it. I learned more about Bo just by standing next to him for a few hours than I have about myself after years of self-obsession.
Bo is quiet the rest of the way back to my blanket. He helps me pack up. His hands shake a little every time he has to touch me to give me something. I strap on my pack and face him.
‘May I see you tomorrow?’ he asks haltingly.
He’s still so nervous about asking to see me. ‘I’d like that, but I have to work tomorrow,’ I tell him. He deflates. ‘The day after?’ I offer.
His face brightens again, and he nods shyly, still not trusting that I really want to see him. I come towards him and place a hand over his heart. I feel a seismic heaving in his chest, and I lean forward and kiss him very softly on the lips. It isn’t until after I’m kissing him that I realize my mistake.
I thought this kiss would be a small gesture – my lips briefly brushing past his in a way that is somewhere between friends and more than friends. I know what a tiny kiss like this means in my strata of the world. It would leave a guy not sure where we stood, giving me the upper hand.
Now, kissing Bo, I’m going to have to start all over again. Go back to the beginning and reshape the way I’ve classified physical contact. Because my knees almost give out and I’m falling against him and he’s holding me up, and a little kiss is not so little any more.
I rest my head on his shoulder and wait for the trees to stop tilting. I’m wearing a backpack, so he doesn’t know where to put his hands, and that’s a good thing because I don’t know how I would react to him touching me. I’m going to have to get out of this or . . . actually, I don’t know what. I don’t know what will happen if I stay.
‘The day after tomorrow,’ I say, and my voice is too breathy and strange to be mine. And I pull away quickly and bound through the river and I’m running home.
23 JULY
I’m only halfway through my pile of dirty pots when Maria comes over to me and pulls me aside.
‘I wanted to talk to you for a minute,’ she tells me.
‘Sure,’ I say. Nervous acid rising up the back of my throat makes the word come out like a chirp.
Maybe Maria found out about me, and she doesn’t want me here any more. I fumble with my rubber gloves, wondering if I should take them off or just leave them on.
‘Do you need me to move to another station?’ I ask, hoping that if I offer her an innocuous course of action, she’ll take it rather than tell me I can’t come back.
I like it here. No. More than that. I need this. I wipe some perspiration off my brow with the back of my wet glove and smear greasy water across my face.
‘I wanted to ask you if you had some more days you could spare?’ she asks, almost sheepishly, like she’s not comfortable with asking for favours from others.