15. Fifteen
Fifteen
Cassidy
I’ve never been more thankful for a position where responding to emails is not a necessary part of the job. If it were, the email would find me embarrassed, insecure, and confused.
For two weeks, I’ve shown up to work with a list of chores written on the board for me. Grady and Walton frequently work alongside me, and last week, Rosemary showed up to help teach lessons to the little ones.
As for Wesley Miller, the man has been a ghost.
I’m not sure how he can do all of the things he did—say what he said—and greet me with one singular head nod and zero fucks.
The worst part about the distance that has separated us is the embarrassment that washes over me whenever I think about it.
It’s like he has this other version of himself, and when that is what he’s showing me, I’m so confident that the man is feeling exactly what I’m feeling. I got so… bold.
I took a chance only to be met with distance again, and it drags up the old feelings I’d had when Chad cheated on me. Like I’m the last to know something everyone else saw from the beginning.
I squint my eyes closed. There’s a deep fear that what’s happening between us is pity. Wes feels pity toward me, and that’s the basis for all he’s done.
When I open my eyes again, silver clouds stretch out like a blanket, the smell of rain permeating the air. When I look out at the field, horses gallop back and forth, energized by the approaching storm.
Crows circle in the sky, and I fasten the snap on the gate to the main field.
I’m not sure what exact event pushed things too far. It could have been the fake engagement at Lennon’s party, or the way I clung to Wes unabashedly when we raced over the mud-soaked ground back on the trails.
Maybe it started even sooner than that, and I was just blind. It could have been my constant prattling—my incessant need to fill the silence when I’m around him.
All I know is that two weeks ago, I thought for certain I’d be kissing my boss, and now…
“Cassidy.”
I startle, turning toward the barn to find Wes leaning against the entrance, gripping a handsaw.
“You scared me,” I confess, my heart slowing from the shock of his voice saying my name.
He’s opted for a faded ball cap today. Another pair of those insufferable jeans hug his muscled thighs as he stares at me like I’ve done something wrong.
And I suppose I have.
I just can’t figure out what it is, but this might be the most he’s said to me all week.
“Yesterday’s rain has a lot of logs down on the trail,” he starts, shoving himself off the wall to walk closer. Instinctively, I take a step back, as if the very real distance can protect me from the sting of emotional distance he’s placed between us.
“It looks like it’s going to rain again,” I observe, the wind catching strands of my hair. The hair tie I brought snapped when I went to fix my ponytail at lunch, leaving me with a truly wild tangle of mane.
“Then we'd best get going,” he says. The golf cart sits parked by the barn, and Wes tosses the saw in the back along with some hedge trimmers and other tools. He plants himself in the driver’s seat, tapping the seat next to him to encourage me to join.
I look away, my brain desperately trying to think up some excuse as to why I can’t be alone with him.
Sorry, I can’t. I’m allergic to forests.
My apologies, but I can’t work back on the trails with you since I once thought about what you’d look like hovering over me and thrusting.
I need to get control of myself.
“Sure,” I say, wrapping my arms around my torso as I trudge to the golf cart.
When I sit down, I keep my eyes on the floor, seemingly fascinated by the mud caked on the bottom of my muck boots.
My cheeks flame when the golf cart jolts forward, and I’m forced to brace myself on the front bar.
“Careful,” Wes warns. “I really don’t want to do the paperwork for workers’ compensation.”
Normally, the joke would pull a laugh from me. Instead, I breathe out one harsh breath—it’s the only sign I thought his words were amusing.
The golf cart jostles side to side as we travel back into the treeline. It’s the same area we were in that night Wes took us out on four-wheelers, and my embarrassment increases with every memory.
I should give up on trying to figure out where I went wrong. It’s useless, and time to accept that my boss is not friendly, nor does he want to be friendly to me.
The golf cart stops, and Wes jumps out, grabbing the saw from the back. “Get those hedge trimmers. Some of this is thin enough that you could probably snap it with those. I’ll saw the bigger log, and we can drag stuff off to the side.”
I nod, working in silence as we work to clear the fallen tree from the muddy trail. Wes grunts with every thrust of the saw. Back and forth, until the tree splits with a loud crack.
He instructs me to grab one side of the log, and we work to move the smaller trunk off to the side. My hands hurt as I fight to maintain my grip, muscles screaming until I finally drop the thing off to the side.
“Half done with this one.” Wes smiles, but I don’t meet it. I simply walk to the other side and move the other half of the log to the other side of the trail as instructed.
The nagging feeling that I’ve done something extremely offensive returns, and I’m back to replaying every second of the past few months at Miller Run Farm.
Maybe it was the geese that first day I worked out here.
Wes had watched me out in the field. I can’t imagine that watching a girl chase off a goose only to fall in the mud would be very attractive.
Or maybe he never even found me attractive to begin with.
Or maybe the issue is that he does find me attractive, but I’ve failed when it comes to my work. If he wants to fire me, but he has feelings, it would explain the distance. It’s likely he wants to fire me and just doesn’t know how to.
When we get to an area with fallen sticks, we both work to clear them. Questions sit on the tip of my tongue, but I hold them back.
Once we make it to the large field behind the trails, one stray round bale still sitting closer to the edge, I watch as Wes picks up a few more sticks, muttering under his breath.
The band inside me stretches taut, and I can’t help it when it finally releases, snapping the way my words snap out of me. “Did I do something wrong?” I ask, standing squarely at the edge of the field.
Wes looks up, a number of sticks gripped in his large hand. “Did you?” he questions as the very beginnings of rain start to leak from the sky.
I wipe a stray droplet from my cheek. “Well,” I press, not sure how to continue. “Did I?”
Wes’s brows furrow. “I’m not understanding. Did you leave a gate open or something?”
I throw my hands up, heaving out a sigh of exasperation as I make one circle—an attempt to flee that turns into me spinning right back to face him. “Not that I know of! But you could tell me if I’m not living up to what you need in terms of this position.”
“You’re doing just fine, Cass. We like having you work here.”
My face twists, and I fight the urge to cry from frustration.
“Okay,” I say. “Then did I do something wrong with us?” I gesture between us.
“With this or whatever? Was it the fake fiancée thing?” I ask.
“If so, I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to cross any lines with you or be unprofessional.
” The words spill out of me, threatening to bring on those tears just as the sky releases a few droplets of her own.
“I love this job, Wes. I know I’ve said that before, and if I’ve done anything to jeopardize it, I would like you to tell me.
Things have been…weird.” I fold my arms across my chest, folding in on myself.
“I just… I don’t know.” I shake my head before letting out a frustrated sound.
“You’re just so hard to read sometimes.”
Wes drops the sticks. Slowly—so slowly—he steps closer, his gaze pinned to me. The intensity in his eyes makes me shift in the mud where I’m standing with the field behind me.
Wes is backed by the swaying trees, bending in the wake of the wind that now picks up.
He doesn’t say a word, just keeps moving forward until my emotions feel like the storm waiting to break above us.
“Are you going to answer me?” I challenge, just raindrops fall fat and slow, landing on the tan shirt that hangs loose on my body. “I feel so… unsettled,” I confess.
He steps close enough to crowd my space, forcing me to look up in honey-colored eyes—except with the storm, they look more like whiskey—intoxicating.
“Unsettled?” he questions, his expression severe.
I try not to shrink back—force myself to continue. “Yes,” I whisper. “I don’t understand what was happening between us, and the cold shoulder is making me more confused.”
Wes pulls in a long inhale, his eyes never leaving mine.
“I thought we were friends,” I say.
I thought we were more, I keep to myself
How stupid would that sound coming out of me at this point?
I don’t want to border on desperation—dancing on the line and doing my best to force someone to care about me the way they should. Chad never did, my parents haven't, this shouldn’t be any different.
I spent so much time unlearning all of the strategies I’d used to stay likable in my family. Those strategies carried over to my relationships, and ended with Chad cheating on me.
As for Wes, I’ve spent a lot of time getting to know him.
All of the conversations, the swimming in the pond, the way he planned an entire night for my friends and me, it feels an awful lot like we were barreling toward a relationship.
And if I am honest, I want that with him.
I like the way he tries to hide his laughter when I make a funny joke.
Sometimes it feels like I get more pieces of Wesley Miller than the rest of the world.
It’s like he’s saved the very best parts of himself for me.