We ride Dixie and Red for about an hour, winding through a trail along a riverbed and through a few small hills deeper into the desert. By the time we reach a small group of people, the sun is starting to set.

“Here,” Mason says, dismounting and reaching to hold Dixie for me while I climb down myself. We never rode fast or hard, but my thighs still hurt anyhow. I know I’ll pay for this tomorrow, but I’d ride for hours in pain just to end up here with Mason.

There’s a large campfire going, and a few older men sitting with guitars and playing. I notice three or four other couples walking over to a small table to pick up food, and I smile up at Mason.

“Are we having a cookout?” I ask, watching him pull a rolled up blanket from the back part of the saddle.

“I figured I could take you to a fancy restaurant anytime,” he says, reaching for me. I fold right against his body, his arm tucking me in tightly.

The fall weather is starting to settle in and the desert air is chilly at night, so Mason lays out our blanket close to the fire, and makes me comfortable while he goes to make our plates. The three men playing and singing on the other side of the fire are singing old country tunes, and they remind me of my mother. She loved Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings.

Mason comes back with two plates piled high with more food than I could ever eat, and we both sit close together on our blanket, devouring barbecued chicken legs, cornbread, and beans. I’m barely though half of my plate and I have to stop.

“Are you giving up?” Mason asks, his mouth busy working a bite while he talks.

“Uhhhhg, I’m so full,” I say, lying back on the blanket and pushing my plate toward him. He just looks at me and grins, then grabs my cornbread muffin and eats it whole. “You are like a bottomless pit!”

He stands up and brushes the crumbs from his shirt, then picks up our plates. “Bottomless pit of lovin’,” he says in his most ridiculous fake sexy voice. I roll my eyes at him, and slap at the back of his leg as he steps over me. “You know you love me.”

I can’t help but smirk when he walks away because he’s right—I know I do.

After dinner, we snuggle close, and Mason pulls the bottom edge of the blanket up over my legs to keep me warm. The old men tell a few stories, but we’re not really listening. We’re whispering to one another, like young campers up late at night.

“When did you know you wanted to play music?” I ask him, situating myself along his arm so I can watch his eyes animate while he talks.

“I used to watch your dad play with some of his friends, and I liked the way everyone looked at him. So one day I asked him to show me how to do a chord, and he did. The next day, I asked him to show me another. And we just sort of kept on going like that for months until he finally just gave me a guitar of my own,” Mason says. I love the way he loves my dad.

“I’m glad he taught you. You’re better than him, though, you know?” I say, leaning my weight into him, just needing to be closer.

“Yeah, I know,” he says, his face serious at first but quickly falling into a grin.

“How about you. Why are you studying English?” he asks.

I have to think about it for a few seconds, because my answer has changed since I took my first classes years ago. “I’ve always loved reading,” I start, but then I pause. “It’s more than that, though. It’s like I really understand books, and the story underneath the story. And, I had this fantasy of getting my PhD. I wanted to teach at some fancy college back East. But now…I think I just want to finish something.”

Mason’s stare at me seems thoughtful, and he leans forward to brush a hair away from my face and kiss my forehead lightly. “You’re amazing, you know that?” he says, still looking at me with the same intensity.

“I guess,” I say, looking down at my lap, uncomfortable with his compliment. There’s nothing very amazing about me at all.

“No, you are. Look at what you’ve done, on your own. If you want to teach at a college, Avery, you should,” he says, lifting my chin to look at him. “You should.”

The way he’s looking at me forms a lump in my throat. I’m not used to anyone challenging my decision to give up. My father supports me, and I know he’d cheer me on in whatever I do. But Mason—he’s doing more than that. He seems to actually believe in me.

“Why don’t you talk to your mom much?” I ask, wanting to divert the focus away from me for a while.

Mason lies back when I ask this, taking in a deep breath and folding his arms under his neck. His shirt lifts up just enough to show off his bare skin, and I want to touch it, so I lie back against him and run my hand under his shirt just to feel his warmth. I feel his body react when I do, so I don’t linger there long.