“You mean when you felt me up at dinner with our parents sitting across from us?”
He laughs. “I can't believe I did that, and I don't think I've ever apologized.”
“No, you didn’t, jerk.”
“I am sorry.”
“So, you don't think I'm fragile now?”
“No. I think you're one of the toughest people I've ever met. Look!” he says suddenly. I glance back toward him and follow where's he's pointing. “A great blue heron,” he explains as I spot the huge bird with its wings spread, perched on a rock in the middle of the river. “That's how they dry their feathers after they dive for fish.”
He stops rowing for a while as we watch it. Suddenly it pulls its wings in, gathers itself like a coil, and launches into the air. We watch it fly into the distant treetops before we begin paddling up the river again.
“Why are you interested in history?” I ask him.
“I like understanding why people behave the way they do,” he explains quietly. I resist the urge to ask how this relates to his own history, trying to respect the boundaries he’s put up.
“How's Greg?” he asks suddenly. I turn around and narrow my eyes at him.
“What? That's a friendly question,” he says with a devilish grin.
“I…I don't want to talk about it,” I reply, a little more huffily than I intend to.
“OK…so that either means really good or really bad.”
“It's not really bad,” I protest.
“Uh-oh.”
I sigh. “It's just, there's no…you know…”
“Spark?”
“Exactly. I have to tell him soon—I don't want him to get hurt. Not that I think I'm breaking his heart or anything—”
“I saw the way he looks at you.”
“Meaning?”
“He's falling fast. I'd tell him before he falls any further.”
“I think you're exaggerating.”
“Trust me.”
We fall back into a comfortable silence as I think about his words. The stillness of the river, broken only by a soft wind blowing through the trees, helps to ease my anxiety over the conversation I need to have with Greg. The concept of “problems” seems to fade out here, though perhaps it’s the unrelenting heat, which feels like it's beginning to melt my body into the seat of the kayak. I grab the sweating bottle of water from between my feet and take a long swig.
“Water?” I ask Nate, turning to offer it to him. He takes it, brushing my fingers with his as he wraps his long fingers around it. My insides clench…speaking of a spark. I spot a house very much like ours up on a hillside in the distance. “Where'd you live before the house now?”
“Townhouse in Georgetown.” He says. “It was less of a behemoth. Had more character.”
“The mansion isn't your taste?”
“It was always big for two people, and it still seems big, even for four. But what I really don't like is that it's got all these fake historical touches about it, and none of them are genuine.”
“Anathema to a history major.”
“Exactly. I always pictured myself in a smaller house, maybe a converted barn or something…one that was actually built in the time period it looks like it was built in. Maybe somewhere quieter than DC…it's pretty elitist here…I want my kids to grow up more modestly than I did.”
“You want kids?” I ask, surprised.
“You don't?”
“No, I do…I'm just surprised. You know that having kids might necessitate being in a relationship with a woman for longer than you're used to.”
He laughs. “I honestly hadn't thought of that. I always just pictured myself with kids. Is that horrible?”
“Yes!” I reply, quickly reaching down and flinging water back at him.
“Hey!” he cries, and grabs the sides of the kayak, beginning to rock it back and forth. “I'll tip this thing over,” he warns me with a grin.
“Nate!” I protest, grabbing on. He relents, and keeps rowing after a moment.
“I think your mom picked the hottest day of the year,” he observes.
“Want to head back?” I ask, hoping he'll say no.
He pauses. “Guess we should.”
I nod, feeling disappointed, and dip my oar in the water to help him turn the kayak. Now that we're going with the current, it takes us much less time to make the return trip back to the boat house.
“How’s your shoulder?” I ask.
“It’s better, actually,” he says happily, “thanks for asking.”
I feel a tightening in my throat as we pull into the shallower water. Nate steps onto the dock first, then offers me his hand to help me get out of the unsteady boat.
“Much shadier under the trees,” he observes, nodding to a hiking trail that cuts through the trees behind the boat house. I look at him questioningly. “Short hike before we go back?”
I nod and smile, trying not to look too pleased.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“You've got good stamina for someone who doesn't do sports,” Nate observes as our “short hike” goes into its second hour.
“I've been swimming in the pool pretty frequently, maybe that's it,” I reply, though really I think it's that the conversation hasn't stopped. We're high over the Potomac now, on a dirt trail that winds around large boulders. He was right—it is cooler under the trees, but it's still just as humid.
“Is that it?” I ask, pointing to a three-leaved plant at the base of a tree.
After telling Nate that I manage to get poison ivy every other year, he’s made it his mission to teach me how to identify the rash-causing the plant.
“Not red enough. By this time of the summer, it'll be more red and oily-looking. And the edges of the leaves are too jagged,” he says as he bends over to look at it. A pair of female hikers approach us on the trail, headed the opposite direction. I watch them drink in Nate's shirtless, sweaty appearance and giggle to each other. As they pass, they smile flirtatiously at him, but he just politely smiles back before turning to me. “You're good at so many things, but identifying plant species…” he intones in a mock-serious voice as he shakes his head.
“Hey, if that's my weakness, I'll take it,” I reply with a grin.
“Yep, poison ivy, that's your kryptonite,” he teases me.
“What's yours? Intimacy?”
“Intimacy? How dare you! It's commitment. Very different.”