Chapter Twenty-Six
Mila
“Where are we going?” I ask Everett as we walk along the well-trod dirt road.
“It’s a surprise.” He gives me a sideways grin that sets butterflies loose in my stomach.
Everything about him fills me with longing, from his mud-caked work boots to his worn-in jeans to the faded-gray Henley shirt that hugs his chest tightly enough to show off the bulging muscles underneath.
His nose is slightly sunburned, and his hair is damp, like he just got out of the shower. He is rugged, masculine perfection.
I, on the other hand, am a wreck.
I made an effort to rehydrate, de-puff, and put some color back into my cheeks, but I am definitely not my best self. I slip my hands inside my sleeves and bunch up the cuffs inside my fists.
“You cold?” he asks.
“No. Just trying to pull a disappearing act.”
“Why?”
I kick a small rock up the road. “Because I’m embarrassed about my behavior last night.”
“I told you, I didn’t mind.” He nudges me with his elbow. “I thought it was funny.”
“It wasn’t funny, Everett. It was mortifying. For God’s sake, I asked you to plow my fields.”
He laughs. “You did. I was flattered. And also tempted.”
“I can’t imagine why.” I catch up to my rock and kick it again.
“You know why.” He pauses. “And I hope you know why I resisted that temptation.”
“Because I was too sloppy drunk?”
“You were more adorable than sloppy, and it was nice to see you having fun. But consent is important, and I didn’t think you were capable of giving it in that condition. You didn’t sound like yourself.”
“Yeah. Sorry about the mixed messages. My wires got a little crossed.”
“It’s okay.” We come to a fork in the road, and he slips his hand inside my arm, pulling me to the left. “This way.”
Forced to abandon my rock, I let him lead me.
“How’s your mom doing?”
“Physically, she’s improving. But she’s driving me insane. I promised myself I wasn’t going to let her get to me, but no matter how hard I try, she fucking gets to me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry.” Exhaling sharply, I shake my head. “I feel like I’m always unloading my bullshit on you.”
“I don’t mind. Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really,” I say, unable to quell that conflicting urge to protect my mom. Or maybe it’s myself I’m protecting. There’s something shameful about the way I let her talk to me. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t seem to find the backbone to stand up to her.
I think about the conversation I overheard this morning. Those orchids in the basement. All the ways she makes me feel like I’m a disappointment to her. To myself.
Something is wrong with that girl.
My head hurts. The need to break down gathers in my chest like storm clouds, heavy and thick. I try everything to hold it in—box breathing, sensory grounding, counting backward from 100 by sevens—but I can’t.
Stopping in the middle of the road, I start to cry.
Everett says nothing, but he turns me into his arms and lets me sob against his chest, his hand moving up and down on my back.
“God, I’m sorry.” I use my sleeve to mop up my face. “I did not intend to fall apart in front of you.”
“Hey.” He puts two fingers under my chin and lifts my face. “You can fall apart in front of me whenever you need to. You never have to pretend to be somebody else, or act okay when you’re not.”
I meet his warm brown eyes and manage a smile. “Thanks.”
“I mean it. I don’t want the pretzel Mila. I want the real thing.” He tilts his head like he’s thinking hard. “Although Fireball Mila might be fun under the right circumstances.”
I laugh, but it turns into a groan. “That’s twice now I’ve tried and failed to put the moves on you.”
“You know what they say. Third time’s the charm.”
My mouth twitches, and I turn away.
We continue walking, and I take deep breaths, savoring the earthy smell of the sunbaked dirt, dried grasses, and wildflowers.
My artist’s eye can’t resist trying to imagine how I’d capture the leafy kaleidoscope of autumnal color.
At this hour, the light is soft and golden, as if everything is dripping with honey.
Neat rows of cherry trees stretch out over gently rolling hills, their fruit long gone except for a few remaining pieces that glimmer like rubies in the sun.
“God, it’s beautiful here.” I stop to admire the view. “I wish I could draw it.”
“Why don’t you?”
I laugh. “With what, a stick in the dirt?”
“Come back with your sketch pad sometime. You’ve got an open invitation.” He takes my hand and squeezes it. “This way.”
“I’m never leaving,” I announce. “I hope you know that.”
From somewhere close by, Everett laughs.
I can’t see exactly where he is because I’m lying on my back in the gambrel-roofed barn with my eyes closed, cuddling the baby goat draped across my chest. All around me, more of them jump and play and bleat.
It smells like fresh hay and sun-warmed pine, and the wide double doors are open to the September breeze.
“What’s this one’s name?” I ask.
“I’m not sure. My mom tends to name them after sitcom characters, so that could be Johnny, Moira, David, Alexis, or any of the Golden Girls. She likes the really old classics, too, so it could be Mork or Mindy, Lucy or Ethel, or maybe even Arthur Fonzarelli.”
I giggle. “Let’s call him Fonzie.”
Another goat walks over my legs, and uncomplicated joy flows through me. “You know, I had no idea playing with goats would make me so happy. What is it about them?”
“I don’t know, but my cousin teaches goat yoga in here, and apparently, it’s very popular.”
“Is that why I smell essential oils?” I sniff again, catching hints of lavender and maybe eucalyptus.
“Probably.”
Fonzie ambles off me, and I open my eyes, propping myself up on my elbows.
Everett is sitting on the clean-swept cement floor a few feet away, leaning back on his hands, legs outstretched and crossed at the ankle.
Several baby goats are hopping on and off his lap or over his calves.
One puts two hooves on his chest, like she wants to slow dance.
I grin. “I think she likes you.”
“Told you I was good with animals.” He pets the goat on his lap, nuzzling it behind the ears.
“You’re good with everybody.” Watching him be sweet to a baby goat is doing things to my insides. “Especially me.”
“I like you.” He sends me a dark-eyed scowl. “Even if you did call me ‘Snuggle Bear’ in public.”
My head falls back as I laugh. “I’m sorry. I think I was trying to communicate that your body is big and hard, but also warm and inviting, and I wanted to be close to it.”
The goat moves off his lap, and he leans back on his hands again. “Do you still want to be close to it?”
Our eyes meet, and something electric passes between us. The air is still and hot. “Yes.”
“So come here.”
“What?” My heart jumps into my throat.
“You heard me.”
I wait for him to smile, to tease me or make a joke, but he doesn’t. Barely aware of making the decision to do it, I get on my hands and knees and crawl toward him. At his side, I hesitate, sitting back on my heels.
“Closer,” he says.
Desire flows through my veins like molten lava as I climb onto his lap, straddling his hips.
I unzip my sweatshirt and peel it off, revealing a tight white tank top, which I’m wearing without a bra—one of the few benefits of having smaller breasts.
Everett’s eyes immediately drop to my chest, thirstily drinking in the way my nipples poke through the thin, ribbed cotton.
“Is this good?” I ask.
“You tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“How close you want to be.”
“Close enough to experience your rough edges.”
That makes him laugh, but there’s a growl beneath it. “Sweetheart, my rough edges would already have your back against that wall while I fucked you like an animal.”
I gasp. “Really?”
“Really.” He brings one hand to the back of my neck, gripping it hard. “You have no idea how rough I want to get with you.”
“What’s stopping you?”
He hesitates, stroking the hollow at the base of my throat with his thumb. “I promised myself I’d be careful.”
I lean closer to him, putting my hands on his chest, my lips at his ear. “What if I don’t want you to be careful?” I whisper as his cock thickens beneath me. “What if I want my back against that wall?”
“I’d worry you were doing it for me.”
I freeze. “Why?”
“I guess because of everything you’ve told me. About how you like to please people. How you prioritize what others want and not what you want.”
Anger burns under my skin. He’s throwing my words back at me, treating me like I can’t take care of myself, like I don’t know what I want. It’s embarrassing and patronizing, and it deflates my sexual confidence like a popped balloon.
I jump to my feet. “Then just forget it.”
“Fuck.” Everett stands up and adjusts the crotch of his jeans. “Mila. Don’t be upset. I—”
“I can’t help it! You said you liked me. You told me to be myself around you. You said the third time’s the charm and invited me to sit on your lap, and I crawled over to you in this goat barn, and then you made me feel bad about it!”
Behind me, a goat bleats noisily.
“Exactly!” I shout in its direction.
Furious with Everett and with myself, I storm out of the barn.