Like Dragonflies

“It’s fine,” I lie. It’s not fine, but what can you do about it? “He’s my dad.”

She leans up and kisses the scar. “It’s not fine,” she whispers. “Hurting you is not fine.”

I’m about to capture her mouth with mine but we’re interrupted by the carhop delivering our food. Soon, we have food spread across our laps and the tense moment has vanished. Sage tells me about how she’s been an art lover since she was a baby. I tell her mine was born from a need to escape and express my emotions. At first it was drawing on my school textbooks in the margins. Sometimes it was carving pictures into the desks. Eventually, it took on a form of graffiti on walls. But my favorite pieces are my sketches in my books. Just plain ol’ pencil and paper.

After we eat, I take her on a drive. I like her right next to me and am glad she didn’t move to the other side. We ride free of conversation as the music plays. It’s completely dark out now, so I drive her someplace away from all the lights and city noise. We end up down a country road, halfway between Duncan and Ashton Hills. I drive us past some cornfields and turn down a dirt road that leads to one of my favorite places when I want to clear my head.

I pull over and shut off the truck. “You ready?”

Her brows bunch together in confusion. “Ready for what?”

“To learn to drive this rust bucket.”

“W-What? Now? What if I mess up?”

I laugh and give her thigh a squeeze. “Impossible. I’ll show you how.”

“It seems tricky putting your feet on all those pedals and then trying to move the stick thingy,” she says, her voice taking on a shrill note.

“Aww, you’re not scared, are you?” I flash her a teasing grin. “Bock, bock, bock, bockaw.”

“I’m not a chicken,” she huffs, lifting her chin.

“Prove it, babe.”

Her eyes widen at my slipup and I groan.

“Sorry,” I grumble.

I’m rewarded with a small, pleased smile. “I like it better than chicken.” She lets out a resigned sigh. “Fine, show me. But if I break your truck, it’s all your fault for making me break it.”

Chuckling, I open my truck door and slide out. I pat the seat for her to take my spot. “You’re not going to break it, and if you do, it’ll be fine.”

She slides over and flashes me a panicked look. “I am scared, though.”

Her voice is so small and worried. It has me grabbing hold of both her hands to comfort her.

“You don’t have to do it,” I say, bringing one of her hands to my lips. I kiss each knuckle. “We can stay right here.”

“Stay here, on the side of the road, and do what?” she asks, her voice breathy.

I twist her arm and kiss the inside of her hand. “We could do this.”

“And if we go?”

“I’ll show you the best place to see all the stars in the galaxy.”

Her smile is shy. “You drive a hard bargain.”

I release her hands to go through and explain the parts of the truck. Some of them she laughs because they’re obvious—like the steering wheel—but others, she is genuinely confused about. I give her a watered-down version of how a transmission works, specifically this one, and discussing the purpose behind a clutch. Once we’ve established the basics, I round the truck and slide inside to take her vacated middle seat.

She kills the truck three times in a row, just trying to get it started. I can’t stop laughing, which earns me an indignant glare that only makes me laugh more. Eventually, I manage to help her get on the road. Once she gets the concept, she happily drives along the dirt road. Country driving is a lot easier than city driving, but we’ll work up to that.

“You’re doing a great job,” I tell her. “I wasn’t sure we’d ever leave that spot back there.”

“Shush it,” she huffs. “I’ll get the hang of it eventually.”

And she does. Pride thumps in my chest as she cruises along the road, a huge smile on her face. When we near the turnoff, I walk her through what to do next. She ends up killing the truck and grumbling in frustration. We’re close enough to my spot, so I help her get the truck shut off properly.

I climb out of the vehicle and walk around to her side to open the door. She shivers against the cool wind.

“Don’t worry,” I say to her. “I brought these.” Behind the bench seat, I’ve stowed away a couple of blankets. After tucking them under my arm, I grab her hand with mine and walk her past the edge of the road onto a field. It’s a slight climb to the top of the hill, but once we arrive, I lay out a blanket. I sit down and pat the spot next to me.