Chapter 14I nod, confirming that I do indeed like him like him. #3
He nods, eyebrows raised. “Me either. And I didn’t want to be a farmer.
I wanted to be a mechanic. We had a few on the commune; I mean, we had cars for going into town here and there.
There was an organic need for mechanics.
But the men who were didn’t want to be. That’s the backward thing about that place.
People could live more closely to their dreams and have fulfillment, but the way they ran it…
your free will was all but gone. Donated to the greater good.
Which, all this time later, I still can’t figure out. ”
His hand, no longer on my leg, goes to his chin, where he strokes his face thoughtfully. I reach out and rest my hand on his leg because sitting this close without touching him or him touching me feels like a fucking crime.
“They just expected you to fill the role you were assigned. And if you had any qualms with it, you’d be out on your ass.”
I tighten my hold on his thigh and give him a small grin. “You said ass.”
He wiggles his eyebrows, and I feel it in my belly. “I’ve been hanging out with this beautiful woman…” he leans close to me, bringing his hand up to shield our mouths like he’s telling a secret. “She’s a bad influence.”
I punch him in the arm and laugh, shaking my head. It’s only been a second since my hand left his thigh, and already I miss the tight flex of defined muscle, the heat of his safe body, and the feel of him making my pussy tingle.
“What was the thing that made you really go, though? Them pushing you into farming?”
He lifts his hat off his head, and I can smell his shampoo as he sifts his fingers through his strawberry blonde locks. My nipples harden.
“Well, that. But mostly, they wanted to marry me off. And we were expected to start having kids right away. But at age eighteen, I wasn’t ready to get married, and I certainly wasn’t ready to have sex and be a father.”
I blink at him because I’ve never heard a man so strong and masculine admit a thing like needing more time before sex. It’s vulnerable and real and… beautiful.
“That’s brave of you to admit.”
He smiles sardonically. “They didn’t see it that way.
I was told I would marry her on her eighteenth birthday, which was just a few weeks away.
And I’d immediately father children and work her father’s land.
” He shook his head. “I didn’t take any of my clothes or anything.
I just took my notebook and the money my mother saved in a coffee can on top of the fridge–the money they saved for emergencies that required actual currency–and in the middle of the night, I left. Caught a bus and never looked back.”
“You’re brave; you know that?” My heart is racing as I say those words, and it has nothing to do with his bravery and everything to do with the fact that…
I’m falling in love with Miller. And I can’t deny it.
“They always said abandoning your people is for the weak-minded.”
I rest my hand on his forearm, and instead of squeezing, I stroke him, trying desperately to show him in any way possible that I am here for whatever he’s feeling by rehashing this. “Fleeing everything you know for true freedom is the bravest thing I’ve ever heard.”
His eyes are hazy and hooded as he stares down at my hand stroking his arm. His voice is all rasp and smoke when he says, “come over tonight.”
Quickly I imagine what it would be like to be physical and intimate with Miller after everything he’s shared with me today.
Paired with the dangerous position my heart is already in with him?
It would be foolish. So foolish to fall farther down the abyss of loving Miller when he is not mine to love.
He is temporarily mine to teach and build up but not mine to keep.
“I can’t,” I say, hating how fast the words come, how easily they topple out. But what is the alternative? There is no chance I would leave his house in a better situation. I’d leave with my addiction running deeper than before.
“Oh,” he says, looking hurt, and Miller looking hurt probably hurts me more than walking on shattered glass, I swear.
“I’m sorry,” I add, looking down at my empty bowl because I can’t face him while he looks so pained. I don’t want to cause that, but trading one small pain in lieu of a huge one is what I’m doing, and I know that.
Even if it feels like cruel and unusual punishment right now.
Beau and Atticus pull up outside, and when they get out of Beau’s Tesla, it’s clear they’re bickering about something. And for once, I’m relieved because as they push through the doors, Atti’s nostrils flared and Beau’s eyes narrowed; I know they will diffuse things.
They have no clue they are walking into a situation that needs diffusing, but if they hadn’t come back right now, I might have potentially gone against all the warning signs in my head and agreed to see Miller tonight.
“But you ain’t gotta tip if the service is bad,” Atti argues, and I take that moment to peer over at Miller. He’s watching me, wearing a sad smile.
“Thanks for lunch,” I whisper. He nods, we share a smile, and then he’s gone. And I’m left with these two bickering around me.
I just had a wonderful, perfect lunch with an amazing human being, and yet I’ve never felt so sad.
“You wanna wash, or you wanna dry?” I ask my sister as our parents get comfortable in their recliners, the TV illuminating the dark living room.
She shrugs. “Um, I guess dry since I just did my nails.”
I dunk the rinsed plate into the sink basin full of suds and scrub it with a sponge. After rinsing, I pass it to her, and our assembly line begins.
“What’s wrong?” she asks after we’ve washed and dried a handful of dishes in complete silence. Feeling exhausted and unwilling to put on a brave face, I turn to her and give her the twelve-year-old-friendly version of what’s wrong.
“Miller’s helping me learn about cars, you know that, right?”
She nods. “Duh. That’s why you have the notebook.”
“Right,” I say, dipping a white mug into the bubbles. “And I’m helping him with… confidence.”
“Yeah?” she asks. “Like how?”
I chew the inside of my cheek as I rinse the mug and pass it to her.
She may almost be thirteen, but still, sexual confidence that carries over to all aspects of life is still a bit of a mature concept for her.
“His last girlfriend made him feel bad for being a mechanic. So I’m just helping him see all the amazing things about himself and hoping he sees them, too. ”
“So…” she muses after a pause where we wash and dry another plate. “Why do you seem bummed?”
“Because it’s a temporary arrangement. I help him; he helps me. We’re agreeing to help each other for a limited time, then go back to our friendly coworker arrangement.”
“So…” she hedges again. “What’s the problem? Why aren’t you at his place tonight?”
“He invited me,” I say, passing her a bowl with blue flowers painted along the edges. “But I’m starting to…” Before I can finish, Mara does. Ah, her twelve-year-old, love-obsessed heart.
“Like him?!”
Rolling my eyes, I nod. “Yes, Mara. I like him. I always have, I think. But now I’m starting to like… really like him.” I have no problem using the L word in my head, but when it comes to verbally admitting how I’m feeling, I can’t do it.
Saying it makes it real. And if it’s a real thing that other people are aware of, I’ll have to deal with it.
Mara falls quiet at my side as I pass her another clean dish, which she dries and slides easily into the metal drying rack.
Maybe our sisterly bond has her easing back on the questions, or maybe she’s just a pre-teen who has lost interest in her sister’s sad little love life.
Either way, I’m grateful for the silence as we finish the dishes.
It gives me time to think about him.