Николас Спаркс - The Longest Ride

She wrinkled her nose. “So you literally roll them?”

“Yep. And you have to be careful not to break the stem.”

“I never knew that.”

“A lot of people don’t. But you probably know a lot of things that I don’t.”

“You knew where Slovakia was.”

“I always liked history and geography. But if you ask me about chemistry or algebra, I’d probably be lost.”

“I never liked math that much, either.”

“But you were good at it. I’ll bet you were among the best in your class.”

“Why would you say that?”

“You go to Wake Forest,” he answered. “I’d guess you aced every subject growing up. What are you studying there?”

“Not ranching, obviously.”

He flashed those dimples again.

She picked at the railing with her fingernail. “I’m majoring in art history.”

“Is that something you were always interested in?”

“Not at all,” she said. “When I first got to Wake, I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life, and I took the kind of classes that all freshmen take, hoping I’d stumble on something. I wanted to find something that made me feel… passionate, you know?”

When she paused, she could feel his attention on her, focused and sure. His genuine interest reminded her again of how different he was from the guys she knew on campus.

“Anyway, when I was a sophomore, I signed up for a class in French Impressionism, mostly to fill out my schedule, not for any particular reason. But the professor was amazing – intelligent and interesting and inspirational, everything a professor should be. He made art come alive and feel relevant , somehow… and after a couple of classes, it just clicked for me. I knew what I wanted to do, and the more art history classes I took, the more I knew how much I wanted to be part of that world.”

“I’ll bet you’re glad you took the class, huh?”

“Yeah… my parents, not so much. They wanted me to major in pre-med or pre-law or accounting. Something that will lead to a job when I graduate.”

He tugged at his shirt. “As far as I know, it’s having a degree that’s important. You can probably get a job doing almost anything.”

“That’s what I tell them. But my real dream is to work in a museum.”

“So do it.”

“It’s not as easy as you might think. There are a lot of art history majors out there and only a handful of entry-level positions to go around. Plus a lot of museums are struggling, which means they’re cutting back on their staff. I was lucky enough to get an interview with the Denver Art Museum. It’s not a paid position, it’s more of an internship thing, but they said that there’s a possibility it could evolve into a paying position. Which, of course, begs the question as to how I’d be able to pay my bills while working there. And I wouldn’t want my parents to support me, not that they could afford it. I have a younger sister at Rutgers, and two more starting college soon and…”

She said nothing, momentarily daunted. Luke seemed to read her mind and didn’t press. “What do your parents do?” he asked instead.

“They own a deli. Specialty cheeses and meats. Fresh-baked bread. Homemade sandwiches and soups.”

“Good food?”

“Great food.”

“So if I ever go in there, what should I order?”

“You can’t go wrong with anything. My mom makes an amazing mushroom soup. That’s my favorite, but we’re probably best known for our cheesesteaks. At lunch, there’s always a long line and that’s what most people order. It even won an award a couple of years back. Best sandwich in the city.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah. The newspaper ran a contest and people voted and everything. My dad framed the certificate and it hangs right by the register. Maybe I’ll show it to you one day.”

He brought his hands together, mimicking her earlier stance. “I think I’d like that, Sophia.”

She laughed, acknowledging his comeback and liking how he said her name. It came out slower than she was used to, but also smoother, the syllables rolling off his tongue in a pleasing, unrushed cadence. She reminded herself that they were strangers, but somehow it didn’t feel that way. She leaned back against the fence post.

“So those other guys who came over… did you come here with them?”

He peered in their direction, then turned back to her. “No,” he said. “Actually, I only knew one of them. My friends are inside. Probably ogling your friends, if you want to know the truth.”

“How come you’re not in there with them?”

He used a finger to push the brim of his hat back. “I was. For a while, anyway. But I wasn’t in the mood to do much talking, so I came out here.”

“You seem to be talking fine right now.”

“I guess I am.” He gave a sheepish grin. “There’s not much to tell, other than what I’ve already said. I ride bulls and work on the family ranch. My life ain’t all that interesting.”

She studied him. “Then tell me something you don’t usually tell people.”

“Like what?” he said.

“Anything,” she said, lifting her hands. “What were you thinking about earlier, when you were standing out here all alone?”

Luke shifted uncomfortably and glanced away. He said nothing at first. Instead, buying time, he folded his hands before him on the railing. “To really understand, I think you’d need to see it,” he said. “But the problem is, it’s not exactly here.”

“Where is it?” she asked, puzzled.

“Over there,” he said, motioning toward the corrals.

Sophia hesitated. Everyone knew the stories: Girl meets guy who comes across as nice and pleasant, but as soon as he gets her alone… And yet, as she regarded him, she didn’t hear any warning bells. For some reason she trusted him, and not simply because he’d come to her aid. It just didn’t feel like he was coming on to her; she even had the sense that if she asked him to leave, he’d walk away and she’d never talk to him again. Besides, he’d made her laugh tonight. In the short time they’d spent together, she’d forgotten all about Brian.

“Okay,” she responded. “I’m game.”

If he was surprised by her answer, he didn’t show it. Instead he simply nodded, and putting both hands on the top railing, he hopped gracefully over the fence.

“Show-off,” she teased. Bending down, she squeezed through the rails, and a moment later, they started toward the corrals.

As they crossed the pasture toward the fence on the far side, Luke maintained a comfortable distance. Sophia studied the undulations of the fence line as it rode the contours of the land, marveling at how different this place was from where she’d grown up. It occurred to her that she’d come to appreciate the quiet, almost austere beauty of this landscape. North Carolina was home to a thousand small towns, each with its own character and history, and she’d come to understand why many locals would never leave. In the distance, the pines and oaks, scrabbled together, formed an impenetrable scrim of blackness. Behind them, the music gradually faded, the distant sound of meadow crickets emerging in its wake. Despite the darkness, she felt Luke appraising her, though he was trying not to be obvious about it.

“There’s a shortcut after the next fence,” he said. “We can get to my truck from there.”

The comment caught her off guard. “Your truck?”

“Don’t worry,” he said, raising his hands. “We’re not leaving. We’re not even getting in. It’s just that I think you’ll be able to see better from the bed. It’s higher and more comfortable. I’ve got a couple of lawn chairs in the bed that I can set up.”

“You have lawn chairs in the bed of your truck?” She squinted in disbelief.