Lovebirds

LATE SEPTEMBER

But before she was scared, Spencer was the most fearless person Vincent had ever met. The kind of girl who'd bungee jump off a cliff just to discover the way the air smells as she hurdles toward some body of water at the bottom. She' walk barefoot across a rickety bridge, stepping softly, stepping slowly, to savor the time she had between two worlds, standing over nothingness.

And Vincent always watches her with amazement. Awe seeping from every pore of his being as he watches, wide eyed, a smile across his lips. 

Seeing her discover like this makes him feel fearless too; as if walking on clouds isn't merely a fantasy.

Never a dull moment with Spencer Viola Sofia.

"It said North, right?"

She consults the crudely drawn map in her hands, left by the someone who created this cache. Her mud-crusted boots step across a dry branch and she pulls her brown suede jacket further around herself to evade the autumnal breeze that ruffles the leaves overhead. It became late September so quickly.

"It did say North. But it also said to look for a marked tree."

"Marked tree? Marked with what?" She keeps her focus ahead, glancing around her and back at the map in a rhythm.

"Can I see it again?"

Spencer finally stops. Vincent catches up and she hands him the map.

Head 200 paces north to find my hiding place:

In the marked tree, where the owls lay.

"We've gone 210 paces," she tells him as he reads again.

Under his breath, he mutters that he's glad that one of them had been counting, which earns him a critical look from Spence. He only chuckles, finger finding the place from which they came on the map.

Seeing as they should be in the somewhat correct spot, Vincent glances around. Specifically, behind them, as Spence had admitted to taking them ten paces too far.

His hand raises to point at the single tree in the entire forest with a large, bright yellow tack in it.

"There," he says, feeling confident as she chokes out a sound of disbelief.

"How on earth did you see that? It's so small!" But she's already grabbed the wrist of his jacket and is pulling him toward the tree.

"In the marked tree, where the owls lay," Vincent recites as they stand at the base of the tree, looking up.

The leaves have already begun to take on the fiery shades of fall. A car whizzes by on the nearest road. A creature breaks a branch somewhere up ahead, but she's all too engrossed in the game to notice anything other than than the tree knot, from which protrudes a small wooden box...

Five feet above their heads.

"Give me a boost?" She asks. Vincent grins, setting down his backpack to put his hands together, squatting a little.

She steps onto his palms, holding the trunk of the tree with one hand for stability. The other reaches up to grab the lowest branch. When she has it in her grasp, she pushes off from Vincent's feet, holding tightly with both arms. Spencer walks herself up the trunk to end sitting just a little further above her first handhold.

Vincent watches with a grin on his face, fingers tucked beneath the straps of his backpack. In a daze, he sees her flick her hair over her shoulder before tying it in a low bun; reach into the tree knot and withdraw the small wooden box, taking a picture to put on the app for the box's creator.

"You have the pen and the trackable," she reminds him from up above, shaking him from his reverie. He'd begun to see a bright light around her head, hear birdsong like a soundtrack.

He withdraws the pen first, tossing it up to her so she can sign the log book (every cache has one). When she drops it back, he exchanges it for their trackable: a tiny keychain with a log number scribbled on the back in sharpie. A national keychain that, from what they can tell, has made its way over from Northern California.

Spencer takes a picture of the trackable before placing it in the box to claim a different item for themselves.

"Vince," she nearly whispers, reaching into the box.

"Everything okay— You didn't find a tick, did you?" Voice seeping with alarm. He doesn't like ticks. Not many people do, he reminds himself.

Spencer turns around, holding a piece of paper as her brow gently falls. In the light, Vincent can see the outline of black letters on the side opposite him.

It's a letter. Not completely uncommon. So why's it making her react this way—it wouldn't be—

"Spencer?"

Her eyes find his and she lets the letter drop down to him. Wave across the currents of currently still air to land delicately upon the forest floor. He reads as she descends.

Dear Spencer and Vincent,

I'm so sorry that my recent efforts have frightened you. That was not my intent. Please don't think I mean any ill will toward the pair of you, only good wishes and the hope that you'll finally talk.

Please talk. Vincent, please tell her what you've been thinking.

Sincerely,

vinceandspence.

(P.S. Spencer, I'm really sorry about the photo in your bedroom. I realize now how creepy that is. Again, not intended)

Swallowing, he looks back at her.

"If they just left this, it has to be someone we know."

Spencer nods. The fear in her eyes—the fear that's been plaguing her for the past month—gently takes on a different form. The threat of harm somewhat dissipates as she reclaims the note from Vincent, that spark in her eye gaining the glimmer of a mystery. 

And a question.

"What have you been thinking?" Her voice soft and innocent.

"I, uh— what?" Running a hand over his head, he skims the letter over her shoulder again. "Oh, um. I don't know. I think a lot of things."

She looks up at him with a questioning look. The corners of her eyes falling into little creases as her lips press together— making him wish he could kiss her right then. Right there, starting with those lips, then the creases beside her eyes, then anywhere else she'll let him touch.

"M'kay," she allows. Vincent winks and Spencer rolls her eyes.

He settles for a kiss on her head.

When she looks up again, he sees her fear almost entirely evaporated, only taking up a sliver of her gaze. Instead, she wears a devilish little grin, a flicker of amusement dancing across her features.

Folds up the letter, tucks it in her jacket, puts a hand to his chest and pushes. His back finds the trunk of another tree as he laughs— and she can't help a matching one from escaping her own lips. Completely and utterly relieved to have some indication of the hacker's true intentions, it leaves her a little elated. A little dizzy and drunkenly giddy and her lips are soft but hungry as she kisses him.