Dread Naught but Time

Meagan Noel Hart-1

Meagan Noel Hart

The wolves gather in the dim light of the dying moon. The forest hushes as the displeasure in their growls strengthens.

They must decide before the sun reaches the horizon.

How did we arrive here?

Oh, yes. You told me to trust you.

“Crispin?” I raised an eyebrow at your barista name tag, a smiling cup of joe etched into the wood.

“That’s right.” You smiled a model smile. “What can I make for you?”

I resisted the urge to flirt. “Grande Cocoa Coconut frappe with a dash of mocha.”

If I hadn’t been absorbed in clearing my notification push bar, I would have felt your eyes on me. But I was multitasking, counting the seconds as I read texts and dismissed reminders. I only had a half hour break between classes, and the coffee shop was on the wrong side of campus. See, even if you can control time, you can’t really control it. If it were that simple, well, we wouldn’t have ended up where we did, right?

And besides, when I stop time—yes literally stop time—everyone, my whole family, feels it. Do you know how annoying that is? No, you would if you had let me explain everything at the fire but—

But, I digress.

Where were we?

Oh, yes. You didn’t put any mocha in my frappe. The cafe wasn’t busy anymore, the lunch crowd rushing out, clearing the air of their anxieties. The only worry I could sense was yours.

So, I softened my tone. “Uh, I meant to ask for mocha. Did I not?”

You smiled that smile again. Odd. “I’ll make you another.”

I waited, the whirring of the machines our only company. And maybe this is where I actually began to fall for you. Under the thick scent of crushed coffee and sweet syrup, I could smell your sweat mingled with oak and grass and dirt. Your shampoo was minty. You’d been lying outside recently, and my curiosity was piqued.

It’s important you know this. The way that scent affected me. It’s unfair to say that everything about you has been a misrepresentation of who you are, or that you purposely misled me, but this one is important. It isn’t often that scent lies. If I’d only known then that most of that scent was forced onto you by an annoying father making you work outside, and not something you eagerly sought yourself out of love—well, maybe I would have focused more on the other small lies.

And after all, the wrong drink was just a scam anyway. Remember?

You handed me another wrong drink—I could smell it. I made the show of walking to the door before exclaiming my irritation, but when I turned to demand a refund, you were standing there smiling, another drink ready in your hand.

That smile again. “You’re right. I’m an idiot.”

I should have realized that was truth and been done with this affair before it got any further.

But then you said, “But not for the reason you think.”

I hesitated before taking the paper cup. Our fingers brushed.

“I’ve been trying to work up the courage to ask you out since you came in. Only, by the time you made the counter . . . I couldn’t get it out.”

“So you botched my drink on purpose?” I was still a little irritated.

“You came back, didn’t you?”

“Why mess it up again?” I took a sip of the perfect drink. You hadn’t heavy-handed the mocha like some baristas.

“I’m just that shy.”

“So?” I crossed my free arm over my drink arm, waiting.

“So?”

I studied you. Time was worth pausing for just a few seconds to take you in fully. Those crystal blue eyes. They’d be stunning if you were a wolf, you know. You hadn’t shaved either, so you were a little scruffy, your dark bangs cascading everywhere. You were just cute enough, even if a bit rough around the edges.

“Still no courage?” I teased.

You tucked your thumbs in the strings of your apron, biting your lip. “I get off at six.”

I leaned across the counter. “That’s not a question.”

You leaned in as well. I breathed you in, the must of the outdoors, the mint of your shampoo. Intoxicating.

“You’re going to make me?”

Even after all that’s happened, I’ll always remember that initial spark we had.

***

Two weeks later, we were packing up your SUV. I’d never been camping before, but you assured me we’d have a blast. After all, “wasn’t a girl on Tinder willing to take a risk now and again?”

I should have never told you about that.

I stared inside the trunk. My big duffle and cooler looked bulbous next to your green hiking pack and tight sleeping roll. I’d brought extra blankets. I couldn’t imagine sleeping on the ground without the proper cushioning. Clothes and blankets were just so . . . thin.

“No tent?”

You slammed the trunk. “The clouds will be our ceiling.”

Do you know, you can make nearly anything sound romantic? And with that smile? You really laid it on thick, as they say. Can I be blamed for not seeing through it?

I’m sorry, I just—well, obviously I thought we felt the same way.

Anyway, I’d been ignoring texts from my friends all morning.

You barely know each other.

Camping, really? Is the s*x that good?

This can’t be love.

Didn’t your mother teach you better?

You’re only 19. Trust me, he’s not soulmate material.

Their concern did give me pause, but nothing more than a fleeting worry. One far weaker than my concerns over whether or not my hiking boots were broken in enough, if the night would get too cold, or that I’d embarrass myself so wholly on this trip that you’d ghost me. Because yes, the s*x was that good. Besides, follow your heart, the head will follow. Right?

This is how all those missing person stories start. Sandra. The only one who knew how to get through to me.

Knowing the real me helped. Our families had known each other for ages, and being two years older, she’d helped me through all my transformations—emotional and physical—shredded jeans and my boyband phase notwithstanding.

She followed her text with a dead looking smiley and a knife.

You’re all just jealous, I replied knowing full well it was a crap comeback. She’d found her soulmate what felt like ages ago. He was a part of her family now.

I saw you deleted your Tinder. I had. Literally moments ago. Instead of being annoyed at Sandra’s obvious investigative work into how seriously I was taking this, it warmed me. Any reminder of how well she knew me just made me love her more. Even if she was a bit of a pain in the ass.

I replied. I guess it takes a stalker to recognize one.

:p

Mature of her.

I should have listened.

I tucked my phone into my lap and peered out the window. We were getting onto the highway.

“Your friends worried?” Your eyes flicked from the road to me then back. “I don’t know that your phone has ever vibrated so much. Either there’s an emergency, which I hope you would’ve told me, or . . . I can turn around now. We can roll out the sleeping bags in the quad. Break into the art building bathroom.”

“Tempting, actually. If you murder me there, then at least there might be a witness. And bonus: I don’t have to dig a hole for a toilet.”

You chuckled that golden chuckle of yours. “You’ve done your research.”

I was so eager to impress you. “Nah, just binge-watched that nature show on Netflix.”

We laughed, and I turned my phone to do not disturb, tossing it in the glovebox.

It was time to get to know you.

Looking back at the six-hour car ride now, I didn’t learn anything at all, did I? At our loudest, we sung along to old songs, embarrassing ourselves by knowing every single word and sometimes none at all. Sure, I didn’t ask any probing questions, but neither did you. Wasn’t true connection about feelings anyway? I was feeling connected. And seriously, family history, belief structures, and the real reason you’re going on a camping trip two weeks into a relationship—those things don’t feel quite as important nor as intimate as learning your favorite TV show, or that you like peanut butter better than jelly, or that you shower cold in the summer, or that you hated your fifth-grade teacher so much you faked nearly every illness in the book and once even tried to break your foot to miss school. Though this should have been another red flag, nothing suggested you were closed minded, unaccepting. That you didn’t thirst for more—or accept that I could be.

I did most of the talking anyway. Filling the gaps. I should have tested your boundaries, but Sandra was right. I was the one rushing.

That quiet, shy nature of yours. Perhaps we both took advantage of it.

Damn. The car ride had been fun though. By the time we pulled off the dirt trail, out of the forest, and into that open clearing, ready to camp, I was convinced I could trust you. Just like you told me to.

I admired how eagerly you hopped out into the long grass. It was longer grass than I like, the kind that scratches your shins if you dress improperly, which I had. I wasn’t used to selecting my wardrobe around defensive needs. As you now know, I have other means of protecting myself.

I cursed a bit, scratching my itchy calves, and reminded myself it wouldn’t matter in a few hours when we finally snuggled up for the night.

“Echinochloa,” you said.

“What?”

“Barnyard grass. Also known as Cockspur.” You gave a half smile. “Field’s lousy with it.”

“You know the name of the grass?”

You shrugged. “My father’s a botanist. The kind with a PhD. You can’t sneeze without him telling you which type of pollen likely got sucked up your nose.”

“A real charmer then? Can’t wait to meet him.”

You shrugged, then smirked, catching that I intended to do just that. “I, uh, don’t know that you’ll like it. He’ll probably put you to work outside with him, and then lecture you on all the plants in the backyard.”

“Could be fun. I’ve never bothered to learn the names of plants. Just their smells.”

You stared at me oddly, and I bit my lip. I tried to see myself in your eyes. Would you see a sensitive soul with a sensitive nose and attention to detail who likely lit candles and would inhale your scent like fresh baked bread if you loaned me a shirt? Or a weirdo who sniffed their classmates when they weren’t looking and paused to inhale the dumpster air?

For all you knew, I was both.

It was my turn to shrug. “I’ve got a sensitive nose.”

See, at least I never lied to you.

Since there was no tent to pitch, we spent the remainder of the evening building a campfire, roasting marshmallows and hotdogs, and pretending to get to know each other a little more. I was beginning to see the appeal of camping. It wasn’t really about being in nature at all, so much as an excellent opportunity to snare someone. Bring them away from all the distractions of civilization, making them pay attention to their surroundings, pay attention to you. The smoke bothered my nose, but I could smell the musk of you under it all as we snuggled close, easing into the type of comfort that only leads to one place.

Making love in the open air, the breeze caressing my naked skin, was exhilarating. In many ways, I was amazed at myself for never trying it before. I’d always guessed that it would be itchy, or dirt would work its way into undesirable places, no fabric or fur to prevent it. But your sleeping bag was soft, and the thin layer of sweat made me even more sensitive to the night air in surprising ways. Even the smell of the grass seemed suddenly erotic.

I’d have to try it for the first time, again. Reexperiencing it would be worth the energy of rewinding time, wouldn’t it? Wait, have I told you yet I can also rewind time, not just pause it? We’ve had so many conversations tonight, I’m a little unsure . . . .

Regardless, that rewind was worth it.

God, it was.

Afterwards, I whispered that I loved you.