Page 68 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
“Your mom and my dad,” she says. “Giving us the same verse.”
“Different houses. Same hymn.”
“Think they planned that?”
“I think some things find you whether you plan them or not.”
“That sounds dangerously close to faith, Benson.”
I laugh, glancing down at her. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“Something tells me it might be an upgrade to your reputation.”
“Ouch.”
She laughs, the sound traveling through my shoulder straight to my heart. Everly Hart, you have no idea what you do to me.
The polar bear stands watch. Cole snores. And the verse—my mother’s, her father’s—hangs between us like a bridge being built from both sides, the two halves reaching across the gap that’s been there seventeen years and is finally closing.
She tilts her head up to look at me, her green eyes catching the dim light. “You should sleep.”
Not exactly what I was thinking…but probably a good idea.
“I’ll keep watch,” she adds.
I glance toward the tent, toward Cole’s snoozing outline, then back at her. “I think I’m okay out here.”
Everly rolls her eyes. “Just go, Benson. It’s late—you’ve got to be tired. And I need some time to get my brain turned off for the night. Call it the writer’s curse.”
I look toward the darkness in the distance. “All right, I’ll go. But”—I turn back to her—“only if you keep watch from the tent. I don’t want to wake up in a few hours to find you frozen into a solid block of ice.”
“Tactical adjacency. For warmth.”
“Strictly thermal.”
She stands. Looks back at me on the snowmobile. “All right, then. Let’s go.”
She ducks into the tent. I sit on the snowmobile a minute longer, looking at the picturesque camp—completely ideal and completely fake.
All the vain things that charm me most.
I honestly don’t know what comes after you let them go. Who I’d be without the jersey.
The building shakes as the wind crashes against it. From the dark echoes, I can almost hear my answer. Who am I if I’m not the best?
Unworthy.
I cross the camp, picking up the flashlight as I go by the plastic fire. I duck into the tent and drop onto the sleeping bag, next to Everly. She’s waiting for me, her eyes warm, strands of hair tracing her cheekbones.
“Wake me up if you hear anything,” I say, handing her the flashlight.
“I will. Now, Go. To. Sleep.” She pronounces each word with a stern look. It does something to me, that scrunched nose pushing her glasses up. Heat surges through my chest.
“All right, all right already. I’m going.” I lie down and close my eyes.
And miraculously, I sleep.
Twelve
