I scroll through his playlist of old and new country mixed. The perfect song jumps out at me, and I can’t help but think of Wes when I press play. With my bare feet propped up on the dashboard, they bounce in time with Joe Diffie’s Pick Up Man as it comes through the speakers of the old beat up truck. As we cruise along the side of the creek, birds fly above, the clouds move at a slow, steady pace, and the truck bounces and jostles me around in the cab from hitting bumps in the terrain. But I know I’m not going anywhere. Wes has me tucked in the crook of his shoulder, holding me securely to his side.
He smiles at me when I start to laugh at the lyrics. This song is so him. “Good choice.”
With a shrug of my shoulders and smile of my own, I reply, “I thought it fit you perfectly.”
Eventually, we come to a stop next to the boulders where he first took me a few nights ago. I sit up and remove myself from his side. Wes turns the truck around to where the tailgate is facing the creek’s edge. With the windows still rolled down, he turns the key back only enough to where the truck is no longer running but the radio still plays. He reaches for the knob, turning it down. “Come on,” he says as he hops out of the truck.
I follow his lead and shut the door. “What are we doing?”
Already behind the truck, he pulls the tailgate down. He jumps in the back before answering me. “Here, hold this for me please.” Wes hands me a black duffle bag.
My eyebrows shoot up in curiosity. “You didn’t bring me out here to kill me did you?” I ask jokingly.
“No, smart-ass. I didn’t. Open it and hand me the stuff inside would ya?”
The bag isn’t heavy. Slowly, I unzip the duffle bag, the teeth of the zipper parting easily enough. A yellow sheet is the first thing I see. I hand it over to him and he lays it out in the bed of the truck. Next, I hand him a light green quilt, stitched to perfection. Wes lays it down on top of the yellow sheet. The next things I pull out of the bag of curiosity are two small, brown, fluffy pillows. As I hand them over to him, he places them at the top of the bed of the truck. “It was a little presumptuous of you, don’t you think?” I indicate the makeshift pallet he’s laid out for us.
“I thought we could watch the sunset.” He shrugs.
Great. Now I feel like a jackass. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so ru—”
“Rude?” His stare is questioning.
“Yes. Rude. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. But just so you know, I’m not doing all of this with some ulterior motive in mind.”
“This was very thoughtful,” I reply diffident.
“Don’t thank me just yet. Wait until you taste the dessert I brought.” Wes reaches behind him and picks up a picnic basket that I didn’t know was back here.
How the hell did I miss that? Probably because I was handing him the blankets and pillows out of his black bag of tricks. I watch keenly as he pulls out napkins, forks, a Tupperware container filled with something red, and paper plates. I look over the edge into the back of the truck. “What is it?”
“Come on up and see for yourself.”
I walk around the back of the truck and jump up to hoist myself up onto the tailgate. My flip-flops drop on the grass below as I kick them off. When I turn around, my mouth drops open in surprise. On the paper plates sits a picture of perfection. Strawberry shortcakes. Whipped cream and strawberries lie perfectly in between homemade biscuits. The biscuits are dyed a light pink from the juices of the strawberries that have soaked into the fluffy bread. “How did you kn… When did you ha…?” I stammer. I can’t even form a coherent sentence I’m so shocked. “How did you know?” There is no way he could have known.
“Know what?” The bewildered look on his face confirms my theory.
“That strawberry shortcake is my favorite dessert.”
“I didn’t. I asked Mom to whip these up for us earlier while you were out feeding the horses,”
On my hands and knees, I crawl up toward the pillows, turn around, and lean back on one. “Here you go.” I sit up as Wes offers me my plate.
I cut a piece and scoop the tasty concoction onto my fork. Before I take a bite, I decide to give him a glimpse into my past. “When I was a kid, every year my mom would ask me what kind of birthday cake I wanted. One year, I chose strawberry shortcake. She thought it was hilarious that out of all the cakes I could have, that was what I chose. I didn’t choose chocolate, vanilla, or strawberry. I just wanted something simple and sweet.”
My mouth waters with anticipation as I prepare to take my first bite of strawberry shortcake in seven years. The light, airy, sweet taste of the whipped cream clashes with the juicy explosion of the strawberries and the melt-in-your-mouth homemade biscuits. I groan with pleasure. “Oh… my… gosh… This is so good,” I groan around a mouthful of food.