Page 92 of Charlotte

The schoolyard held its breath around them: pines, dust, stakes, twine, boards, and the shape of a building not yet raised.

Then Peterson spoke.

“It is not pity.”

Lottie’s breath caught. He looked at her then, and the honesty in his face was almost more than she could bear.

“I know it is not,” he said. “That is the trouble.”

She wanted to go to him. She wanted to put her hands on his chest and tell him trouble was not always a warning. Sometimes it was the place where life could change.

Instead, she stayed where she was.

“What is the trouble?” she asked.

“You.”

The word landed between them with no ornament at all. Lottie’s heart turned over. Peterson seemed to regret it at once, but he did not take it back.

“You have come into town with your books, your certainty, and your soft voice that somehow manages to order a man around without raising itself. You look at my hand and do not turn away. You say things I cannot forget. When you are there, a room feels less empty.” His right hand curled once at his side. “I do not know how to want that without fearing what my wanting will cost you.”

“It costs me more when you decide for me.”

“I am trying to spare you.”

“You are trying to spare yourself from watching me choose. If you want me to choose someone else, then let me know. Now. Today. I don’t want to waste another minute.”

That struck him silent.

Lottie breathed through the ache in her chest. “Ask me.”

His brows drew together. “What?”

“Ask me what I want.”

He looked toward the marked boards, toward the schoolhouse, toward anywhere that was not her face. Then, with visible effort, he looked back.

“What do you want?”

“You.”

His mouth parted slightly. She did not rush to soften it.

“I want the man who built a shelf before anyone asked. I want the man who knows flowers because his mother named them aloud. I want the man who reads Tennyson and pretends he only gets by. I want the hand you hide and the name you keep back and the truth you are forever trying not to say.” Her voice trembled but held. “I want you, Peterson, because you are worth choosing.”

He looked as though she had stepped close and put both hands against a wound.

His left hand rose once, then fell. “You do not even know my name.”

“I know the name you allowed me to use.”

“That is not the same.”

“No.”

She glanced toward his vest pocket where he had tucked the folded paper. “I think I may have seen more than you meant me to.”

His face changed in a way needing no explanation. He knew at once what she meant.