Chapter 19
Molly
“You know, I’m starting to think you’re obsessed with this field. Or maybe this cow,” I tell Collin, who snorts as he leans on the fence.
The darkness stretching across the field in front of us is velvety, lit only by the glow of a half-moon poised just above the tree line and casting everything in a magical, silvery glow.
“I’m not obsessed with either one,” Collin says.
Well, I might be. At least with the cow.
It’s black and white, which seem like standard cow colors, but it’s not spotted.
Instead, it’s black in front and back with a broad white band circling its considerable girth.
Like an Oreo. Before the other day when Collin drove me out here, I’d never seen one like it.
The whole herd has the same coloring—a full sleeve of Oreo cows.
But this cow is pretty special because he’s social. The field is just … a field. One Collin keeps bringing me to for reasons I don’t quite understand.
After we left the restaurant, Collin asked if I wanted to go for a drive. Returning back to the loft after the moment we shared in the bathroom had me all kinds of nervous. It suddenly felt like way too much, so I happily agreed to put that off for a little bit.
I just didn’t expect to end up out here at this field. Again.
But as the cow—I’m assuming the same nosy one from the last time we were here—sticks its head through the fence demanding more pets, I’m not exactly complaining.
As long as he doesn’t lick me again. I’ve never really touched a cow before this week.
Certainly never scratched one behind the ears.
Its coat is slightly coarse, but it's basically acting like an oversized dog.
A few of its friends stand a little ways off, watching us but not coming any closer.
“If you can pause your cow-stroking for a minute, I need to spray you,” Collin says.
“Spray me?” When I turn, I see Collin holding up a bottle of insect repellent. “Trust me.”
I do. And I would even if I hadn’t found a few mosquito bites on my legs and arms after the last time we came out here.
I take a few big steps away from my cow friend, who pulls its head back through the fence in clear protest.
“Close your eyes,” Collin says, and it almost sounds sexy—until I do close my eyes, and he adds, “And your mouth,” then starts to spray me with the insect repellent, which immediately goes into my nostrils and makes me sneeze.
“Spin,” Collin says, then chuckles when I do exactly what he asked. “Not like a ballerina, darlin’. Just turn around so I can get your back.”
I knew what he meant and was honestly just trying to get a laugh out of him. Lighten his mood. Lift whatever burden he seems to be silently shouldering.
“I think you’re done,” he says. “Completely bug proof.”
I turn back to him, tasting the chemicals on my tongue despite doing my best to keep my mouth closed. “Your turn.” I hold out a hand for the can.
But Collin steps back and starts to spray himself. “This isn’t like sunscreen where you need a partner. See?” Holding the bottle up, he sprays downward, turning so a fine mist settles over his back and shoulders before he bends and gets his legs.
I cross my arms as he tosses the bug spray into the bed of his truck. “Then why didn’t you let me do it myself?”
Grinning, he says, “It was fun.” Before I can protest, he ducks back into the truck. “Give me a minute.”
I don’t know what he needs a minute for, but I could use one. Even when all I can taste or smell is bug spray—with the faint odor of cows in a field—I’m having a hard time taming the fluttery feelings not only in my belly but everywhere.
I am the living, breathing embodiment of that Colbie Caillat song, “Bubbly.” Though the bubbly feelings don’t start in my toes like in her lyrics. More like my stomach, then effervescing out in a fizzy cascade until no part of me is untouched.
The cow has returned and thrusts its head back through the fence, nudging my hand until I scratch the wide area below its eye. Its cheek, I guess?
“You’re pretty shameless, you know that?” It closes its eyes, making a sound that sounds like a very human sigh. I scratch harder, with both hands now. Tired of referring to it even in my head as an it, I lean down to see if I can determine if I’m talking to a he or she. Definitely a boy.
A bull, then? I like thinking of him just as a cow. Bull sounds so … bullish.
“So, what do you think?” I lower my voice, though I doubt Collin can hear me from where he is over at the truck, humming. “This fake dating thing is pretty dumb, yeah?”
The cow nudges my hand as though agreeing. Or just wanting me to scratch more vigorously.
“I mean, I actually like him. Which makes the faking part easier, I guess. Since I don’t need to pretend to feel things.
More like I’m pretending to feel things I’m actually feeling while pretending not to really feel them.
But it’s going to really suck when I feel like he likes me back, and it turns out he’s just faking. Unless he’s not?”
Jo’s words from earlier this week echo in my mind. It’s obvious you like each other.
I’m not surprised if everyone can tell how much I like Collin, but does he have feelings for me? If it’s obvious to a seven-year-old, how am I missing it?
“I mean, he did bring up kissing earlier tonight. And sure, he said it under the guise of pretending, but it must mean something. Right? Maybe we should just talk about it,” I tell my new cow bestie. “Collin and I are both adults.”
If I’m being totally honest, I don’t always feel like an adult.
Being so tightly under my dad’s control makes other people around me, even those close to my own age, somehow seem older or more mature.
Collin and his brothers and their significant others all seem to have their lives way more together for being a handful of years older than I am.
The first time I met her, Harper seemed like the most intimidatingly independent person ever.
Now, we’re really close, but I still kind of exist in awe.
Me? I’ve never had to handle things like my own insurance or rent or taxes.
While I didn’t appreciate my dad’s extreme micromanagement, I definitely benefited from some of the good parts.
Like having him change the oil in my car every time I came home from college or calling the bank for me when I had issues with my account.
So there were some perks to his overbearing nature. But I think he used all those things as ways to make me dependent on him. They lulled me into being a little bit lazy or just naive in terms of taking care of myself and grownup things. I’m still on the family phone plan, still on their insurance.
Those same perks also stunted my growth as a whole human. Or that’s how it feels now.
Or does everyone feel that way in their early twenties? Maybe all twentysomethings feel like they’re cosplaying as adults with no idea what they’re actually doing.
I’m obviously doing adult things. I mean, trying. I have a job. Several jobs, actually. No money yet, but I should get a good check in a little over a week now from social media. I have a place to stay and a car—though both are basically free gifts.
As much as I know relying on people’s generosity is different from relying on my dad, it’s similar enough that I know I need to get out on my own—and soon.
My deep thoughts have distracted me from my cow, who butts me with his broad head.
“Hey, watch it!”
“I think I’m ready,” Collin calls.
“Ready for what?”
But when I turn, my question evaporates.
Because Collin has spread a blanket out over the hood of his truck along with pillows he’s propped against the windshield.
There’s even a jarred candle on the roof of the truck, flickering in the light breeze.
It’s simple and romantic, like something out of a movie.
My heart speeds up and my mouth goes dry.
Collin sees me staring and shoves his hands in his pockets, looking suddenly bashful. “What?”
“You’ve got a whole setup,” I say. “With a candle and everything.”
“It’s citronella. For the mosquitoes.”
“Are the pillows and blanket also for the mosquitoes?”
Now, he grins. “Absolutely not. Need me to help hoist you up?”
“I think I can manage. But do you happen to have any hand sanitizer or a napkin? I have cow hands.”
Collin chuckles and leans into the driver’s side of the truck, pulling out a package of antibacterial wipes. “How’s this?”
“Perfect.” I wipe down my hands. When I’m done, Collin pulls what looks to be a little fabric trash bag from the truck. “Is that a denim trash bag?”
Collin holds it up, turning it so I can see a pocket from what looks like a pair of jeans.
His expression goes dreamy and soft. “Yup. My mom liked to sew. She made a bunch of these from jeans after we ripped through the knees too many times to patch. It was long before any of us were driving, but I guess she was planning ahead.” He pauses, and his expression turns from soft to sad.
“Tank gave them to us when we each got our license. Kind of like a delayed Sweet Sixteen present straight from Mom.”
Why I’m choking up about his dead mom, I’m not sure. But I am. There’s an unfamiliar ache behind my sternum, and I find myself pressing a hand there, like I can somehow push the feeling away.
“That’s really special,” I say, hoping he misses the catch in my voice.
But Collin says nothing as I ball up the wipes and drop them in the bag. It feels almost sacrilegious to do so, but I guess this is what his mom intended them for.
Collin puts it back inside the car, and then pats the hood, raising his eyebrows at me.
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Well, you said you didn’t need help getting up here. So, go on, git.”