Page 15

Ragnar is still sitting on the dilapidated picnic table with Quinn when I decide it’s time to take pity on him.

The fading evening light catches on his hair like molten copper.

Still sitting. Like he’s moved an inch. Like I didn’t leave him right there in that exact spot, clutching a bag of fruit with a slightly panicked look in his eyes.

And then I sent my friend over to talk to him.

He’s holding the paper bag of apples like it might spontaneously combust if he grips it too hard.

His shoulders hunched the same way they do whenever he’s not in goal.

Like he’s trying to disappear in plain sight. It’s kind of adorable.

And kind of heartbreaking. Poor guy.

I really threw him in the deep end today, but I think he’s doing great.

I tug at the scarf around my neck. I’m drowning in sweat. It’s dripping down my temples, but I’m just stubborn enough to ride it out. For the aesthetic. I’m practiced at that.

This sweater is one of my favorites and it sits just off my shoulders, so at least I get a tiny waft of air when I fiddle with my scarf. Ragnar was right. This was a dumb outfit choice. I went for looks over function. A shit choice.

I catch the hint of movement out of the corner of my eye—Quinn’s hand is on Ragnar’s arm—and I turn away before they catch me staring.

She slides off the table, clearly ending their conversation, and I tell myself I’ll give them a few minutes to wrap things up so they don’t know I’ve been watching their every move.

It’s not like we’re at the zoo. They aren’t animals on display.

I count to thirty Mississippis to keep myself distracted.

When I chance another glance, he’s alone and I swear it feels like he’s touching me, slipping the backs of his fingers down my cheek, and when I look up,our eyes lock.

I don’t remember giving my feet the conscious command to close the distance between us. I do know I will remember the way his eyes darkened at my approach until the day they scatter my ashes to the wind.

“Hey,” I say when I reach him.

Itouch Ragnar’s elbow. The hair there is springy under my fingers. His arm muscles solid beneath my hand, and even though he’s a furnace in this weather, and I’m already melting, I step even closer..

His eyes dart to my hand and then spring back to meet mine. The icy blue flickering over my face like he’s checking for…something. I give him a reassuring smile.

“How are you doing?”

I don’t wait for his response, instead cataloging the lack of tension in his shoulders, the small curve of his mouth. He seems wholly unharmed. I bite my lips to hide my smile.

“Y-your f-f-friend is n-ice.” He pins me with his stare and something hot bubbles in my gut as his lips quirk. “Even if y-you s-s-sent her.”

“You make it sound like a covert mission.” I nudge his shoulder with mine.

“W-was it n-n-not?”

I wince. Caught. He blinks slowly, like an owl, and I have to turn my eyes on the knobby trees to fix the weird catch behind my breastbone.

“Okay, yes. I did. But in my defense,” I lift my hands, palms up, “I thought you might appreciate someone easy to talk to. Quinn’s nice. Not scary. Barely even judgmental.” Lies. Quinn is one of the best women I know.

“I heard that,” she calls from across the field.

I can’t resist yelling back, “I meant you to!”

Ragnar's hands ball into fists at his sides. And oh god, I’ve overstepped.

I should have asked him first, should have laid some ground rules.

Instead, I made dumb assumptions and did what I thought was best and now he’ll probably want to be done with me and this situation.

If that’s the case, will he ask someone else to help him?

Or will I have put him off so much that he’ll suffer in silence, losing his ad revenue and disappointing his little sister? Why didn’t I just stop and ask him?

Not that I think he’d disappoint her, he’d figure something out, but I do believe Ragnar Olaffsson would be the first to blame himself.

“Ragnar.” I wait for him to look at me, readying my apology. And oh!

That is not what I was expecting. Pupils wide and dark despite the scorching sun, lips parted, cheeks stained red. My apology dies on my tongue, strangled. My explanation vanishing into the ether. I swallow the lump in my throat.

“I was worried you’d run off into the trees to live a solitary life among the apples if given the chance.”

“I w-was c-c-considering it,” Ragnar says, lips twitching into a crooked smile. “Seems p-peaceful.”

“You’d miss a few things.” Hockey, his sister, his grandma. His dog.

He meets my eyes, serious, blue.

“Yes.”

My heart flips in my chest, as if it assumes he meant me. I ignore her.

I reach into my bag for a water bottle and unscrew the top. I hand it to Ragnar without a word. When he takes it, his fingers accidentally brush against mine.

“Sorry if I overstepped,” I say, kicking at a clump of grass with my boot. “I just… I know it’s not easy. Being around people. Making conversation. I wanted to help.”

Ragnar shrugs, shoulders loose, but when we make eye contact, his expression is still serious.

“Th-thank you. F-for thinking a-a-about it. About m-me.”

Everything inside me softens, my spine practically melting as I slouch in what I can only all relief. I didn’t want to let him down. I hate letting anyone down.

“Always.”

It’s hot. I push sweaty strands of hair out of my face and close my eyes against the glare of the late afternoon sun. I lean back on the rough surface of the table, tilting my head back so the sun warms my face. The tips of my fingers slide into the gap between the wood slats on the tabletop.

There’s a nudge against my shoulder, light but deliberate. I crack one eye at Ragnar.

“Y-y-you okay?” He’s frowning as he asks, and I make sure to give him a smile back, trying to ease his worries.

“Just warm.” I tip my head back further, my braid brushing the top of the table as I look at him from the corner of my eye. “Are you free tonight? After this?”

“Yes.”

“Everyone’s going for drinks after this.” I shrug, doing a poor job of looking casual.

He nods slowly, but says nothing. Waiting for me to say more.

“I think you should come.”

“Sh-should I?”

I sit up. This time I’m the one frowning.

“Yeah. You showed up today. You made conversation. You smiled so hard your face almost cracked.” Not quite, but it probably felt that way for him.

“You deserve to celebrate that. Of course you should come.” It occurs to me that maybe I misunderstood him.

“Unless you don’t want to. I meant we’d love to have you.

Not that you don’t have a choice.” And now I’m rambling again.

Ragnar swallows. “A-are you c-coming t-t-too?”

I hesitate—just a second too long—because I’d like to. I would. But I can’t tonight. I’m already miles behind in two of my classes. I shake my head, no.

“I’ve got to go over some stats homework if I want a hope to pass. But I’ll be there next time.”

“I-I c-could help y-you w-with your homework. Isn’t that the d-deal?”

Or I could make a brief appearance at the party. Just a short one. Then head home to crack open a textbook.

He won’t look at me now, but I desperately want him to.

I think tonight would be good for him. I think he’d have fun.

Apple picking was better than he thought it would be.

This is just a continuation of the celebration.

And I’m one hundred and eleven percent sure he won’t go if I bail.

My hand finds the top of his thigh, and I curve the tips of my fingers against his muscles.

“I can maybe stay for a little. I did make the birthday cake. Should at least make sure it’s edible.”

“Y-you m-made… the cake?” His brow furrows. “You h-have so many t-t-talents.”

“Mhm.” I pull my braid around my shoulder and play with the tail.

Anything to keep my fingers busy. “Chocolate with caramel filling. Spent all night trying to keep my dad from eating half of it.” It took hours, but I was actively avoiding studying.

And I felt supremely guilty that I’d be missing the second half of Maddie’s celebration.

His lips part like he might say no — like he’s already halfway to declining — so I give him my most hopeful, don’t-make-me-beg face. “It’s part of the party,” I add. “It would mean so much…”

I stop myself because I was about to say to me. It would mean so much to me. But this isn’t my party, this isn’t my birthday, this isn’t even my experience.

“I’ll g-go,” he says quietly. “For you.”

My heart pitches at his words. A quick somersault that leaves me breathless.

Why? I’m not sure. Probably the level of trust he’s putting in me.

Faith that this will help him. I lean in, shoulder pressing against his, my lips touching the shell of his ear.

This close, he smells like sandalwood and soap and apples and man. I try not to shiver.

“No. For you, Ragnar.”

His cheeks turn pink, the blush extending under his beard, and something warm and fond pools in my chest. Before he can protest, I hold my scarf out and loop it around his neck.

“There,” I say, giving the ends a playful tug. “Now you’re officially part of the fall festivities. One of the gang.” Also, I’m melting and he did say he’d hold on to it for me.

He blinks down at the soft yellow fabric draped around his neck, then back up at me. His throat works as he swallows.

“T-t-too hot?”

I grin. “Why do you think I’m done with it? But also, fashion over function, ólaffson. Get with the program.”

He huffs a sound that’s almost a laugh. Almost. Even as his hand comes up to stroke the soft cotton.

And when I thread my fingers through his—because why the hell not—he lets me.

We walk back toward the others, hand in hand.

His palm is warm and rough against mine, his grip careful, like he’s afraid of squeezing too hard.

I kind of love that about him. I don’t let go as we join the rest of the group.