Chapter 6 Ryder #2
But I’m too slow, and for a moment, that harsh look she’s giving me fades.
“You’ll be fine,” she says, glancing at the cut.
“You’re bleeding but not in a super dramatic way.
We should probably just make sure you don’t have any tree left in your head and throw some antiseptic and a band-aid on there for the night. No biggie.”
I nod, warmed by her caring tone. “Thank you.”
She gives me a quick smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “You’re welcome.” She turns back to the stream. “There are a couple rickety rocks in here, so just step where I step, okay?”
She reaches behind her to offer me her hand, and though there’s part of me that wants to refuse—to scoff at the insinuation that I, a big manly man, need help crossing the stream—something tells me to shut up and take it. To not interfere with her kindness and instead, let her help me.
So I take it, but I make sure not to hold on flimsy like a scared man baby.
Her hand is warm in mine—delicate and small but strong—and though she was the one to offer it to me, I’m pleased to note that by the time we reach the other side of the stream, I was steadier on my feet than she was.
That even though I’m certain we both felt a little zip between our fingers as our skin connected, I stayed steady and lithe while she went tense, her hand clamming up ever so slightly in mine and her movements less sure than only moments before.
When we reach the other side, she drops my hand like a bad habit, quickly crossing her arms again. “I guess you didn’t really need help crossing the stream, did you?”
“That one rock almost threw me off. You must have missed it, but I was really glad I had you there to help me,” I say, and when she turns around to shoot me a narrow-eyed look, I continue, “Almost had another foot-in-stream situation there. Doubt it would have been an accident.”
She purses her lips as she takes off toward the bungalow, a number of visitors milling about in the area she referred to as the backdrop.
Families take pictures of one another and filter in and out of the gift shop, sunglasses on and paper bags in hand.
And as we weave through the ever-thickening throng of people, she says, “I’m being nice to you. ”
I raise my eyebrows. Her actions are nice, but her demeanor tells me she’d rather be anywhere else.
When I don’t answer for a few seconds, her head whips toward me. “Right?”
I hold my hands up in surrender as a woman taking a picture of her kids in front of the sunflowers eyes me, her gaze caught on the gash on my forehead. “Real nice. Nicest person I’ve ever met. My god, this level of adoration is uncomfortable, but I think I can bear it.”
She shakes her head. “I came over to offer you one of my guys for the day,” she says, her attention focused on the bungalow we’re rapidly approaching.
“One of your guys?” I ask, as another person fixates on my gash and I feel the need to touch it again to take stock of just how much I’m bleeding.
She nods as we reach her house and she swings the front door open—it’s not locked, for some inane reason—and gestures for me to go in first.
She closes the door behind her. “One of my farmhands. I can spare one today, if you want to clear up that path.” She shakes her head, stomping through a living room decorated in happy yellows and oranges.
“I try to get up there every so often and clean it up some, but this season has been a bit hectic.”
“You do all that yourself?” I ask, taking in the framed photographs along the wall, the big windows that spill natural light throughout. The books along the half-wall that separates the kitchen and living room, and the wild number of sunflower-related things that fill her house.
Sunflower-themed word magnets on the fridge, sunflower books on the coffee table, a sunflower blanket folded neatly over one arm of her couch.
She shrugs. “I know it’s not my property, but it used to be part of the farm, a long time ago. It’d be nice to be able to walk around over there.” She pauses. “I mean, you know. If there weren’t going to be apartments or anything.” She shakes her head. “I guess it doesn’t matter anymore, really.”
“We wouldn’t be building for a while, you know. We can clean it up and get a good year or two of use out of that land, if you wanted.”
She looks at me, her eyes locked on mine, and I get the feeling it’s the first time she’s actually seen me today. “Yeah?”
I nod. “Yeah. That sounds like a great way to use the land before we start building.”
“Cool,” she says.
And something tells me she forgot why she invited me in.
“Um, can I use your bathroom?” I ask, gesturing to my forehead.
“Oh my god, yes. I’m sorry,” she says, waving me along behind her. She heads for the stairs along one wall, and I follow her up, my hand trailing along the banister behind hers.
When we reach the second floor, she makes a left, heading into one of two bedrooms upstairs.
As I pass by, I peek in the opposite one, and it looks like a guest bedroom. A daybed done up in—surprise, surprise—sunflowers, with a few racks of books and a TV.
The one I follow her into must be hers.
And I’m floored by just how plain it is.
A fluffy white comforter surrounds a queen-size wrought iron bed frame.
The room is full of neutral tones, with a number of blankets folded across the foot of her bed and thrown across an armchair by the window that looks out over the sunflower fields.
Next to it is a small side table, only really large enough for the coffee-stained coaster centered on top of it.
It’s so easy to picture her there in the morning, a cup of coffee in her hand as she looks out over her farm. Or maybe she reads for a little in the morning, if the number of books in this house is any indication.
“What happened to all the sunflowers?” I ask, completely forgetting the cut on my head.
She laughs softly as she pushes her bathroom door open and beckons me inside. “Oh. Well, you know. My whole life is sunflowers. Anything people buy me has something to do with sunflowers. And I love them—don’t get me wrong—but sometimes it’s nice to have a blank space, you know?”
I nod. “Clear headspace. An area that is only yours that no one else can influence,” I say. “I get it.”
She lets out a long breath as she grabs my arm, directing me toward the vanity.
I peer into the mirror, crinkling my nose at the cut on my forehead that really doesn’t look all that bad, aside from the smeared blood all across my face.
I poke at it, seeing if it’s scabbed over yet, and a little drop appears that promptly begins running down my skin.
She roots around in the cabinet beneath the vanity until she finds her first aid kit and plops it on the edge between us. She shakes her head when she sees the look on my face and then focuses on the fresh drop of blood. “Just couldn’t resist, could you?”
I shrug, giving her my best smile as I turn to face her and lean against the vanity. She washes her hands, drying them on a fluffy white towel hanging off a hook on the wall.
She runs a cotton ball under the faucet and stands on her toes to press it against my skin. I hunch down so she can reach easier, watching her eyes dance around my face, searching for bits of dried blood. Her touch is delicate. Careful.
And while I have no doubt in my mind I’d be able to wipe the dried blood off my own face and slap a band-aid on there in two seconds flat, I like the way she does it.
“Thanks for cleaning me up.”
She fixes me with a look as she tosses the cotton ball into a trash can next to the vanity. “We’re working together, right?”
I nod, trying my best not to grin too hard at the pinched look on her face. “Working together very well, if I can say so myself.”
She glares at me again while squeezing a dot of Neosporin onto a fresh cotton ball and dabbing it along my forehead.
I can’t help the way my eyes close as I lean into her touch.
A moment later, I open them to the crinkle of a band-aid just as her gaze lands on mine.
She looks away quickly, clearing her throat and fumbling with the band-aid between her fingers.
I fight the urge to reach out to her, rest my hand along the curve of her hip and tug her just a step closer.
But she lets out a sigh that reminds me what we are to each other. Neighbors. Friends, at the most.
So I keep my hands to myself, and instead say, “Maybe you can show me around the sunflower farm.”
She presses the band-aid to my forehead, her eyes focused on her fingers before they drop to mine. She nods. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.”
“Hell, maybe you could even show me around my property. If I had to bet, you know it better than I do.”
Her eyes flash for half a second. “I do.” She nods. “Look, I don’t have too much time right now. It’s our busy season and even though I don’t have a set job as you might call it, I somehow don’t really get a break between sunrise and sunset.”
“After sunset,” I say, before I can even question my own motives.
She raises an eyebrow. “You mean when I sleep?”
I blink. “I’ll make it worth your while. I promise. Snacks. Beverages of your choice.”
She considers this, but before she can answer me, I continue, “I don’t want to do anything that’s going to upset you. If you’re involved in the process, I’ll be able to make better decisions.”
She nods. “You’re right.”
Something tells me those aren’t words she says often.
“But I want hot Cheetos and white wine.”
I grin. “Done.”