The kids look back and forth between the two posturing males.
“We grew up together,” I say, to break up the growing tension. “Kinda.”
Technically, we did know each other as kids. But grew up together might be a bit of a stretch.
“Cool,” one of the younger kids says.
“So, you knew Miss Hall back when she was a kid? Like us?” another asks, sounding absolutely shocked. Like the idea of me having been a child has never occurred to him.
Beckett nods, “Sure did.”
This causes a flurry of questions, but Beckett manages to get the group back on task, telling them that he’ll share stories tonight after dinner.
I can’t imagine what sort of stories he has about me.
He wouldn’t… I feel some of the heat drain from my face. He wouldn’t tell them about all the times I embarrassed myself in front of him. Would he?
When the group starts moving, I automatically fall into my previous spot at the back of the pack. I remember that I do not want to end up walking with Adam, so I covertly glance around. And I’m relieved when I spot his back as he strides down the trail at the front of the group.
I don’t really know what was going on between him and Beckett, but I’m glad it scared him off.
Half listening as the kids riddle Beckett with questions, I take in the beauty around me.
Yes, it’s cold, and my sleeping situation is miserable, but it’s impossible to deny the draw of The Great Outdoors.
Life is just starting to shake free from the deep freeze, tiny buds forming on bare tree branches. A juxtaposition to the mighty evergreen trees, boasting their bushy deep green needles. It’s not the prettiest time of year, in the traditional sense of the word, but it highlights the change in seasons. A new life cycle. A chance to try again. A fresh start.
We stop at another plaque and after reading the fact card the kids all rush to write their answers.
I hear a quiet snap followed by a gasp, “My pencil broke!”
I’m moving towards the kid to give him mine, but Beckett beats me to him.
He holds out his hand, “Let me see.”
The kid places the pencil in his open palm. I can see that the point of lead has snapped off.
Beckett reaches into his pocket, and I expect him to pull out another pencil. But his hand is covering the length of the item but seems too short and wide.
With a flick of his wrist, a blade appears out of nowhere, snapping into place.
It’s a knife. A jackknife I think they’re called, or something like that.
With way too much fascination, I watch as Beckett makes quick precise swipes with his blade, shaving off the blunt end of the pencil.
I can’t look away.
His grip is controlled, hand flexing around the handle. His focus is unwavering. And his stance is slightly hunched over, stretching the material of his jacket tightly over his broad back.
In seconds he has the pencil sharpened to a point. And I’m breathing heavier than I was before.