Read Online All You Get Is Me by Yvonne Prinz - Free Book Online Page B

gnarled and the air inside the stand was cool and moist and mushroomy. I half-expected a tribe of cannibals to rush out and remove my head with a large machete, but except for the birds talking to one another, it was completely still. There was a clearing in the middle and I sat on the mossy ground and looked around. I tilted my head way back to see the tops of the trees stirring in the breeze, contrasting with the impossibly blue sky. It seemed as though the trees were still and I was the one moving. It made me dizzy. Finally I just laid back and took in the whole thing lying on the ground with my arms and legs spread-eagled. It really was so beautiful. I snapped a bunch of pictures lying on the ground like that, looking up. It felt to me that a lot of people before me had called this their secret spot. I pictured stolen kisses and the reading of love letters and members-only forts and kids dressed as pirates, tasting beer and cigarettes for the first time. I knew that this now belonged to me. This would be my place to hide.
    The last thing Javier fixed before he moved on to his next job was the porch swing, which I’d found in the barn in rough shape. He sanded it and painted it and reattached it in the same place it was in that old photo. I took a new photo of the house. It was hardly transformed but it looked a lot better. Maybe I would hide the photo in a box one day too. My dad and I put big terra-cotta pots on both sides of each porch step, six in all, and planted red geraniums in them. I pulled the rocker from the living room out to the porch too. So now we had a choice: swinging or rocking. They both seemed like good places to sit and watch absolutely nothing happen.

Chapter 7
    E ven though Storm says that it’s inevitable that I’ll run into Forest again and again, I like to believe there’s a certain serendipity to it. Case in point: On my way into town the other day, I saw Skeeter Dumb-ass (real name Dumas, but trust me, he’s earned his nickname) at the gas station, filling up his monster pickup with a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth less than a foot from the tank he was filling with highly combustible gasoline. I hadn’t seen him in months and I probably won’t see him for months now either (in the unlikely event that he should live that long). Anyway, my point is, even in a place this small, people travel in certain circles.
    So far I’ve seen Forest at the hospital, the swimming hole, the farmers’ market, and Millie’s, and now I’m standing one aisle away from him at the grocery store, contemplating my next move as he thumbs through this month’s Rolling Stone in the magazine section. In these situations, where you see a person of interest before they see you, it’s advisable to take a moment to compose yourself before you saunter over and make it look like a crazy coincidence. I lurk next to the peanut butter and Cheez Whiz; unfortunately, I don’t have much to work with here. I try to fluff my hair but it appears to be unfluffable and I can’t recall when I washed it last. Damn! Note to self: Stop leaving the house looking like an Amish woman. I apply ChapStick, the only quasi–beauty product on me, and rub my lips together. I walk over to his aisle and pretend to be focusing on the magazines while I let him notice me . Storm would be proud.
    “Hey, hi!” he says, smiling.
    “Oh, hi!” I chirp. Wait, was that too much? Not enough?
    “Whatcha doin’?” he asks.
    I decide that he seems smart enough to know that I’m not shopping for a piano so he probably doesn’t need an answer to that question. I glance down at my basket, which holds a package of linguine, black tea, and a bag of organic brown sugar. I thank God that I haven’t hit the feminine products aisle yet. I decide not to tell him the primary reason I’m here and that is to buy a proper vase, not a canning jar like we usually use, to put flowers in the bunkhouse. Tomás arrives tomorrow afternoon to start work and I