“I was trying to help,” I say again, quieter this time.
Suddenly, I find myself buried against Bobby’s chest, and tears are running hotly down my face, soaking into his shirt. He rubs my back soothingly. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Hank’s got a streak of pride a mile wide, and we rubbed up against it a little too much. That’s all.”
“You think he’s going to be okay?” This time, I do need him to answer, to reassure me that Unc’s hand is going to get stitched up and he’ll be good as new.
“Of course. Hell, if we hadn’t been here, he probably would’ve super glued it shut and kept on with business. He’s tough like that.”
I’d like to believe that. Except Bobby doesn’t know that there’s more to it. No one does.
Pulling myself together, I swipe at my eyes behind my glasses and snort very ungracefully.
“He’ll be okay, and he’ll get over it. At least until he shows up to work and sees what you did to his office,” he deadpans. “It’s all over then.”
There’s a beat of silence and I realize he’s kidding. Sort of.
“Oh, God, he’s going to kill me!” I wail, but through the last bit of tears, I’m laughing in shock, knowing it’s true. He is going to be so pissed. “How in the hell can he be mad that people want to do nice things for him?”
“Some people don’t get it, sweetheart. But he’ll come around.”
Bobby makes one last check on the stairs to be sure they’re solid and stable while I text Doc to let him know we got busted and that stitches were required.
Doc: Tannen? Or you?
I laugh, amused that Doc assumes Unc did something to us.
Me: Unc. Sliced his hand on a screwdriver.
Doc: He went for stitches? Didn’t glue it up?
What is it with these guys? Glue is not an appropriate treatment for gashes and never has been. A second later, another text pops up . . .
Doc: On it. You tried.
I did. I tried so hard to do something nice, and Unc yelled and stomped and cussed his way around like a drunk, wayward sailor who got off at the wrong shore for leave.
But I’m nervous about his being at the hospital alone. Maybe I should go over there too? Sit with Doc and make sure that Unc gets home okay and eats some dinner? He said he came home and took a nap. Was it because they left early to catch the prime fishing hours or because he overdid it today?
My brain whirls and swirls. It’s not until Bobby puts his hands on my shoulders and bends down nose to nose with me that it stops. My brain quiets and I stare into his eyes. Deep, dark onyx unblinkingly stares back at me, steady and supportive.
“I know what you need. Get in the truck. I’m taking this date over.”
“Because I messed up so royally?” I say softly.
“No, because Katelyn was wrong. You need to relax and have some fun, and while I might not be able to get us in at the resort with zero notice, I do know a spot that’s perfect. Leave it to me, sweetheart.”
I do, because as much as I hate to admit it, it’s nice to have someone take care of me for a change. It’s a relief to simply sit back in the cushioned seat of Bobby’s truck and see where he takes me.
“Keep ’em closed.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting the desire to open them. We’ve been going for what seems like forever, first stopping by my place where Bobby quickly ran inside by himself to emerge with my camera bag before heading here. Wherever here is. The truck bumps along, and without knowing when to brace, my butt flies out of the seat a bit. “Whoo!” I scream, a little scared but a little . . . exhilarated?
Is that what this feeling is? And is it because of the wild ride across the field or because of the man at my side?
Both. Definitely both.
We come to a stop, and Bobby says, “Okay, you can open now.”
I open my eyes and look around to find a pond sunk into a low point in the rolling green pasture. On the far side, a few cows laze about on the bank, drinking and lying down in the surprisingly not-brown water. It’s not Caribbean blue or anything, but it does look fresher than I’d expect for what’s likely rain runoff and collection.
“A pond?” I ask, not sure why