Page 70 of Lovefool

An indignant frown drips from her lips. “Pish, I would’ve taken a break. I love breaks. I love not being productive and letting my responsibilities pile up.”

“Mm-hm,” I mumble, unconvinced.

A copse of trees accelerates in my periphery as we near our destination, my warmhearted yet annoyingly persistent disposition wearing down the invisible stones of worry on Lake’s shoulders.

Protectiveness curls in my belly when I toss a fleeting glance her way, and she unwraps an emotional support Starburst before popping it into her mouth.

She taps her foot restlessly against the floorboard of the car, and I reach out to squeeze her knee. “If you don’t have fun within the first ten minutes, I’ll take you back home, okay? I just want you to enjoy yourself.”

I see the first hint of a half smile debut on her face, and it’s not a parody to simply please me. Her leg stops its violent onslaught against the edge of her seat as her factory setting reboots itself.

Either she waves the white flag because she knows I’m right and arguing would be pointless, or she’s slowly starting to believe that she deserves more than strict deadlines and stress-sleep night sweats. “I’m sure I’ll love it. And thank you for the Starbursts.”

“Anytime.”

When we round the corner into our own designated safe haven, she practically glues her face to the side of the window, whispering in awe at the beauty of nature’s alcove. A dense tree line separates us from the rest of the world, wrapping around a small, wildflower-littered meadow that seems untouched by the greater public. It’s quiet, peaceful, and there’s not a single soul for miles.

I try not to fluff my feathers at the prospect of metaphorically holding the title for best date planner, though it feels fucking fantastic to watch Lake’s grumpy expression smooth over in real time.

She jumps out of the car as soon as I kill the engine, letting a gust of clean, undiluted air fill the interior of the space, further confirming my theory that this vacuum-sealed utopia has flown under the radar of many wanderlust travelers. No exhaust, no smog, no inexplicable greasy sheen over everything humans have ruined.

When I duck out of my side door, I hear the faintest babble of a brook somewhere to my left, most likely hidden away in a moss-felted recess of river stones—packed earth and plant fragments used as spackle for the underdeveloped spaces.

I don’t rush Lake, nor do I interrupt her gawking. I observe her from a distance, witnessing two contradictory yet complementary versions of herself that exist at the same time. A Schrodinger’s butterfly, of sorts.

She looks up at the sky—a canvas of soft pastels smeared hastily over cumulus clouds—and there’s a sparkle reflected in those big, wide eyes, like this is her first time seeing Mother Nature’s handiwork.

God, I forgot how beautiful she is—okay, not like that. I’m constantly reminded of her outside beauty, but it’s the beauty on the inside that gets outshined. Outshined by stress, external variables, an unintentional dimming that she doesn’t realize hurts me as much as it hurts her. If I can offer her respite for even a single minute, I’ll do whatever it takes.

“The view is stunning,” she says beneath her breath, her words lacking their usual fresh coat of pessimism.

I don’t stop staring at her. She’s the antidote to every nervous, uncomfortable feeling that sits underneath my skin like untreated inflammation. “Yeah, it is.”

Emboldened, that larger-than-life beam hasn’t shrunk one bit on her lips. “Why are we here?”

I potter around to the trunk, beckoning her as I pop it open. She scurries over to me enthusiastically, and I didn’t think it was possible, but her eyes grow even larger, as if she can’t fathom the lengths I’d go just to see her smile.

“Aw, you were this secretive about a picnic?”

“Surprised you, didn’t I?” I lean over to retrieve the picnic basket, hauling everything out before closing the compartment.

Lake and I walk side by side as I lead her over to the prime picnic spot, aware of the way she marvels at me (and not hating it one bit).

She can’t scrape together a response except for a heartfelt “thank you” underpinned by currents of relief. And then she clings to my arm—an action not foreign to me, but one that gets my heart sweating all the same.

Ochre sunlight percolates through overhanging leaves, shimmering like mermaid scales amidst springtime foliage and shining a hidden spotlight over the field. No imminent rain to baptize the earth. Serendipitous.

We’re so far removed from the overpopulated, beating heart of downtown that I forget all about the industrialized slop of the twenty-first century.

I wrestle the plaid blanket out of the basket to lay on the ground, and Lake takes her slightly bumpy seat. I’m so far gone for this girl.

So. Far. Gone.

“I can’t believe you planned all of this,” she exclaims, all work-related anxieties evaporating like the last of snowmelt on a dimorphic branch of pine.

I flash her some eyeteeth. “I think you severely underestimate my romancing capabilities.”

“Oh, no. Those I’m aware of. I’m just surprised you can cook.”