Page 46 of Anything (Mayberry University #1)

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“To a playground," Levi says. "It’s a mile that way.”

“Only if you’ll swing with me.”

“Only if you’ll show me your best jump off.”

I spurt out a surprised laugh.

“I’m not half as cocky as you seem to think I am,” he says.

“Maybe I think you deserve to be.”

He lights up.

Our walk winds down quiet neighborhood streets to a deserted playground nestled in a thick pine forest. I let out a happy sigh. Just what I needed. Birds chirp, and the branches sway with the cool wind.

Your creation … It’s beautiful.

In one smooth motion, Levi sheds his backpack, clutches it in an arm, and jogs backward, pine needles crackling beneath his feet. He glances behind him to avoid running into a tree. “Think you can beat me? I’m giving you a handicap.” He grins.

I scoff and take off as fast as I can. He spins forward when I catch up and runs casually, matching my sprint with ease. I push him on the arm without thinking, and he pretends to fall over, letting me win.

I shouldn’t have done that. But no darkness appears.

He rolls onto his back in the pine needles, refreshingly uninhibited, and pulls up to his elbows to watch me.

I wiggle in a silly victory dance but stop shyly when his eyes widen in enjoyment.

He pats the ground next to him, and I join him there in the pine needles, no care for the cold ground or the poky pinecones. I get to be close to him.

“Velociraptor,” Levi says, pointing at a cloud, moving his head to see around the tall trees.

I clap my hands together and point at a different cloud. “Blender?”

“Great Wall of China.”

“Magic carpet.”

He twists toward me, offering a hand. “Do you trust me?”

I spark at the endearing Aladdin reference—until my arm drops midair. My face falls, and so does his. I can’t grab his hand.

I lock into his eyes and nod seriously to his joking question.

“Just not enough to tell me the truth.” He stands abruptly, snags his bag, and brushes off pine needles as he heads for the playground.

Levi was a wild stallion before I came along—all grace, strength, and raw energy. He would be a sight to behold in a reciprocated relationship, a beautiful force of tenderness and passion. He’d be free to run concurrently. But I can’t be the one. To be close to me is to remain in my cage.

Watching him pump his legs on a swing tugs at my cheeks. I join him on the next one and oochy-scooch into proper position. Closing my eyes, I revel in the freedom of flying through the air. Back and forth, hair blowing in the wind.

“Favorite color,” I say into the quiet.

“Today, blue.” Frustration leaks into his charming reply.

“Today, green and gold.”

We silently adjust to swing in sync, side by side.

“Favorite place,” he asks.

“The creek at our usual trail. One of my favorites, anyway.”

“Tell me about it.”

My chest warms. “Okay, close your eyes. Picture a bright blue sky, weirdly blue. Dry, clear-tasting air, and pines everywhere. They’re taller and thicker than these and, I don’t know, happier looking.”

He peeks at them, chuckling.

“And aspens and spruces. Fifty-foot spruces you can’t even see the top of.

And so many rocks, like God ate some red marbled cake and different sized crumbs fell everywhere.

Some so big they’d crush you if they shifted.

And some so small they crunch under your feet.

Depending on the season, there’s grass or leaves or snow or flowers on the ground.

And then, if that wasn’t perfect enough, there’s a wide stream—crystal clear water, with that perfect falling sound.

And if you keep walking, you’ll see layers and layers of mountains, grayish blue at the front and lighter in the distance. ”

He opens his eyes to send a wistful smile. “I’m sold.”

“What’s your favorite place?”

His gaze drifts to the horizon. “The Sound. On a boat.”

“Your dad’s sailboat?”

He brightens. “You remember that?”

“Duh.”

“With Everett. And a couple grinders.”

“Grinders?”

He half laughs. “I’d be almost unrecognizable to my friends growing up, but I can’t remember how to say a sandwich. A grinder is like an Italian sub.”

“Was that a daydream or a memory? ”

“Memory.” He hesitates. “A daydream would probably include you.”

My shoulders curl in. Sweet Levi. The familiar pang returns—I’m not being fair to him.

“You’d be unrecognizable?” I ask.

“I … adapted when I came here. Some differences were an asset. Others, a liability.”

We share that inner terminology, that perspective. His upbringing has been a hindrance for him like my appearance has been to me. We have more in common than I realized.

“No need to adapt when you’re with me.” I try to sound casual.

“I like all of you.” I mentally face-palm.

Real casual. I catch his tender gaze through my blowing hair and brush it over my shoulder.

“I’m surprised you didn’t choose a school near the ocean.

I could see you chillin’ with the surfer bros in California.

Or you could be a Pacific Northwest crunchy guy.

You’re already deep in a love affair with whole foods.

Or the Deep South with your impeccable manners. ”

“Trying to get rid of me?” he teases. “I do miss the ocean. I tried setting a sound machine to waves crashing, to no avail.”

“Aw. Is your house close enough to hear the waves?”

“Right on the water. I can hear the waves lap when my windows are open.”

“The sound machine couldn’t fake you out?”

“No. Those waves sound like Hawaii. On the Sound we have puny waves.” He lifts a finger. “But huge egos.”

I giggle. “What a slogan.”

“Remember the guy I told you about who introduced me to Jesus? He had a list of Christian schools, and I admit I decided to enroll at whichever had the lowest acceptance rate, as long as it was far from New England.”

“Mayberry won.”

“Mayberry won.” His face clouds with an unreadable expression. “I always plan ahead. But coming here was impulsive, very unlike me …” His voice trails off.

“Impulsive.”

He gives his head a half shake, as if to reset. “Your turn.”

“Pets growing up?”

“Killed a couple fish by accident. My parents aren’t really pet people. But when I grow up,” he says like a kid, “I want a dog. A big one.”

“Poor dog,” I tease.

“Hey!” he jokes back. “Maybe someone will take care of it with me.”

My happiness sinks as I grieve the future I want. Resting my head against the chain, my swing falls out of sync with his.

“Let’s see what you got,” I say, propelling myself higher to change the subject.

Never one to back down from a challenge, Levi swings high enough to rock the swing set’s supports. We both laugh.

“One, two, three,” he calls.

We jump, but I hesitate before takeoff.

Levi lands an Olympic-sized jump and lifts his arms in victory. He is handsome beyond excuse. It’s unlivable.

“Show off.” I shake my head with endearment.

He saunters over, digging Tic Tacs out of his pocket, but stows them again to pull a pine needle from my hair.

Levi. I long for the best for him. I am the obstacle.

He slowly, intimately pulls fingers down my hair. Like I’m precious to him. My eyes close in pleasure, but they flutter open full of tears. The fear is absent—only my guilt threatens. I’m not good for you. I can’t keep you trapped.

“I’m sorry,” he says gently. “I won’t do it again.”

“That’s not why … I liked it.”

He works his jaw around.

“Levi?” I barely made a sound. “This is really fun.”

His sad smile matches my own.

“You’re my favorite,” I whisper sadly, unwisely. My greedy fingers grab the bottom of his shirt. The thick flannel is soft and warm and so close to his skin.

“Let me be there for you, Kit,” he almost begs. “Tell me what you need.”

Give him good things, God. Please fix this mess I’ve made. Take care of him.

“I don’t know what I need. But I know you deserve better than this.”

“Better than you? She doesn’t exist.”

My stomach ties in knots of confusion and honor. Surely he knows what I mean. “It’s time,” I blurt out. “I’m not getting better.” My throat tightens. “I care about you too much to keep on like this.”

“You’re not getting better from what? You mean about being broken?”

I tug his shirt and try to wordlessly explain, to say I’m sorry, to tell him how much I like him, admire him. This time, he turns away, dragging a hand through his hair. His raised arm pulls the shirt from my grasp. He stands there, hand still on his head, lost in thought or prayer.

Tell him what to do. Help him, God.

He spins back—calm, collected, determined.

I huff. He is impossible. No self-preservation. As rational as he normally is, logic won’t do the trick here. I won’t be able to talk him out of this.

Tic Tacs peek out from his pocket. I could grab them without touching him, and he’d make that inviting face I love. What am I thinking? No. That would not be kind. Or consistent with what I just said. I clasp my hands behind my back to keep myself in line.

He pulls the Tic Tacs out. “Are you going to steal these too?”

Before I know it, I’m grinning up at him, bending closer, smitten.

Help.