Chapter Three
Aster
When Harlow drove off, it was awkward with a capital ‘A’. Every time I’d visited the Cooper farmhouse in the past, it was to hang with her. But Mickey would often be there too.
It didn't help that he was looking and acting extremely boyfriend coded. From his soft looking plaid shirt to making me hot cocoa by warming the milk on the stove? My heart was fluttering.
I couldn’t let it.
I wasn’t here to seduce Mickey or start anything. I was crashing at a friend’s house. That’s all.
I hadn’t attempted to seriously date anyone since I transitioned. It was all too complicated. I didn’t ‘pass’ for cis, and wouldn’t even when I got top surgery. I still wasn’t sure what I wanted to do about bottom surgery.
I would never be the kind of trans guy who could pass as cis, and I wasn’t interested in that at all. I liked the softness to my face, I wanted to be the kind of guy who was in touch with his feminine side.
I was a gender explosion which bordered on deep confusion, and that was a weird thing to put on your dating profile.
I’d had guys interested in me, but they’d turned out to be drag-and-trans chasers who only saw my body as a fetish.
I wasn’t interested in that.
What I was interested in —
I stopped myself.
had to do was put away my foolish, ancient crush on Mickey and get on with the day.
After a pleasant afternoon of walking the farm with Mickey, meeting the alpacas and unpacking my room, I settled down at the picnic table with my laptop and notebook and looked out over the fields.
Instant anxiety.
I took a deep breath, relishing the fresh air and faint scent of alpacas.
Maybe I should journal?
I picked up my pen.
I didn’t particularly subscribe to the idea of ‘morning pages’ but I did like to free-write and get what was in my head out onto paper.
Serenity slowly crept up on me. It wasn’t necessarily productive work in the sense of getting something I could publish, but it felt good.
I wrote about my feelings for Mickey. I wrote about my relationship with Harlow and the rocky patches we’d had.
Then a poem came to me about the summer sky and the profound quiet. The farm was far enough back from the highway that I didn’t hear traffic sounds unless a really big truck went past, or a freight train.
My shoulders relaxed.
I guess they’d been tense before, I hadn’t really noticed?
I leaned into the sunshine and slowly, the knot of anxiety in my stomach unwound.
Maybe, just maybe, my muse could find me out here?
When it got too hot outside, I packed up my things and headed back into the farmhouse. Something smelled delicious.
I made my way to the kitchen.
Mickey stood at the stove, frying chicken. He looked over at me.“Hey. Have any luck writing?”
“Kinda, yeah,” I said. “It’s so peaceful out here. I managed to get something down.”
“Cool. I’ve done green salad and fried chicken, and potatoes are boiling to mash. Sound good?”
“It sounds divine, thank you. I can cook tomorrow, maybe?”
Mickey shrugged. “I’m used to cooking all the time, but sure. If you want to.”
Not a huge vote of confidence but I had to do something to kinda pay my way in terms of staying. I started planning what I’d cook in my head.
We had beers with dinner, sitting out at the picnic table again. I looked around, imagining how much fun little Scrooge the kitten would have out here. He loved chicken, that was probably what made him pop into my mind.
He was happy at the apartment in town, but out here he could really stretch his legs. I remembered the Coopers having a pretty brown tabby when I was younger, but I hadn’t seen a cat bowl out anywhere.
“You got a cat at the moment?” I asked, as I picked up another piece of chicken. It was really good, well-easoned with a kick that had me salivating.
Mickey shook his head. “I was thinking about getting one. Maybe see if the Hayes has any kittens.”
“I’ve got a kitten. I can’t remember if I told you that. Well, he’s full grown now and I guess... he’s really Tane and Dillon’s cat, they’re pretty devoted to him. I found him last Christmas so we called him Scrooge.”
Mickey chuckled. “Good Disney name there. He’d fit right in.”
It was like he’d read my mind about bringing my kitten over. But that couldn’t happen, not unless for some reason, I stayed here long term. I didn’t want to give the cat a farm holiday and then return him to the small apartment. “He’d love all this space. He might bully the alpacas though.”
“Aaah, I don’t know about that, my herd is pretty chill. They might adopt him as one of their own.”
I looked out at the field. Most of the alpacas were grazing some way off. The sight of them was soothing, so familiar even though tmany of them would be a new generation from the alpacas I’d known as a kid.
After dinner I did the dishes.
“Need a hand?” Mickey hesitated at the kitchen door.
“No, I’ve got this.” I flapped a rubber-gloved hand at him. “You cooked, I clean.”
“I’d have done that anyway, though...” Mickey relented. “Okay, I’ll go and settle the alpacas for the night.”
“You need a hand?” I bit my lip at the audacity of offering when I’d just told him I didn’t need help.
Mickey shook his head, a sparkle in his eyes that told me he got the irony. “It’s not exactly a hard job in summer. They just need access to the barn and plenty of water.”
Once he’d done that, and I’d put away the last of the dishes, we watched Some Like It Hot, Mickey fidgeting beside me.
Usually, I’d spend the evening playing on my phone, but there wasn’t much cell survice on the farm and I didn’t want to clog up the wifi.
So I laced my fingers together and concentrated on the movie. I watched the way Marilyn Monroe moved and thought of my drag queen friends back in Sacramento.
I definitely didn’t think about the man on the sofa beside me.
The bed in the spare room was way more comfortable than I expected.
Mickey must have replaced the mattress recently.
The sheets were clean and smelled of sunshine.
In true farmhouse fashion, a quilt was laid over the bed.
A tag sewn onto the back marked it as Grandma Cooper’s work.
Harlow and Mickey’s grandmother was a lovely woman.
She’d moved in after their parents had died but returned back to her retirement village in Florida when they were back on their feet.
She’d had some kind of disease she didn’t want them to know about, dying less than a year after the accident.
I opened the window to the night air, letting it cool the room.
I changed into my pajamas, stripping off my shirt first and struggling out of my chest binder.
My chest had never been large, and with the testosterone my breasts were sort of deflating, but going without a binder felt all sorts of wrong.
I couldn’t wait until I got top surgery.
I needed to save up a lot more money, though.
I flicked the light off and relaxed back on the pillows.
Poor Mickey.
He’d lost so much, and now Harlow was looking to move away as well...
It was so dark.
No street lights, no traffic noise...just the far-off hooting of an owl and the hum of the crickets...
I woke up with a bright strip of moonlight across my face.
That was the downside to leaving the windows open, the curtains blew open too. Sighing, I got up to close the window. Before I did, I took a moment to look out at the view.
The moonlight illuminated the trees of pine forest to the south. I knew the reptile rescue and artists retreat buildings were nearby, although no one had any lights on, so I could barely make out anything.
I could write about the artist’s retreat maybe? A journalistic piece about a small-town creative hub and the men responsible for it... Maybe a newspaper or journal would be interested in that?
My eye was drawn by movement. Probably alpacas.
I turned my head and gasped. A person walked down the lane on the mountain side of the field. Right by the fence.
What could someone be doing out this late at night? It had to be three in the morning...
I swallowed, narrowing my eyes to peer at the figure. It wasn’t Mickey, not tall enough to be him. Some stranger, or a neighbour out for a witching hour walk?
The way the figure moved wasn’t relaxed or at ease. They looked furtive. Up to no good.
I had to do something, but I didn’t feel comfortable running out there on my own.
I padded down the hallway to Mickey’s room — his parents’ old bedroom— and knocked on the door.
“Mickey?” I pushed the door open. Tthere was no way whoever was outside could hear me, but I still spoke in a hushed tone. “Mickey, wake up.”
The lump on the bed groaned and turned over. “Huh?”
“Mickey? There’s someone outside.”
That got his attention. He sat up and reached for the light.
“No lights. We don’t want them to know we’re awake.”
Mickey slipped out of bed. It turned out he slept in his boxers. Only his boxers.
My night vision was good and I averted my eyes to the soft roundness to his belly and the generous down of hair on his broad chest.
Mickey pulled on,a hoodie, and stood. “What did you see?”
“There’s a person, a man maybe? By the fence, heading to...” What were directions? “Towards the north? Away from the house.”
Mickey nodded. I stepped aside and he padded down the stairs and outside. I followed, feeling stupid and powerless, frightened by the idea of someone lurking outside.
By the door, Mickey picked up something long and thin. It wasn’t a gun. I wasn’t sure if he had a gun, but this was something he could use as a weapon.
I lingered at the door, watching like a worried farmhouse twink.
Mickey, apparently, had no fear.
He stamped up the lane and I heard him calling out. “Hey, anyone out here? Anyone lost? This is private property.”
I didn’t hear any response. I shifted from foot to foot. Should I follow him? I couldn’t make myself leave the step.
Mickey had gone over the hill and out of sight.
My heart wouldn’t stop thundering.