Jilted by Varina Denman

hair, and then he blinked as droplets clung to his eyelashes.
    â€œA lot of things aren’t what they seem.”
    â€œBut a lot of things are.” He sat on a rock and crossed his arms, and I knew he was looking at me.
    â€œIs your name up there?” I asked.
    â€œI reckon.”
    My gaze skittered across the rock methodically, left to right, up and down, searching for any rendition of the name Clyde Felton .
    And then I found it. C.F. + S.S.
    â€œYou and Susan. That day.” My voice sounded as hollow as the nook where the rattlesnake rested, and I instantly regretted calling attention to the double date that echoed so gracelessly through my memory. Even though the evening had been innocent enough—two young couples hiking together—the weeks following it were so filled with pain that I wished it had never happened.
    â€œLong time ago,” Clyde said.
    â€œYeah, it was.” Without wanting to, I let my eyes wander to the bottom left corner where the wall slanted parallel to a boulder. Neil and I had been in our early twenties then, and we had sat there together. I had lain back on the rock, sunbathing, while he carved L.B. Nobody but the two of us knew it stood for ladybug , and I wasn’t about to share that tidbit with Clyde. I squinted at the letters, realizing Neil hadn’t carved his own initials.
    â€œI bet your name’s up there a time or two,” Clyde said.
    I studied his profile, wondering what he meant, what he knew. Two years after I sunbathed on that rock, I had come to this place with Hoby. We were married then and brought our baby daughter way out there for old times’ sake. Hoby insisted on carving our names—probably to prove to himself and the world that we were really together—but he barely got started before Ruthie needed a diaper or a bottle or had some other urgent baby crisis. Half an H would forever mock me from the middle of the cliff, two shallow scratches among the solid indentations of all the others.
    â€œLyn—”
    Clyde’s words were interrupted by a loud noise—an explosion—from down near the lake. We turned in time to see a geyser of water shoot above the rock line, bringing with it the foul scent of rot from deep in the lake and showering us with fine mist. Just as quickly as the spout appeared, it fell back to the water level, but my heart didn’t stop racing from the surprise.
    â€œHoly cow.” Clyde watched as the snake slithered slowly away from us to disappear into a crevice between two rocks.
    â€œWhat was that?” I asked.
    â€œMust be the Tarrons dynamite fishing again. The game warden was talking about it at the DQ last week, and I reckon if those boys get caught, they can kiss the military good-bye.”
    Rowdy shouts and whoops bounced up the crevices.
    â€œWhere do they get the dynamite?” I asked.
    â€œDon’t know. Might not be dynamite, seeing as how it’s hard to come by these days. Could be C-4 or even hand grenades for all I know.” Clyde put his fists on his hips and stared at the carvings, but I could tell this time he wasn’t seeing them. He was frustrated about something, and it wasn’t the Tarron boys’ fishing methods. “Lyn?” He cleared his throat, and for some reason, the sound sent a tremor of apprehension through my mind like the rumble of distant thunder. “I’ve been wanting to ask you out, but every time I start, something always comes up.”
    My gaze landed on his hand, where it rested near his belt, and I mentally slapped myself for hugging him at the Dairy Queen. For giving him the wrong impression. For making him think anything could ever happen between us. I frowned at the letters near the boulder, wanting to tell him no but unable to flat out reject him. “We’re here, aren’t we?” I shrugged. “And we went to the windmills the other day.”
    â€œThe side of Highway 84 don’t