CHAPTER 5
Murphy
“Son. Of. A. Bitch. I don’t freaking need this right now!” Growling, I watch my wrench sail into the weeds underneath one of the apple trees.
Brilliant way to cope. Now I have to go get the damn thing.
Sighing, I heft up off the overturned bucket that’s serving as my makeshift stool to work on the tractor. Two more weeks. It couldn’t have just held out for two more weeks for me to get the harvest finished.
Stomping across the lane and into the grass, it doesn’t escape my notice that Auggie’s not hot on my heels for once. He’s usually my trusty shadow. I’ve been so surly lately that he keeps his distance during the day, only curling up with me at night when he knows I’ll be too comatose to grumble to myself.
Throwing him an accusing glare, I feel smaller as soon as I’ve done it. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed how your tail wags whenever he drives by,” I call out, causing him to huff pathetically and his head to burrow deeper in between his paws where he’s lying.
First Jesse, now the damn tractor. Can’t I catch a break this year?
It’s difficult enough to ignore the fact that you somehow fell for your best friend and have been in denial over it without the added temptation of said friend sending you random text messages. First, it was about that cold snap we had two weeks ago. I assume he was trying to warn me in case it impacted my harvest, but made myself squash the idea that he cares—cares the way I didn’t realize that I care about him.
Next, it was to inform me that Randall Bennings got a new toupée as horrid looking as the last. I refused to be sucked into the comfort of our old nonsense, our conversations that made the pace of life fly by, nothings that always felt like everythings. I’ve had to remind myself that it was likely just me who felt that way, and to Jesse, I’m just… a distraction. Company. Someone to visit with until he ever decides to grow the fuck up.
I thought his benign messages were just more guilt, but the one he sent me last night is still burning a hole in my pocket on my phone. He wants to see me. Actually wants to see me again even after the way I acted at the café.
I want it to mean that we’re still friends, but I don’t trust my judgment anymore. Not after the come-to-Jesus moment Mom dropped on me a few weeks ago.
In love with Jesse Carver…
As much as I’ve tried to deny it since she planted the idea in my head, I can’t. She didn’t plant it there. All she did was unearth it, unearth it from a lifetime of me burying a truth, bigger and bolder, and more undeniable than the one I admitted to Jesse.
Of course, I fucking love him. God knows why. He’s a pain in the ass most of the time, but… he’s my pain in the ass.
JESSE: Whenever you’re done not talking to me, can we do something together? I miss you.
That damn text he sent earlier won’t stop haunting me. Sighing, I bend down when I spot my wrench. He misses me. Which me? Pre-gay Murph or I’m-gay Murph?
Every fiber of my being wants to see him again, watch that bright, mischievous smile stretch across his face, and hear his cackly laugh, but it terrifies me. I don’t think I’ll be able to look at him the same way anymore, just like he couldn’t look at me the same since I told him my secret.
Will he know I’m checking him out? Will I check him out?
Stalking back to the tractor, my throat closes up, knowing I might not be able to avoid it. It’s harvest season and all the implement dealers are booked up solid working on emergency repairs for every grower across the county. I need Jesse in more ways than one right now, and I’m not proud of it. While I went off to play Army, he got his mechanic’s certification even though the little grease monkey didn’t need it. He’d been taking shit apart and putting it back together ever since we were kids. If anyone can fix Dad’s so-old-it-should-be-in-a-museum-tractor, it’s Jesse.
Fuck.
Tractor just took a shit. Think you can come take a look at it?
I don’t even get to put my phone to sleep when a reply pops up.
JESSE: Be right over.
I squash the joy his quick response brings me. No way he was sitting there waiting for me to message him. That fancy is just more pathetic lovesick hope on my part.
Wiping my hands on my jeans, I tell myself it’s stupid to care about my appearance. We’re farmers. We’re always grubby when we’re working. It’s not like he’s going to show up in his bright white polo shirt or give a shit if I’m dirty. Why do I care what I look like for my straight friend, anyway?
See? Thoughts like this are what I was worried about.
Letting out a long exhale, I holler to Auggie, deciding to walk off my nervous energy before Jesse arrives. Misery loves company.
Should I say something about the embarrassing way I behaved at that café? He probably has no clue he did anything wrong. Did he even do anything wrong or was I just being sensitive because I’m in love with him and didn’t know it?
I think I wanted his undying approval so badly, that I expected him to walk a perfect line… a perfect line that involved him opening his arms wide for some kind of affectionate embrace we’ve never danced. Ugh. Listen to me.
I’ve called him an idiot, jokingly, countless times over the years, but I’m the one who’s the idiot. He’s right. Our entire friendship was a lie. Maybe not an outright lie, but it was based on a lie. Because the term ‘friends’ was never big enough for me.
Grabbing up a stick, I toss it for Auggie, watching him bound off excitedly to retrieve it. They say that if you love something, let it go. If it never comes back, it wasn’t meant to be. What do you do, though, if it comes back but doesn’t love you the way you want it to?
Half-ass ignoring Jesse these past few weeks hasn’t just been over the embarrassment of my café behavior or his—it’s been a necessity. I worried half my life about how to tell him I’m gay, and now I have to figure out how to keep another secret from him until I can get over it. So far, I have no idea how to do that, knowing he’s just down the road or a text message away.
When Mom suggested I take a vacation, it seemed like the perfect out. Maybe if Jesse isn’t accessible, I won’t torture myself with the thoughts of him I’ve been having at night. The harder I’ve tried not to replay all my trysts to Seattle with Jesse as a substitute, the more difficult it is to fight doing so. And the more shame I wake up with each morning. He’d really freak out if he knew what goes on inside my head at night.
I used to think the anxious feeling I’d get sometimes when we touched was my nerves, worrying that he’d somehow figure out I was gay. After the intimate dreams I’ve had lately, it’ll be a damn miracle if I can keep it together in front of him for five minutes.
The rumble of Delores’ engine gives me a start. Spinning around, I watch Jesse barrel down the lane faster than he ever has before.
Holy shit. What’s it been? Like… six minutes? There’s no way he was at his parents’ orchard or his place if it only took him six minutes to get here.
Was he at my neighbors’, the McCutchens? They have a daughter. Granted, she’s forty and kind of looks like Elton John, but…
Oh, shut the fuck up, Murph. Jealous much?
“Auggie doggie!” Jesse cheers when Auggie slams into his leg after his full-speed dart toward him prevents him from stopping in time. “Oh, I missed you! Did you miss me?”
Great. Do we have to talk about the guilt?
As soon as Jesse turns his radiant smile on me, my heart rate goes haywire. Now I know why I couldn’t freaking breathe when I told him I was gay. Realizing you’re in love with someone is one thing, but feeling your body react to them in person is entirely another. Everything inside of me hurts like my chest is caving in on itself, knowing I’ll never have what I want. God, it’s so much worse than I thought.
“Hey,” he says, stuffing his hands into his pockets like a nervous kid when he stops in front of me.
“Hey.” I nod back like an equally nervous kid. This is so awkward.
“So, were you beating on it again?” he asks, smirking as he nods toward the tractor.
A breathless laugh passes my lips at the accusation he always makes when the tractor breaks down. Smirking back, I oblige his juvenile humor because I know it makes him happy and seems like the olive branch we need right now. “No, I wasn’t beating it.”
My face heats though as the words leave my mouth. He has no idea how much I’ve been ‘beating it.’
Snickering, he nods and starts toward the overturned bucket. Slapping me on the shoulder, he adds, “Don’t worry, Baloney. I’ll get you fixed up.”
‘Fixed up?’ He has no clue that there’s no fixing me.
I keep my mouth shut, though, grateful that he’s here. Standing behind him as he starts tearing apart the transmission like it’s a child’s toy that requires no instructions, I catch a whiff of his sweaty scent on the breeze. It’s sweeter than it usually smells and warms my blood. I want to crawl under a rock for noticing. I want to bury my head in the dirt for watching the way the back of his shoulders rise and flex under his t-shirt each time he torques on something.
I don’t notice how he smells or the way his body moves. Or at least, I’m not supposed to. He’s my friend. He didn’t ask for my affection. Hell, I didn’t even ask to have any for him that crosses the line of friendship. Try as I might, though, I notice now. It’s all I can notice.
Is that why I never felt some great disappointment when no one in Seattle ever piqued my interest past a night of getting off? Because I knew I’d have Jesse to come home to—even if all Jesse could offer me was his friendship?
“Are you up for catching Harvest Days this year with me?” he asks hopefully, making my heart squeeze.
It’s an annual celebration in town that we go to every year. Together. We always have. Just like we go everywhere else together. Every part of me wants to say yes, but I can’t. Not just because I shouldn’t until I can retrain my heart and brain how to think of him as just a friend, but because I’ve already set my therapy in motion. My getting-over-Jesse-Carver therapy.
“Um, I won’t be here, but thanks for the invite.”
Whipping his head around, his face contorts. “Where will you be?”
“I, uh, booked a vacation,” I confess, scratching at my beard while my face heats.
Why do I feel guilty? It’s not like I’ll be cheating on Jesse. There’s nothing to cheat on. I’ve done it dozens of times before anyway, not that I’m even in the mood to get laid. Except… he didn’t know about me those times, and… I didn’t know about my feelings. Shit. I feel like I’m cheating already.
“Vacation? You never take vacations!” he accuses, looking baffled. “Where are you going?”
“On a cruise.”
“A cruise? When?”
“It leaves out of Miami in two weeks.”
“Two weeks? But that’s… that’s so soon,” he says, sounding panicked, rising from the bucket. “Are you taking your mom?”
The fact that the idea of a cruise sounds so foreign to his brain should be one more reminder of how non-cosmopolitan he is, how different we are, and how different the things we want are. I don’t think he’s ever left Washington state. He’s never lamented over settling down and sure as shit wouldn’t venture to Seattle to find companionship. Even if he was bi or gay, it would be stupid for me to fall for someone like him. It’d never work.
Picking up the transmission housing from the tractor, I fidget with one of the bolts. “No, it’s, um… It’s a gay cruise.” Clearing my throat, I clarify, “A Gaytoberfest cruise.”
“Gaytoberfest?” he snorts, cracking up.
And there we have it. I shoot him a look, and he sobers.
“What?” He holds his hands out. “It’s a funny name.”
“Why? Because it’s gay?”
“No! Just, I could have come up with a dozen other names that were catchier than that.”
“Like what?”
I watch him blink several times as I feel my blood pressure spike before I realize it’s not even worth it. “Whatever. You don’t have to like it. And you’re right—I never go on vacation, so I figured what the hell? It’ll be good to have a break after the harvest. Relax. Meet some people… like me.”
Why is he frowning? Is he that selfish? Can’t he realize I need a life that involves more than him?
Turning back to the tractor, he gets back to work in silence. “How long will you be gone?”
The forlornness to his question shouldn’t make me feel guilty, like I’m abandoning him. “Ten days.”
“Ten days?” he exclaims, dropping the wrench.
“Are you going to repeat everything I say?”
“No! But…”
Sighing, I hate how uncomfortable this is. I want my friend back. I want to not be in love with that obnoxious friend. And I want to want to get laid again sometime this century and not have to feel guilty or heartbroken about it.
“But it’s just a long time. I mean, I’ve hardly seen you lately and… and now you’re leaving.”
Crap. Does he know what that does to me? I almost want to cancel my ticket and forgo my deposit just to see him smile. But then what? More trips to The Dew Drop while I sit at the bar with Driver and Passenger?
The girls are absolute sweethearts, and honestly treat Jesse like a brother, but the thought of watching him being entertained by half-naked women while my sorry ass pines at the bar is too depressing.
“Jesse, I just… I need some time. Okay?”
“You’ve already had time, though. It’s been three weeks! We haven’t gone three weeks without seeing each other since you were in the Army,” he protests, shooting up off his bucket again.
“I meant I need time for me. Time where I can be around people who get it—people who get what it’s like to be gay.”
I want to wipe that sad expression of hopeless inadequacy off his face because I know now what it feels like. I don’t want him to feel how I feel, so I try again, hopefully speaking in a language he can understand.
“You’ve got all the women in Wenatchee to choose from. I don’t. You can go out and meet someone and get laid whenever you want. There’s nothing here for me unless I go look for it elsewhere.”
“You want to leave Wenatchee?”
You’d think I just told him hot tubs were outlawed. I’m both flattered that it sounds like he can’t fathom life without me and annoyed that he doesn’t understand I need more than being his trusty sidekick.
“No. I just want to spend a little time somewhere that the odds are as in my favor as they are for you here.”
Kicking at the grass, he mumbles, “I think you’re severely overestimating how favorable my odds are.”
Oh, brother. If I’m supposed to feel sorry for him about how often he gets action, he’s going to be disappointed. I’m not about to lay out my statistics for him and draw him a diagram of finger fighting.
“Probably better than mine,” I digress.
“And you need to go all the way to Miami on some boat for that? Can’t you just go to Seattle for the weekend?”
“I need more than a weekend, Jesse. I want substance. I want to meet someone that I have a chance with. Can you understand that?” ‘Someone who’s not you,’ my heart screams. “I can’t be your shadow forever. I need my own life.”
His expression when he looks up at me damn near cracks my heart in half. “Are we… still friends?”
“Yes. Of course, but I need more than just a friend. I want what my parents had, what your parents have, what Pete and Cam look like they have. I can’t find that around here when I spend all my time with a best friend who snickers at the word Gaytoberfest.”
There. It’s as close to the truth as I can give him. Albeit, it’s a distorted version, and the thought of being with anyone other than Jesse feels as wrong right now as the thought of being with Jesse. He’d probably run away in terror if I tried to kiss him. Further proof that I need to get the fuck out of here for a while.
“Does Charlotte know?”
“That I’m gay or that I’m going on a cruise?”
Shrugging, he looks like he’s cautious to ask for further information, so I concede. “She’s always known. Dad too. And, yes, she knows I’m going. It was her idea, actually. She’s… supportive. She’s always been supportive.”
Staring down at his boots, he seems to mull that over, chewing his lip. When he nods, I wish I knew what was going on inside his head. Have I ruined any chance of salvaging our friendship when I come back from my pilgrimage?
“I’m glad. I’m glad you have that. I’m supportive, too,” he assures me, smiling and slapping my shoulder.
Okay. That was… weird.
“Can I do anything? Do you need me to help you pack?”
What the fuck? Remembering the cruise event line-up, I suddenly have bizarre images of Jesse helping me determine what to wear for harness night. Yeah. That’s not going to happen.
“No. I’m good. Think I’ve got it under control.”
“I’m serious,” he stresses, sitting back down on the bucket and picking up the tools. “I know the café sucked the other day, but I was trying to show you I’m here for you. You know I’ve got you, right? Whatever you need, I’m your guy.”
Right. An hour-long frotting session and kisses that make my toes curl—I’m sure he’d be my guy. Swallowing against the glob of lust in my throat as I really take in the curve of his lower lip for the first time in my life, I nod.
“Yeah. Sure.”
When he frowns at me, my pulse skitters to a stop, wondering if he picked up on my dirty thoughts. “Are you nervous or something?” he asks.
“Why would I be nervous?” I laugh, unconvincingly.
Shit. Does he know I’m nervous?
“Well, it’s a gay cruise. Won’t it be a bunch of gay guys? I mean, have you ever been around that many gay guys before? Is it like a singles cruise or something, everyone checking you out and assessing you for your datability?”
Oh. That. That’s what he meant.
“Um, pretty sure Gaytoberfest means it’s only gay guys. And, yeah, I think it’s kind of a mixer cruise, like… for people to meet other singles. At least, that’s how they advertised it.”
“And you can handle that? Being eyeballed like cattle?”
“It’s not a slaughterhouse. I’ll just… mingle and, if I hate it, I can hang out in my room.”
“Do they have, like, gay dating sites you could try before you board the Love Boat? Oh, wait… maybe you’ve done that already,” he trails off, looking embarrassed.
“Are you trying to talk me out of going?”
“No! I just wondered what made you choose a Gaytoberfest cruise.”
I hold up the transmission housing so he can drop parts into it. I realize he actually expects a response when he glances over at me.
Fine. If we’re adding open dialogue to our friendship, it has to start somewhere.
Shrugging, I direct my gaze to the tractor. “Beer and cock—not a hard decision.”
Wincing, I shift my gaze to his, not surprised by the shock I find. Except, it dissolves, and he cracks up, setting me on alert again.
“What?” I huff, preparing myself for another slight that he probably doesn’t realize is a slight.
“Actually, it sounds like it was a hard decision. Right?”
Oh, brother. Jesse making gay sex jokes. Scoffing, I pinch my eyes closed as my face heats. I fucking can’t. I cannot get out of here fast enough if he’s going to start talking about hard cocks.
“If this is you being supportive, just stop right now,” I plead. “I doubt I’ll meet anyone I can stand, anyway.”
“I was kidding, Baloney. Don’t be nervous. If some guy realizes only half of how great I think you are, he’ll fall at your feet.”
Was that supposed to be fucking helpful? His compliment has my skin tingling, but I didn’t miss how easily he’d throw me to the wolves. Why can’t he think I’m great and like cock? Is that too much to ask?
“I’m not that great,” I mutter, grateful that he has no idea the sentiment is coming from the well of rejection deep in my soul.
Scoffing, he shakes his head, his deft fingers covered in grease as he tears apart the transmission like a practiced surgeon. “Murph, you’re intelligent, kind, hilarious, patient, loyal, hard-working—you’re the best person I know, the best person I’ll ever know. If they don’t see that, they don’t deserve you.”
My breath locks up in my lungs as I stare at his profile and the earnestness of his expression. This is torture. Fucking torture. He picks right now to bust out his sweet side? Because Jesse is sweet, cotton-fucking-candy sweet when he’s not high on life, running a thousand miles an hour on chaos. I realize now it must be what hooked me, what tipped the scales from platonic love to hopes of forever that can never be.
I can’t wait two weeks to leave. It might very well kill me.
Glancing over at me, his eyes are like two crystal blue ponds, scanning my face. “What?” He laughs softly. “It’s true.”
Clearing my throat, I choke down the lump that’s threatening to bring me to tears and shove at his face with my palm. “Just fix the damn tractor. I’m not your type.”
I know I said it to lighten the mood, to evaporate the discomfort that’s looming here like a haze. The sound of his laughter, though, for once, doesn’t invigorate me. It splits the air like a chasm. I may not have lost him yet; he may still think he wants to be friends, but I know now for certain that we have an expiration date.
Why did I think I could just be the same old me around him and everything would go on as it always has? I’ll never know how to be immune to Jesse Carver now that I’ve stared at his goodness with eyes wide open.