Chapter 44 Lex
Lex
It’s a different kind of Thanksgiving.
The farm is quiet, the sky a pristine blue, no clouds in sight.
I stand outside on the front porch, the eroded red farmhouse towering behind me as the scent of briny turkey and savory sides sneaks through the cracked main window.
I left California in such a rush, I forgot my cigarettes.
But something tells me I might not need them anymore.
No cars zoom down the winding, rural suburbia road, giving me a reprieve from the nonstop LA noise. I used to crave the noise, the relentless chaos on the other side of my window; not long ago, it was my reprieve.
Something tells me I might not need that anymore either.
The door creaks open behind me, and I step off the stoop, turning to find Stevie standing at the threshold in a brown harvest dress that teases her knees. I glance down at those knees. A little canvas of scars zaps a pang of doubt to my chest.
For the briefest moment, uncertainty grips me. I’m not sure when I’ll ever get over the feeling of insecurity that has carved holes in my heart for years.
The notion that I’ll hurt her again. That my demons will come out to play when the nights are long and the joy is fleeting, and she’ll grow to hate me one day.
But then she smiles. Stevie sticks her head out through the big wooden door with a glowing grin.
And the burden lifts.
Another feeling takes over, the one that’s been poking through my dark hollows, sprinkling seeds in those empty holes. She’s the water. The sunlight.
New growth.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” she says, biting her lip in a way that says she is happy.
Her radiance is contagious, lighting my own smile. “You look beautiful.”
And not just her face. Not just her ribbons of dark hair, glinting with autumn lights beneath the sun, or the sprinkling of freckles on her nose, or those green eyes that have captivated me since that day on a city street when I was seventeen years old, a shell of a person.
It’s her aura, her kindness, her unwavering conviction that I’ve always been more than what I’ve believed—more than a used-up actor, a hollow puppet on tattered strings.
She always looked deeper, saw the person inside. The man curled up, begging to be brought to life again.
“Come on,” she says, stepping fully out the door and reaching for my hand. “I want you to see someone.”
I follow her around the yard, a golden acreage spread out before me. We head toward a little pen tucked behind the house, where a black-and-white dairy cow feasts on tall blades of grass.
Stevie glances up at me. “You remember Emmy, right?”
The cow moos.
I freeze when Stevie moves to unlock the gate, and I’m convinced the cow is going to ditch the grass, morph into a carnivore, and devour me for its Thanksgiving main course. Maybe it remembers the boots.
I glance down at my nonleather shoes, then deduce that my emotionally draining week has drained a few brain cells as well.
Stevie reaches for the halter and ushers the animal forward. “You can pet her.”
“Um…” My hands instinctively dive into the pockets of my jeans. “Can I see her teeth first?”
She snorts. “She’ll love you.”
The cow is giant, all muscle and bulk, her hooves sinking into the soft earth with each slow step. Her large, dark eyes blink lazily at me as if sizing me up. I take a hesitant step forward, my heart beating a little faster than I’d like to admit.
Stevie chuckles, giving the halter a gentle tug as the cow inches closer. “See? She’s harmless.”
I swallow hard and reach out a hand, hovering just over the cow’s smooth, warm hide. “I swear, if she bites me, I’m holding you responsible.”
“Emmy’s a lover, not a fighter.” Stevie pats the cow’s flank affectionately. “Besides, cows don’t have top teeth.”
I finally let my hand rest against the animal, feeling the coarse fur beneath my fingertips.
Relaxation softens my muscles as Emmy stands patiently, like I’m not even a blip on her radar.
Our eyes meet through the hazy sunshine, and a smile flickers on my mouth.
I glance over at Stevie. “Why did you want me to pet your cow?”
She shrugs, looks away. “Just a feeling.”
“Hmm.” We stand like that for a few more minutes as I stroke the thin layer of fur and contentment shimmers through me.
Stevie watches me intently, and I swear a glint of tears brightens her eyes.
Huh.
“Okay, time for pie baking.” Stevie draws the cow back into her pen, swipes her hands together, then locks the gate. “Want to help?”
I squint at her. “Because I’ve bewitched you with my culinary masterpieces in the form of food delivery apps.”
“Never too late to learn.”
She brings me into the house a moment later, and I’m greeted with the aroma of casseroles in the oven, half-baked and bubbly, and raw dough being rolled out on countertops. Stevie’s father lumbers down the staircase as we pass through the living room.
“Lexington,” he acknowledges.
He’s taller than me, broad-shouldered and potbellied, and he might be intimidating if his gaze wasn’t so warm. Chocolate-colored eyes narrow for a beat before his face melts with joy.
I clear my throat. “Happy Thanksgiving, sir.”
“The hell with formalities. Get over here.” The air whooshes out of me when he grabs me by the shoulders and suffocates me with an equally firm hug.
When we pull apart, I shake his hand. Stevie’s father was in the shower when I rolled out of bed this morning, groggy and dreamy-eyed, still unsure if last night was real.
We fell asleep in each other’s arms after round two, and it’s all I can think about.
The quiet, peaceful aftermath—her hand splayed across my chest, her warm breaths coasting along my cheek.
Then I woke up bright and early to her hand around my dick before falling back to sleep in a state of pure contentment.
Joplin peers out from the kitchen, breaking through the moment. “Lex, you’re awake!” She bounds over to us in a casual, floor-length ivory dress. “Can I touch you?”
I blink at her.
“Respectfully, of course. Like a hug or a pat on the back. Maybe a quick caress of your hair?”
Stevie slaps her on the arm. “Jop, come on.”
“I requested consent. It’s fine.”
A smile hints as I hook my fingers at Joplin, summoning her toward me.
She slowly extends her arms and shuffles forward for a stiff hug, awkwardly patting my back and sniffing my shirt. “Okay. Bucket list now complete.”
Stevie’s cheeks flush neon pink. “You’re humiliating. You’ve met him before.”
“Full-body contact is different.” Joplin tosses an apron at me. “Are you helping us roll dough? There’s a lot of it. We need a firm set of hands.”
“Uh…”
Their father comes up behind me and plops a hand on my shoulder, tearing the apron away with the other. “Ignore her. She just wants to say she baked pies with a celebrity.”
I don’t know what to do with my hands now, so I shove them into the deep recesses of my pockets and teeter on the heels of my feet.
The house smells amazing—pumpkin-spice candles flickering on every available surface and a fire kindling in the fireplace using real wood logs.
While Stevie joins her mother and sister in the kitchen, I saunter into the living room.
Her father collapses on the oatmeal-colored sofa. “It’s great having you here, Lexington,” he says, smiling over at me. “Or do you prefer Lex?”
“Yeah. Lex is good.”
“It’s got a patriotic ring to it. A nod to history, perhaps?” He eyes me curiously. “Battle of Lexington, 1775. The first military engagement between British troops and American colonial militia during the American Revolution.”
I stare at him. “Pretty sure my parents just thought it sounded cool.”
“That’s fair.” He chuckles, reaching for a pair of eyeglasses. “I’m a bit of a history buff, so don’t mind me. I’m Bill, by the way. I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced.”
My eyes trail to an old acoustic guitar leaning against the side of the couch. “Are you a musician too?”
He follows my gaze and barks a laugh. “Try as I might, I can never get the strings to cooperate. I just end up making noise that even the chickens can’t tolerate.”
A smile twitches. “Stevie, Joplin…all music-related.” I almost add Morrison into the mix, but the mood isn’t right, and I don’t want to spoil it.
“That’s right.” A grin carves creases into his cheeks. “Stevie’s mother and I met at a rock music festival in ’94. She sang like a dream. Still does.”
Hesitation leaves me, and I move toward the couch, still eyeing the guitar. “Stevie can sing too. She’s…incredible.”
He studies me, not with judgment or suspicion but with something else. Something I can’t really pinpoint because I never saw it in my own father’s eyes. “Have a seat, Lex.”
He pats the vacant cushion beside him, and I sink down.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says. “I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for us.
Stevie wired us that money, and it’s truly been a lifesaver.
We were able to repair the barn, replace some old equipment, and get things back on track.
My wife and I are planning a trip to Rock Werchter in Belgium next July for our anniversary.
We haven’t had a vacation in…well, since we had the kids, really.
” Removing his glasses, he finds my eyes and holds.
Moisture shimmers in his gaze as pots and pans clatter from the kitchen and a gust of wind shakes the shingled roof above.
“And Stevie,” he adds with a soft smile.
“She wasn’t in a great place these last few years.
You really pulled her out of it. The way she talks about you, about the life you’ve provided for her these last couple of months. I’ve never seen her look so light.”
Our attention shifts to the kitchen cutout, where Stevie giggles at something her mother said.
When I glance back at him, I’m lost for words.