In six months, Gwen Johnston turns thirty, and when she does, she vows she'll have her life together. She'll no longer be jumping from one job to another, from one relationship to the next. A new, more mature, Gwen will have emerged. She's giving he...
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When we get to the Powwow, Gwen and I separate like we always do whenever we attend something together that isn't inherently dangerous. She goes one way to peruse the booths set up along the perimeter of the dance area, and I weave through people to find a good spot to watch the first dance.
Once I'm settled, I scan the crowd of shoppers for Gwen. Most of the time, without meaning to, I keep track of her position relative to mine. She'd call it my savior complex, and at first, that was accurate enough. If there was a danger, Gwen was standing in its path, but ever since we planned out the rest of the trip, she hasn't been the same chaos magnet. Her default setting is malfunctioning.
Across the field, she catches me staring at her, and she cocks her head in question. I shake mine to let her know it's nothing, and she shrugs before turning back to the vendor selling orange shirts with an Indigenous design and the words Every Child Matters in bold letters. Something the older male vendor says causes her broad grin to bloom in full force, and when she looks down to run her fingers along the fabric of the shirt, he sizes her up.
A stab of possessiveness strikes my chest, and I look away. It's not the first time it's happened, but each time it does, I get angry with myself. Gwen's friendliness attracts men keen to take their chance like bees to honey. At this point, I should be used to watching her fend off eager suitors. But when he says something to her again, and she glances up, her smile is tight as she hands over her money.
My education in Gwen's body language has been extensive, and that sign of discomfort raises my hackles. I abandon my good spot and wander over to stand beside her while the vendor takes his time making change, talking to her about all the places he could show her on the island if she was interested. Unless he hasn't aged well, he's got to be a good twenty or twenty-five years older than her. She's terrible at blowing people off if they push her hard enough.
"Hey gorgeous," I say, putting my hand on the small of her back. "Did you want me to buy that for you?"
Her shoulders visibly relax, and when she glances up at me, her brown eyes are sparkling with mischief. We've played this game before, but I've never been so blatant in my "back the fuck up" vibe to whoever was bothering her. The first few times, I wasn't certain I was reading her right.
"You mean if I'd waited two more minutes you'd have bought the shirt for me?"
"Whatever your heart desires." I gesture to the rest of the booths. "It's yours."
She bites her lip, and it looks like she's suppressing a laugh. "I honestly never thought my sugar daddy would be so young and attractive. Sometimes I just want to pinch myself." She gives an exaggerated pinch on her arm, and now I'm the one fighting a laugh.
"Here you go, Gwen," the vendor says, passing her the change. "I guess, uh, you've already got someone to show you around the island."
"She does, yeah." Normally, my interference feels like a game, a quick jolt of pretend, but that possessive spark I felt earlier is threatening to switch on a pilot light inside me, which is new. The last thing I need is a simmering sense that Gwen somehow belongs to me when she very much does not. And I certainly don't need that sort of feeling creeping into our every interaction. We're solid where we are. Friends.
