24. Molly
Over the next week,my time with Alex is a bit more long-comforting-hugs and less hot-can’t-keep-our-hands-off-each-other make-out sessions. Alex is grumpier than usual, more closed off, and less quick to smile at my jokes.
I see him every morning, either at Udderly Creamy or when he drops off milk at Bedd Fellows, and every evening before I leave work or when he picks up empty ice chests. Alex made sure I took a day off last week, but who’s making sure he takes a day off?
Now that Kit’s gone, I can clearly see what I only got hints of before—Alex is lonely.
He’s got his farmhands, but now he has Sunday dinners with his family and his time with me—for only a few more weeks.
Quinn wraps up the battery replacement. When I come home to Vaniel on Saturday, she is almost done, and with a few flips of switches, my van powers up again. We run the engine for a bit to make sure the alternator is charging the batteries and even test my electric kettle.
I hold my breath when I plug in my laptop, knowing that if anything is going to get fried, my computer would be the worst possible thing. I don’t think Quinn notices the quiet exhale of relief.
Wednesday, I’m at the farm shop. Now that I’ve paid Quinn for her work—a good chunk out of my bank account—I’m working to save up for the next leg of my trip.
Unfortunately, though, I’m having a snafu, and it’s one of my own making.
My eczema is bothering me—really bad. There’s no one to blame but myself.
First of all, my rashes come in flare-ups—I’m not sure what triggers them. When they come on, I try to treat them as best that I can, but I never medicate for as long as I should. It’s not enough that the rash is mostly gone.
You’d think I would know better by now. Instead, I have these moments at night when I lay in bed, realizing I didn’t put on my ointment and gloves or the bandage on my wrist, depending on which spot is flaring up. In the dark, though, I’m lazy. I justify myself by saying it’s not that bad and I’ll take care of it tomorrow.
It is that bad, and I won’t.
It’s frustrating that I don’t take better care of myself, and it makes me think of my dad. I’m always on him about taking his meds and keeping an eye on his prosthetic, but I don’t take care of myself?
Ugh.
So here I am, counting down until I can go home at six. Of course, I want to say goodbye to Alex, but I won’t linger. My skin is itchy and stinging, and I’ve got to get home and put on the heavy-duty ointment.
I call Alex to see if he’ll swing by the shop so I don’t have to go up to the barn, but he doesn’t answer.
Time passes. I tap my nail on the counter for the fiftieth time and check my phone for the tenth. No response. He’s probably doing something superbly adorable, like bottle-feeding a goat or giving a cow a good head scratch.
Finally, it’s six. I’ll go find him.
I lock the shop up before I trudge up the driveway. At the top, I have to stop to “admire the view”—aka catch my breath—before I enter the barn and roam through the building. It’s quiet save for the lowing of cows and bleating of goats.
His truck is still here, so I know he’s around somewhere.
Exiting the barn, I look out over the view again—rolling hills in shades of green, cloud-spotted, bright blue sky. We just had the summer solstice, and the days are getting shorter. It won’t be long before fall colors are on us, and the view from the farm will move from beautiful to drop-dead gorgeous.
Movement catches my eye. There he is. Alex’s familiar shape is down at the bottom of the paddock with someone else, the far paddock that you can’t quite see from the shop. There’s a truck backed up to where they stand with the tailgate down.
The field is empty of animals, so I let myself in the gate at the top and start down the hill. I can talk to Alex, exit the far gate, walk back to the shop, and get my bike to ride out. I’ll be home in no time.
“Alex,” I call down, cupping my hands around my mouth. Alex looks up, and it’s too far to tell for sure, but I swear he smiles at me. It’s good progress—getting Alex to smile instead of frown is like trying to break a habit.
I take long strides down the slope. Ethel recently told me over a shared breakfast that this is a hot spot for sledding in the winter, and I can believe it. It’s steep but grassy, and with a few inches of snow, it’s a wintery playground.
About fifty feet from Alex, he turns to look at me. Perry is the other man with him, and they’re leaning against the fence, real casual, though lord knows what they are talking about here, especially when Alex has a perfectly good office.
My gaze meets Alex’s, and for a moment, I think I am going to get a smile. But just as quickly as it appears, it’s gone, and concern flashes on his face. “Molly, watch out!”
I spin around, thinking maybe a cow is in the pasture and gunning for me, but I don’t even have time to process before my foot slips out from under me and I take a one-two hit, ass over teakettle, and land in a sprawling heap on the grass.
And something smells.