Ford by Tarin Lex

“Hey, Fern…”
I proffer a grin. She’s looking right at my face, but somehow her gaze comes after me sidelong. “Bilford?”
Now’s probably not the time to be a sarcastic jerk. It happens anyway. “Good thing I was there to find you, eh.”
“Good thing?” Fern makes to leap to her feet but a sudden headrush roots her back down to her ass. She makes a face at me. “If it wasn’t for you making all that ruckus I wouldn’t have gotten so disoriented and thus lost my headlamp!”
“I disorient you?” I ask, goading her. Christ, I’m an ass. The woman almost just died. I won’t remind her. I’m an insensitive jerk sometimes, not a stupid one.
I should play nicer, but her wild eyes captivate me like they always did, and I lose myself. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism. One I learned from Fern.
“Can you not, please?” she scolds me, in a low, low voice, holding her head.
“Fern.”
“Don’t. Fern. Me, Bilford! How many times do I have to tell—” Her mouth clamps shut before she says the rest of that.
We both fall silent. Nineteen years. That’s a lot of time to stretch between the last time I said her name, and the last last time I said it.
I lean back over my hands and rest my legs out in front of me, kicking my head back for a few deep, restorative breaths. They release as rumbled sighs.
“Actually,” I finally say, rolling my head to face her, “it’s Ford.”
She gives me a look. “What?”
“My name. I go by Ford now.”
“Oh…” Fern makes an expression I’ve committed to memory but can’t explain, like she’s examining me, trying and failing to figure me out. Then, she grins. “…good call.”
“I thought you’d think so.”
Her smile widens ’til her brown eyes shine. “You thought of me?”
I chuckle, letting the contented sound fall off into a smirk. “Can you not, please?”