"Becoming is better than being"
Carol Dweck.
"You alright? You seem a bit distant," Wyatt admits as we zip past the lush trees, leaving the busy, crowded town behind.
The breeze ruffles our clothes and our hair, brushing against our skin whilst the short strands of dark, green grass are blown away. Dandelions are scarcely seen, yet the fragments of white fluff that appear to take flight in the air astound me, and I make an attempt to catch a few, becoming indulged in how the light reflects its pale colour.
Wyatt's eyes remain fixated on the caramel-brown dirt path ahead, his grip on the coal-black steering wheel tightening as he becomes nervous. His jaw clenched as his emerald-green eyes proceed to wander, resting on my thigh. Hastily, he brings himself to reality, focusing on the road and occasionally humming to himself.
The dark curls of his hair lay against his forehead and he gently runs one hand through it, slightly manoeuvring it to the side. A small laugh escapes his lips as he glances at me again, asking his question. Realising that I've been impolite, I apologise and
rapidly babble my answer, some of it coming out in splutters and stutters.
"Hey," Wyatt says with a smile, "it's okay. I bet you're just nervous. It is the first time we've done something like this."
Sighing, I look out the car window once more, feeling myself turn a shade of pink at his remark. Craning my neck, I take note of the baby-blue sky which stretches above us. Butterscotch-yellow butterflies flutter across the fields, and I giggle as I witness them soar upwards, enjoying the tranquility of nature.
"No," I reply. "I'm okay and I love this. I love all of this."
Smiling and reaching for my hand, Wyatt retorts:
"I love this too. And I especially love who I'm with."
"Don't say stuff like that!" I whine but deep down I swoon over his comment, feeling absolutely ecstatic.
He chuckles, shaking his head as I glare at him in annoyance. Now holding my hand and rubbing the pad of his thumb along the side, I watch as he pulls the car over, coming to a halt just outside some sort of forest.
After, Wyatt turns to me, trying his best to muster the most intimidating look. Stifling my laughter, I witness the scene in front of me with amusement, clearly plastered on my face.
"I'll say what I want, when I want," he growls, pretending to have devil horns.
"I'll say what I want, when I want," I mimic, rolling my eyes in the process. Wyatt narrows his eyes, kissing his teeth at my foolishness.
"You're so childish," he sniggers behind his hands. "Such a silly-billy."
"You're such a silly-billy," I mumble, frowning. "You're the one who pretended to have devil horns!"
"No," he denies. "I don't recall of ever doing such a thing!"
"Yeah right," I murmur.
"Are you trying to say that you don't believe me?"
Licking my lips and eyeing him up and down, I see this as my opportunity to provoke him. Therefore, I say:
"I'm not trying to say anything. I don't believe you."
"You brought this upon yourself," he tuts and attacks me.
By attack, I mean tickle me until I can hardly breath. I scream in delight as he continues his gentle assault, begging him to stop. Unlucky for me; he still holds me captive with one hand, the other is committing the act which tortures me.
Finally, he lets go.
The sun shines in my eyes as we sit in his dad's car, the melodious singing from the birds, resting in trees, echoing. Swamp-green leaves rustle as the wind manipulates them, causing a disruption in their slow swaying.
Wyatt gazes at me intently, biting his lip until its pure red. I gape at him for a second or two before regaining my composure and mentally face-palming myself for the indelicacy. Thank goodness he barely notices, since he then hits me with his next question.
"What's your favourite colour?"
"Blue," I answer.
"I should've known that," he says whilst intertwining our fingers, smirking the whole time.
I am taken aback by his sudden boldness. Nevertheless, I clear my throat and ask him the same question.
"My favourite colour's orange," he imparts to me.
"Really?" I quiz.
"Yeah," he says.
"Weird," I mutter, "blue and orange are complimentary colours."
"Meaning?"
"They go well together," I explain. "They go well together because their opposite on the colour wheel."
Wyatt grins, raising an eyebrow in a questionable manner. If I weren't mistaken, I'd almost say he's challenging me, or secretly boasting about how triumphant is victory is.
Then, he leans in closer, his lips softly tickling my ear.
"So," he whispers, "does that mean we go well together?"