Swear (Landry Family 4)

My eyes close as it all plays out in front of me like it just happened. Ford must sense the heaviness of my heart and runs his hand down my back.

“I never really had a lot of friends in school,” I say. “I mean, I had lots of friends but never those close friends that feel like your people, you know? Never a tribe or a squad or whatever those dumb names are girls call them. It was fine most of the time, but sometimes it bit me in the ass.”

He squeezes my behind, making me smile.

“The day you found me was a tough one. There was this little boy in our school in a wheelchair. Something was physically wrong with him, but mentally he was pretty much on par with the rest of us. He just couldn’t speak clearly for whatever reason. You had to be patient with him but it would come.”

I grin as I remember his lopsided smile. “His name was Scott and he was really sweet. We had the same lunch. The day I met you, I had taken my lunch over and sat with him and his helper, this lady assigned to him by the school. Sitting there making him laugh was far better than listening to the girls gossip and compare the best lipsticks.”

I mentally walk the hallway from the cafeteria to the bathroom and go into the stall. The sound of their footsteps squeaking against the linoleum rings through my ears.

“I overheard them making fun of me for sitting with Scott, making these disgusting jokes about him drooling and flailing around,” I remember. “I just hid in the stall and listened. I couldn’t find the courage to go out and confront them because I couldn’t believe I was actually hearing it.”

“People are evil,” Ford says. “It never ceases to amaze me how mean they can be. They don’t need a reason; they’ll find one. Anything to make themselves feel better.”

“It was the first time I’d experienced that. Girls had been mean to me before but whatever. I could let that roll, for the most part. But to say those things about Scott? It really bothered me. It still bothers me.”

“So you were sitting out here that day thinking about that, huh?”

“I was. My dad used to bring me here to fish on the days he’d let me skip school and hang out with him. I’d never seen another soul out here before. It was my quiet refuge until you came over that hill raising hell on your four-wheeler,” I laugh. “What were you doing out here that day, anyway?”

“I don’t really know,” he admits. “I was always off by myself. No one in my family or the guys we went to school with liked to ride dirt bikes or ATVs or go fishing or whatever. They were more into chess and newspaper-worthy events,” he grins. “That day, I was riding around on one of the adjoining properties and ran into Mr. Kauffman. He owns this one. He told me I could ride around out here, so I took him up on it. Then I found you.”

Standing on my tiptoes, I meet his lips with mine. It’s a soft gesture, one that isn’t driven by lust or lost time but, instead, maybe a love that you only find once.

“I remember you turning around,” he chuckles. “You gave me this look like you thought I was going to kill you or something and all I wanted to do was kiss the girl with mud down the side of her face.”

“I think you did kiss that girl,” I wink.

“I did. And then I was hooked.” He takes my hand and leads me to a burgundy and white quilt beneath a tree. A picnic basket is sitting on one corner.

“You made me pinky swear that I wasn’t a serial killer,” he laughs. “Do you remember that?”

“It seemed legit at the time,” I say, embarrassed that he remembers.

My heart is full, memories flooding back like they only can when you’re at the location they took place.

“This is the best date spot ever,” I whisper. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

We sit on a blanket stretched out under a tree. Ford lifts the lid to a picnic basket. I laugh as he pulls out two glass bottles of root beer, a bag of chips, and two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

“It’s not gourmet,” he laughs, his cheeks flushing. “But I got stuck in the office until late and I wasn’t about to stop and buy burgers.” He hands me a sandwich wrapped in plastic wrap. “I’ll happily buy you whatever you’d like when we leave, but—”

My hand rests on his forearm, stopping him mid-sentence. “This is perfect.”

He takes me in carefully. “It’s not. I don’t think I could ever come up with the perfect way to show you how much I think about you.”

I twist his wrist and press my thumb against the little star in the bend of his thumb and pointer finger. “You did.”

Tossing my sandwich beside me, I crawl across the blanket and curl up in his lap. He locks his hands around my waist and nuzzles his face in the crook of my neck.

“So, I was talking to Barrett last night,” Ford says. “I think he really might run in the next election cycle.”

“Really?”

“Maybe. He and Graham and I had a long discussion about it. He has reservations, naturally, and is afraid he’s being thrown into a lion’s den.”

“That’s what D.C. politics is, isn’t it? A giant lion’s den.”