Chapter 7
Remi
When I arrive at the petting farm early Tuesday morning, I find the barn already unlocked.
I ease inside, turning on my CI, the culprit visible just inside the feed room.
“So now you’re breaking and entering?” I ask.
Benson lifts his head, his cheeks red. “Marigold gave me a key.”
My eyebrow pops up, even though I’m not remotely surprised my mom slipped Benson a key at some point during this past week he’s been coming around. She’s nothing if not encouraging of the plots she suspects are brewing.
Not that there’s anything brewing between me and Benson.
Benson himself is standing somewhat stiffly now, looking everywhere but at me as I walk his way. I crane my neck past his sizable shoulders to see into the room.
“You said I could,” he offers in his own defense.
The feed room has been completely reorganized.
The pallet of alfalfa is now next to the hay.
The bins have been tugged into new positions, the large measuring scoops and portioning bowls set atop brand-new shelves lining the walls above them.
And the many containers of supplements and vitamins are now neatly placed in rows and sorted alphabetically.
My lips quirk, the feeling in my chest far too dangerous to name. “What time did you get here?”
“Four?” Benson answers, the word sounding more like a question than anything.
“Mhm.” I’m about to tease Benson that if he’s so clearly happy with the new feed room, then he can handle the morning-meal prep…when a tiny nose pops out of the pocket of his shirt. “Is that…Mouse in your pocket?”
Benson lifts a finger, gently petting Mouse atop the head. She latches onto the digit, front paws holding Benson tight as she gnaws on his finger. Apparently satisfied, she disappears back down into his shirt.
“Yeah,” Benson says almost sheepishly. “She’s recovering nicely, but I can’t release her until the cast is off, so…”
He trails off with a shrug, seeing nothing whatsoever out of the ordinary about carrying a pocket mouse around with him. As if it’s not the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. As if I can somehow weather that sort of information that same way I would a simple gust of winter wind.
But no, this man is most certainly seeping past my defenses.
I’ve never been in the habit of avoiding sexual or romantic feelings for another person.
Not when that person is an option. Benson never has been.
Not when I was a late teenager noticing my friend’s brother in a way I knew I shouldn’t.
And not when he turned up here again more than a decade after that, possibly to stay.
I didn’t think he was an option. He wasn’t.
Now? Now I know Benson is bi. And that changes everything.
At least for me.
I can’t help but wonder if Auggie knows. Benson said he’s out, but surely Auggie would have told me if he knew? It’s not something I’m going to ask Benson right this minute. Not when it’d be a dead giveaway to the fact that I’m thinking about him being bisexual.
Fuck. Has he been with men before?
It’s a struggle to return my focus to the barn and the man standing inside it looking worried about my reaction to the feed room. I give Benson a smile, which isn’t hard to do. “It looks great, Ben. Want to show me around?”
He nods, relieved, before launching into an explanation of the changes he made.
I have to admit, his organizational method makes perfect sense.
The goats bleat once they realize breakfast is imminent, their tiny hooves stomping all over Benson’s newly worn-in boots.
As for Snickerdoodle? Apparently, he preoccupied the pony with a snack from the freezer: a carrot inside a block of ice.
I shake my head, amazed at the effortless way Benson has fallen into a pseudo-job here at the ranch. Considering he spent his adult life in an office, running numbers, it’s quite the change.
But I think it was a necessary one. For him.
“Hey, Ben?”
He stops fitting the lids to the feed bins, giving me his full attention.
“Who else did you tell? You said I was the second.”
He understands I’m talking about his autism diagnosis. “My dad.” With slow movements, he adds the sign for dad, as if it pains him to do so.
“It didn’t go well?” I guess.
With a little jerk, Benson tightens the final lid into place before pinching his fingers. “No.”
My chest squeezes tight. “Do you want to talk about this?”
He’s quiet for a beat. “I don’t mind. Not with you.”
My breath whooshes out. “Tell me?”
Benson nods, the two of us checking the latches on the pens and Snickerdoodle’s stall before heading out toward the stables.
Like me, Benson is wearing his coat now, Mouse still tucked warmly inside his shirt pocket.
His hands move as he begins to speak, hesitantly signing along.
“The thing is… My dad and I are exactly alike. Which he knows. He’s commented on it often.
A point of pride, almost. Until I told him I’m on the spectrum.
He didn’t take it well. Told me it was impossible. ”
I wince, but Benson’s words keep rolling out, his hands moving just as impassionately now.
“He doesn’t understand it. And I can’t blame him, not really.
I didn’t either. So much of what you hear about autism or see in the media is heavily stereotyped.
So when you have someone who doesn’t present the same way or is high-masking, all those invisible traits go unnoticed.
And you think, well, surely they’re not autistic.
They don’t look like it. And I hate that.
On so many levels. Because autism is an internal experience. Not an external one.”
Benson takes a big breath, his hands shaking slightly. His signing fell away about halfway through his rant, apart from a few words here or there, like he couldn’t make his voice slow down, no matter how hard he tried.
He lifts his hands again, though, determined. “The more I learn, the more I understand myself. And I refuse to be ashamed for the way I was born.”
The smile I give Benson is wide. I can’t even help it. His eyes catch on my lips, his breaths still a little harsh.
‘Pride,’ I sign, adding the spoken word.
Benson repeats the sign he fingerspelled the first time around, and I nod.
“Never apologize for who you are,” I tell him. “I hope your dad takes the time to hear you out.”
He nods, swallowing. “Chances are he’s autistic, as well. Considering it’s genetic. It’s why he reacted so badly.”
“I figured as much. Maybe he just needs some time to come to terms with it. To understand it’s not a bad thing.”
“Yeah,” he says, although his voice is small.
I can understand why Benson has been holding off on telling the rest of his family. Putting himself out there, bracing for rejection a second time around, can’t be easy.
“Tell me something good,” I request.
Benson huffs, the tiniest smile on his face as we stop outside the horse barn. “About being autistic?”
“About being you.”
He looks off to his left, blinking slowly before that smile is back. Caramel eyes find mine. “I’m great at poker.”
“Really?” I ask around a laugh.
He dips his head in a nod. “I hide my thoughts well.”
As Benson opens the barn door, stepping into the warmth waiting inside, my smile fades just a little.
I follow after him, watching as Benson sheds his coat and checks on Mouse.
There’s a smile on his face still, a contentedness rolling off him, so thick it’s palpable.
My chest aches for the boy who learned it was better to hide than share himself with the world.
“Where do you want to start?” I ask.
Benson looks over from where he’s rolling a wheelbarrow into place. “Um…this stall?”
“No,” I say, chuckling. “I mean… You said you want to figure out who you are, right? Where do you want to start?”
Benson rolls his thumb against his fingers, lost in thought for a moment. “I don’t have any…hobbies. Maybe there.”
“Yeah? You wanna try knitting? Painting?”
“I want to go rock climbing,” he answers, even as can be.
“Well shit, Ben.”
“Is that…bad?” he asks, eyes wide.
I can’t help but laugh. “No, not at all. Rock climbing, really?”
He shrugs. “I grew up right near the mountains, but I’ve never been. Have you?”
“A couple times.”
“So you know where we can go?”
Pretty sure my cheeks are going to be sore from how often I’m smiling around this man. “We, huh?”
‘Yes,’ he signs simply.
I huff a laugh as Benson sets to work raking out his stall.
Guess I’m going rock climbing.
“This is so weird,” Auggie hisses to me as we walk a few steps behind Benson and our guide. “I feel like I’m in an alternate dimension.”
“We’ve done this before.”
“Not with him,” he stresses, indicating his brother.
“Are you gonna be good?”
Auggie’s eyes shoot wide. “Yes, Daddy.”
My friend cackles when I shove his shoulder. Hard.
Benson looks back at us, but I give him a reassuring smile.
The four of us, guide included, are dressed for the weather in heavy winter coats, with multiple layers underneath our outerwear and grippy gloves to keep our hands warm.
It’s a mild winter day, however, which makes it perfect for rock climbing.
The area where our guide is leading us to isn’t all that far from the ranch as the crow flies.
It’s a novice climb. We’ll barely be off the ground.
I tug my beanie more snugly onto my head, the design of the hat meant for cochlear implant users. A band on the outside holds my sound processor in place so it doesn’t have to be tucked over my ear, and it won’t fall off easily while we climb.
We hike for a mile or so before reaching the base of the mountains. Our guide sets up our gear as the rest of us watch on, the Harper brothers avoiding each other’s eyes. I nearly roll my own.
“Mouse doing okay?” I ask Benson.
He nods, far more quiet today than he’s been as of late. I suspect it has to do with the added audience.
Auggie looks between the two of us. “Wait. Who’s Mouse?”
“A field mouse,” Benson supplies.
Auggie continues his visual ping-pong. “Yeah, that doesn’t actually tell me anything new.”
Benson’s expression is carefully neutral, his eyes on the guide as he secures anchor points to the steep mountainside in front of us.
I can see how someone might interpret Benson’s silence as disinterest. But his hand is tapping out a rhythm on his thigh, and his shoulders are bunched in a way I suspect has nothing to do with the cold.
“Benson found an injured mouse,” I tell Auggie. “He’s been nursing her back to health.”
Auggie’s gaze whips to his brother, surprise there that quickly turns to incredulity. “Hold on… Are you telling me there’s a mouse loose in our house right now?”
“She’s contained,” Benson says.
Auggie stares at him before his eyes swing to me.
“She’s also free of diseases,” I add with a shrug.
I can’t blame Auggie for being stunned. I’m realizing there’s a lot about his brother August doesn’t know. And I’m sure it goes both ways. The Harper brothers have never been close, partly because of the large gap in age and partly because they’ve lived apart most of their lives.
It’s going to take more than a single morning of rock climbing to reconcile decades of unfamiliarity.
But it’s a start, isn’t it? For Benson. And for the pair.
Our guide slides back to the ground, clapping his hands together once. “All right. We ready?”
The three of us nod, and he goes over ground rules, explaining how we’ll make the climb up to the first stopping point and reiterating key safety measures. Auggie and I are familiar with the basics, but Benson listens closely.
When it’s time to get into our harnesses, Benson offers me a hand. I think nothing of it, gripping his hand for balance as I step into the connected straps the guide holds out low to the ground. I let go of Benson when I see Auggie staring at us intently.
Once we’re all outfitted in the proper gear and strapped securely to the side of the mountain, we begin our ascent.
Despite the soft clanking of the metal carabiners and the occasional whistle of wind past my CI, it’s a peaceful morning.
The sun is lighting the rocks underneath my fingers, the guide talking in low tones mostly to Benson, helping him find a route up.
We stop each time we reach a new anchor, the guide confirming we’re good to go on before we move again.
It’s not a long climb, thirty feet at most, before we’re easing onto a flat stopping point. August is the first over the top, grinning as I join him. Benson follows with the guide right on his heel.
“Well?” I ask Benson, cupping my hand over my processor to block out the wind.
His cheeks are flushed, eyes bright as he gives me a quick smile. “Yeah. I think I like it.”
“Yeah?”
He signs the letters Y and S with a quick upward flick of his wrist, giving an excited, ‘Yes,’ before adding, ‘Thrill.’
My grin widens, and Benson huffs a small laugh, sitting on the ledge with August and me. Our guide begins setting up the next portion of the climb as we all catch our breath. Auggie, I notice, is staring at his brother.
Benson is looking out over the land below us, white-tipped trees spread over snow-white ground. The sigh he lets out is evident in the drop of his shoulders. In the way he forgets, for a minute, to hide his full smile.
My heart sets up a rapid pace at the sight.
With his legs bent and his arms resting atop his knees, Benson looks like part of the mountain. Comfortable with it, the same way he is on the ranch.
I give his shoulder a nudge, glad when warm brown eyes turn my way that Benson can’t see my pulse under all these layers. Lifting my hands, I tell him in measured movements, ‘I think you might’ve found your new calling.’
‘Being a mountain goat?’ he signs jokingly.
I bark a laugh. ‘No. Nature.’
He nods slowly, staring at me for a long moment, before he signs a calm, ‘Maybe.’ There’s no question on his face, though. And that has me smiling softly as Benson looks back out over the Montana wilderness.
When I catch a shift of color at the edge of my vision, I remember Auggie’s presence. His expression is the same as when I told him Benson might be coming around the ranch more often. Confusion, like one or both of us is a mystery he’s trying to puzzle out. An edge of hurt, even.
I don’t know if Auggie is jealous of me getting closer to his brother. Or his brother getting closer to his friend.
It’s a moot point, really. Because there will always be room for him in both of our lives.
But I realize…
Unless I watch myself, there’s no doubt my best friend is going to figure out I have feelings for his brother.