The Ones We're Meant to Find(37)

Slowly, she rolls beside the boy as he relocates his footholds. “Strongly disagree. Disagree. Neutral. Agree.”

Eons pass before the boy reaches the top. I grab his hand and tug.

“Explain”—he lurches into me—“yourself,” I puff out.

“Let me—help.”

“No. Absolutely not.” Forget about his weird behavior this morning; I’m not about to let my first guest fall to his death before my very eyes.

The boy finishes catching his breath. “The sun’s setting.”

“So?”

“So we should get going.” He grabs a log and moves toward the edge, as if the descent is as easy as stepping off.

I seize him by the back of his sweater. “Okay, first, you don’t descend with the logs. It’s hard enough carrying them to the top. Let the rope do the rest of the work.”

“Any other pointers?”

No. No pointers. You shouldn’t be here. But the sun isn’t slowing for us as we argue, and at some point, the boy’s going to have to climb down on his own anyway since I can’t strap him across my back like a log.

I blow a long breath past my lips. “Listen closely.”

I show him how to tie the rope around himself like a harness, then send him on a test climb down the ridge side.

He didn’t lie—he is a fast learner. And with him here, I don’t even have to climb the logs to the ridge top. He can stay at the base to fasten them to the end of the rope, and I can stay at the top to pull them up. The sun sinks past the horizon as we lower all five logs down the shore side of the ridge. We complete our own descent in the after light.

“Thanks,” I say later as we’re dragging the logs across the shale. “But never again.”

“I won’t bog you down.”

“Don’t care.”

“There’s nothing else to do.”

“Remind me to dirty up the house for you,” I say, and he snorts. The sound suits him, fits nicely into the repertoire I’ve collected for the boy-I-think-I-know, a boy whose mysteriousness begins and ends at his lack of memories and who, for the most part, is the opposite of dangerous. The opposite of suave. It’s somewhat of a shame, I think, glancing sidelong at the boy as he wipes the sweat from his brow, because I guess there are a number of human debaucheries I miss and the boy, while a decent helper, is far from an (in)decent partner in crime.

At night we still go our separate ways—bedroom for him, couch for me—but he’s up in the morning, ready when I am, and after some verbal sparring, I let him come that day.

And the next.

We build a routine. I chop down trees. He drags them to the base of the ridge. Transporting them over to the other side takes half as long with our human pulley system, and time goes by quicker when split with someone. Before I know it, I’m only three logs short from finishing Leona, and the boy and I have even wandered through several conversations.

“How do you think of me?” he asks when we’re dragging logs through the meadow on our fourth and likely penultimate outing. For a second I’m not sure what I would say. You’re fine/helpful sounds lukewarm while You’re pretty great would be coming on strong. Luckily the boy clarifies by adding, “Do you have a placeholder name in your head?”

Ah. Nope, just the boy. “Would you like a placeholder name?” I ask, arching a brow.

“Depends.”

“Oh, come now.” I nudge him with an elbow. “I’d pick a good one.”

“It’ll be weird if it’s random.”

“It won’t be random,” I promise.

“Dmitri?” I pop seconds later.

“Sounds pretty random to me,” says the boy.

The grass ripples around us as we slip through it. The blades tickle, and I scratch my ear. “What’s wrong with it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then there’s nothing wrong with it.”

“It’s too…” The boy trails off. I wait, and sigh when he remains tight-lipped.

“Fine.” I have other contenders. “What about Tristan?”

“Same issue as Dmitri,” says the boy as the last of the grass parts, the meadow behind us and the ridge towering over us. “They’re both…” His forehead wrinkles as he thinks.

“What?” I prompt. I refuse to let him off the hook this time.

“Promise not to laugh.”

“Promise.”

The boy offloads his logs at the ridge base. “Hunky.”

I howl.

“You promised!”

“I know. I’m horrible. I’m sorry.” I think you’re plenty hunky—but the boy looks mortified enough. “Just—hunky.”

The boy is not amused. “What term would you use?”

“‘Smoldering,’ maybe. ‘Dark.’”

“Do I look dark to you?” demands the boy.

“No tragic backstory?”

“Nope. Tragic, right?”

My abs ache as my laughter finally releases me. We’re standing in the shadow of the ridge. Not working. Not moving. Just talking. And I don’t want it to end. “Heath?”

“No.”

“Stop rejecting my names.”