Her jaw unhinges on a guffaw. “Well, excuse me for trying to be mature and set proper expectations!”
I can’t help but laugh. This is the most fun I’ve had with a woman probably ever.
Hannah bites down on her tongue, her smile fighting tooth and nail. She lifts her chin. “You know what, I take it all back. You’re not invited to stay.”
My voice drops as I shuffle closer. “Now that’s gonna be a problem.” I peer into those captivating eyes, and the air siphons right out of my lungs. “You see, I’ve already taken off my shoes and there’s that dark walk through the woods back to the cabin. The whole ordeal sounds like a pain in the ass.”
Not all women thrive on sarcasm and snark the way Hannah does. But, man, this girl can dish it out. Case in point, she scrunches her nose, hisses through her teeth, and says, “Does it?”
“Totally. I think I’ll just crash here.” I round my face into a fake yawn made for Broadway. “I’m beat.”
With that, I bop her nose and elbow past her. Her mouth gapes as I pad over to the bed. To really put an end to the “discussion” I launch myself onto the mattress, but what I don’t account for is the effect of my weight on this tiny trailer that was manufactured sometime before the original Woodstock. Everything shakes, the entire structure groaning as it sways on its axle. Hannah’s eyes bulge while her hands dart out to grip the edges of the counter for dear life.
“That,” I say once the movement has stopped, “is why we won’t be having sex tonight.”
She giggles. “Imagine the traumatized wildlife if we did.”
I drag a hand down my face, fighting a laugh. “For the bear cubs, Hannah. We do it for the bear cubs.”
“Ordon’tdo it, you mean. Poor fellas need their beauty rest.”
It’s the smorgasbord of secondhand embarrassment and innuendo and sexual tension we’re simultaneously too aware of that propels us into hysterics. I bury my head in my hands from the bed, while Hannah collapses to the counter, head on her forearms. Silent laughter, then the loud, from the gut kind that makes your ribs ache.
By the time we come up for air, we’re both swatting tears from our eyes.
One arm tucked behind my head, I pat the empty mattress beside me. “Come to bed.”
“My turn,”I say.
We’ve been at this for hours. Talking. Laughing. Asking questions. Telling stories. Staring a little too long across the minuscule space between us.
Curled up on our sides, we face each other, hands tucked under our cheeks.
The camper is dark, the plug-in nightlight in the bathroom the only source of illumination in the small space. Moonlight sifts through the trees outside, casting a soft glow over Hannah’s face through the partially open blinds.
“Shoot, soldier.”
“Who taught you to play chess?”
A thoughtful expression envelops her face. “I don’t know her name.” At my quizzical look, she goes on. “It was when Maddy was in the hospital.” She works her jaw against the painful memory.
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
“No, it’s fine,” she assures me. “She was in emergency surgery, and Mom and I had been in the waiting room for hours with no news whena nurse came by. She and my mom started chatting, but I was zoned out waiting for an update on Maddy.
“I think she knew I needed a distraction because she pulled a travel chess board from her purse. When I told her I didn’t know how to play, she offered to teach me.” She smiles softly. “That was my first chess lesson.”
“Was that the night Maddy passed?”
The downcast turn of her lips matches her voice when she says, “Yeah.”
I have half a mind to pull her into my chest. But we’re horizontal and I fear that changes the dynamic of a hug between friends.Acquaintances?I don’t even know.
Instead, I move the conversation along. “And you were a chess prodigy after one lesson?”
She scoffs. “Hardly. It was weeks after the funeral before I played again. I’d nearly forgotten about it, truthfully. But this one night I couldn’t sleep, my mind wouldn’t slow down, and that’s when I remembered. I fell down a rabbit hole of chess tutorials on YouTube after that. Played online. Forced Mom to learn.” Her soft chuckle coasts over my face and she pops a shoulder.
“And the rest is history,” I muse.