“Yeah.” I bit my lip, trying to contain the smile that was attempting to take over. “Are you more scared of heights or getting rammed by that goat?”
“Sheep,” he said. “And I’m trying to decide.”
I laughed. “Get up here, dork.”
“Fine. Fine. Scoot back.”
I inched backward to make room for him.
“Just don’t pull me or anything,” he said as he slowly climbed up another rung.
“Why would I pull you?”
“It’s just something you would do.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve been told I’m different now,” I said.
He didn’t say anything to that, but his jaw tensed. I wasn’t sure if it was a reaction to my words or the fact that he had reached the top of the ladder. He brought his knee onto the roof and then ever so cautiously crawled, inch by painfully slow inch forward.
When he sat down next to me, out of breath, he smiled. “I did it.”
I rolled my eyes and pushed his arm.
He swatted at my hand. “Don’t push me up here.”
“You are such a baby.”
“It is a legitimate fear, Norah. Lots of people have it.”
“I’m teasing you, Skyler.”
“I know. My heart just feels like it’s about to leave my chest. Apparently that makes me defensive.”
I nodded toward the sheep that seemed to be pacing at the bottom of the ladder now. “I hope you got some good pictures for Paisley.”
“I did.” He turned his phone toward me and started scrolling through several shots. “I wasn’t that close. These are zoomedin.”
“Bighorns must’ve thought otherwise,” I said.
“You’ve named him already?”
“Of course.”
As he continued to scroll, I had the perfect view as a text came in. At ten o’clock at night. From someone named Riley.
Good night.
That’s all it said. No hearts or kissy faces or anything to giveme context to who Riley was. He tucked his phone away and we both pretended like the text never happened.
And then we went quiet. I could hear voices in the distance from another campsite, and occasionally the sheep would tap its horns against some part of the RV, but mostly the night was still. “Ask me an unexpected question?” I said.
“For the interview?”
“Yeah.”
“Um…” Skyler fiddled with a button on the sleeve of his flannel. “What’s the earliest memory you have of a piece of art that moved you?”
I retrieved the flash cards out of the pocket of my hoodie and flipped through them until I found the card I was looking for. I turned it toward him. The question he’d just asked me was written there almost word for word.