LITMIR.BIZ

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and look upward at the stars wrapped in the infinite blackness, noticing how easy they are to see and how many of them there are without any light pollution for miles.

      “Do you want to get out and walk around?” he asks, still waiting for the rest of my answer.

      Getting an idea of my own, I smile brightly at him and nod. “Yes, I think that’s a great idea—is there a blanket in the trunk?”

      He looks at me curiously for a moment. “Actually, yes, I keep one in that box back there with the rest of my emergency roadside supplies—why?”

      “I know it might be cliché,” I begin, “but it’s something I’ve always wanted to do—have you ever slept under the stars?” I feel a little silly asking, I guess because it is kind of cliché and nothing about Andrew thus far has come anywhere near cliché.

      His face spreads into a warm smile. “As a matter of fact, no, I have never slept under the stars—are you gettin’ all romantic on me, Camryn Bennett?” He looks at me with a playful sideward stare.

      “No!” I laugh. “Come on, I’m serious; I just think it’s the perfect opportunity.” I motion my hands toward the windshield. “Look at all of the fields out there.”

      “Yeah, but we can’t lay a blanket out in a cotton or corn field,” he says, “and most of the time those fields are saturated with ankle-deep water.”

      “Not the ones covered with grass and cow bombs,” I say.

      “You want to sleep in a field where cows shit?” he says casually, but equally humored.

      I snicker. “No, just the grass. Come on …” then I glare at him teasingly. “What, are you afraid of a little cow shit?”

      “Ha ha!” He shakes his head. “Camryn, there’s nothing little about a pile of cow shit.”

      I scoot back over next to him and lay my head right dead-center on his lap, looking up at him with a pouty face. “Please?” I bat my eyes.

      And I try hopelessly to ignore what my head is actually lying on.

Andrew

      I absolutely fucking melt when she looks up at me like that. How would I ever say no to her? Whether it was about sleeping next to a pile of cow shit or under a bridge overpass next to a homeless drunk—I would sleep anywhere with her.

      But that’s the problem.

      I think this became a problem the second she decided to sit next to me in the car. Because that’s when she changed, when I think she started to believe she wants more from me than oral sex. I may have done that for her back in Birmingham, but I can’t let her want more than that. I can’t let her touch me and I can’t sleep with her.

      I do want her, I want her in every way imaginable, but I can’t bear to break her heart—that little body of hers, that’s another story; I could bear to break that. But if she ever lets me have her, breaking her heart (and mine) is what will happen in the end.

      It’s harder since she told me about her ex …

      “Please,” she says one more time.

      Despite just giving myself the third-degree, I reach down and brush my fingertip along the side of her face and say very gently, “Alright.”

      I never was one to listen to reason when it came to something that I wanted, but with Camryn, I’m finding myself telling reason to fuck off a lot more than usual.

      Another ten minutes of driving and I find a field that looks like a flat, endless sea of grass and I park the car on the side of the road. We are literally in the middle of nowhere. We get out and lock the doors, leaving everything inside the car. I pop the trunk and rummage that roadside box for the rolled-up blanket, which smells like old car and somewhat like gasoline.

      “It stinks,” I say, taking a whiff.

      Camryn leans in and sniffs, wrinkling her nose at it. “Oh, well, I don’t care.”

      I don’t, either. I’m sure she’ll make it smell better.

      Without even thinking about it, I grab her hand and we walk down a small slope through a ditch and up the other side to the low-lining fence separating the field from us. I start looking for the easiest way for her to get over it. Next thing I know, her fingers are falling away from mine and she’s climbing over the damn thing.

      “Hurry!” she says as she lands on the other side in a crouched position.

      I can’t wipe the grin off my face.

      I leap over the fence and land beside her and we take off running into the wide open; her like a graceful gazelle, me like the lion chasing after her. I hear her flip-flops slapping against her feet as she runs and see the way wisps of stray blonde strands of hair appear illuminated around her head as the breeze stirs it. I’ve got the blanket in one hand as I run behind her, letting her stay a few steps ahead of me so if she happens to fall I’ll be there to laugh at her first and then help her up afterwards. It’s so dark with only the light from the moon bathing the landscape. But there’s enough light that we can see where we’re stepping and not fall into a chasm or trip over a tree on our way.

      And I don’t see any cows, which means this might be a shit-free field and that’s a plus.

      We get so far away from the car that the only part of it I can see anymore is the reflective glint from the silver rims.

      “I think this is good enough,” Camryn says coming to a winded stop.

      The nearest trees are thirty or forty yards out in every direction.

      She raises her arms high above her head and tilts her chin back, letting the breeze rush over her. She’s smiling so hugely, her eyes closed, that I’m afraid to say anything and disturb her moment with nature.

      I unroll the blanket and lay it on the ground.

      “Tell me the truth,” she says, curling her fingers around my wrist and guiding me to sit down on the blanket with her, “you’ve never spent the night under the stars with a girl before?”

      I shake my head. “It’s the truth.”

      She seems to like that. I watch her smile in at me as a light wind moves between us and brushes loose hair across her face. She reaches up and moves a few pieces from in between her lips, slipping her finger behind them carefully.

      “I’m not really the rose-petals-on-the-bed kind of guy.”

      “No?” she asks, a bit surprised. “I think you’re probably a really romantic guy, actually.”

      I shrug. Is she fishing? I think she’s fishing.

      “I guess it depends on your definition of romantic,” I say. “If a girl expects a candlelit dinner and Michael Bolton playing in the background, she’s definitely got the wrong guy.”

      Camryn giggles.

      “Well, that’s a little too romantic,” she says, “but I bet you’ve had your share of romantic gestures though.”

      “I guess,” I say, honestly not really coming up with any at the moment.

      She looks at me with her head cocked to one side.

      “You’re one of those,” she says.

      “One of what?”

      “Guys that don’t like to talk about their exes.”

      “You want to know about my exes?”

      “Sure.”

      She lies down on her back, leaving her bare knees drawn up and she pats the blanket beside her.

      I lie next to her in the same position.

      “Tell me about your first love,” she says and already I feel like this isn’t a conversation we should be having but if

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