Chapter Fifteen
Madison
“George? How is your grandfather these days?”
“What do you mean?”
We sit in side-by-side rockers on the front porch, the sound of the summer insects surrounding us with a nighttime song.
“Jenny told me the whole town is praying for him.” I suddenly stiffen, unsure if I should’ve said that out loud. What if George doesn’t know Ralph is sick?
“I mean, you live in such a small town; I guess everybody prays for everyone, right?”
George is quiet for a beat. In a feather-soft voice, he murmurs, “I know he’s dying. He told me.”
I reach for his hand. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
We rock in silence for several seconds, holding hands. George suddenly turns to face me with purpose, his handsome expression indicating seriousness.
“Have you ever wondered why bad things in life jump out at us more than the good things?”
I think for a moment. “No. Why do you think that is?”
“Because there are so many good things, so many that we stop noticing them all. They’re everywhere. They’re like… white noise. I mean, listen.”
I hold my breath and strain to hear what George is talking about, trying to understand what he means. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Yes, you do. The cicadas. They’re singing. And look up at the sky where the stars are starting to appear. I could spend my whole night looking at the stars.” His blue eyes are bright with hope as he stares into the heavens.
“The air around us is moving because the ceiling fan gives off a nice breeze. The grass out there next to the barn is green. The flowers in the fields are colorful. If you think about it, every inch of Jamison Farm is beautiful. There are far too many good things around here for us to count. But we just have to take the time to look—”
“—instead of focusing on the bad,” I interrupt, finally understanding. I squeeze his hand, and he smiles at me.
“Madison, I try not to think about my grandfather’s condition. But I know I need to. I mean, what’s going to happen when he gets sicker? What’s gonna happen when he’s gone? I know I can’t run this farm by myself.”
“Isn’t there someone in the business you can trust? Someone you can count on to help you when it’s time?”
Unfortunately, Kip Johnson immediately comes to mind. I don’t say anything and keep my impending anger at bay.
George pulls his hand from mine, and I know I’ve probably pushed him too hard.
“I’m sorry.”
“No. It’s okay.” He’s deep in thought for several minutes before he finally speaks again, his voice barely a whisper.
“Do you want to know why I hate April Fools' Day with a passion?”
I frown. Poor George’s mind must be in overdrive with a million thoughts ping-ponging back and forth. But I’m glad he continues talking, even if he keeps changing the subject.
“Why do you hate April Fools' Day?”
“Because it takes me back to when certain people took advantage of my innocence and then made fun of me after I trusted them. I tend to believe people when they tell me things, even if they aren’t the truth, which has caused lots of problems throughout my life.
As an adult, I try to watch out for it while still giving people the benefit of the doubt. ”
“How horrible for you.”
“It’s okay. I’ve lived through it. And now, I still try not to think the worst of people.
It’s helped that I can rely on my grandfather to help me understand the intentions of others when possible.
The hardest part is when I think I understand those intentions when I really don’t. Does that make any sense?”
“Yes, it does.”
“It’s taught me to focus on my strengths and do things that are easy for me but more difficult for others.”
“Such as?”
“Well, I’m good at growing things or fixing machinery or appliances. I don’t know why I have this gift. But it’s come in handy the older I’ve become.”
“That’s a good thing, George,” I reassure.
He nods. “But there is a downside to it. I can get incredibly anxious if I don’t feel like I’m being useful, and I worry that no one will want me around anymore.”
“That’s ridiculous. Of course you’re wanted.”
“But I can’t run an entire farm by myself. I’m terrible with money. I wouldn’t know the first thing about paying all the day laborers and the bills, or planning a budget.” His words are laced with worry.
“Hasn’t your grandfather tried to teach you these things?”
“Yes. At first, he was hopeful. But then I think he realized the business part of farming was too much for me to handle. He told me my expertise was needed in other more important places on the farm.”
“Like the lavender,” I interject with a smile. “I heard that you and you alone are responsible for the huge bump in profits because of your knowledge of how to grow and harvest the lavender and flowers.”
“I guess so.”
“George, I know so. What you’ve done is incredible.”
“Yeah, but it’s just that—” He stops mid-sentence.
“What?”
He looks over at me, his blue-eyed, worried expression causing my heart to quicken in my chest.
“Here’s the thing. After spending my youth feeling like I was crazy or weird, we found a doctor who explained how my brain works differently from most people.
He told me I was okay and my autism was perfectly natural.
After that, I could suddenly breathe again.
Instead of wasting my time trying to fix myself or act more like the others, I was able to embrace who I truly was.
Since then, I’ve relied on my strengths, and it’s worked for the most part. But…”
“But, what?”
“But I still know I’m not equipped to run this farm by myself. I know this to my core.”
“George, don’t sell yourself short.”
“I’m not.” He stands and paces, his angst coming out in a slew of heart-wrenching words.
“Even as an adult, I’m still bullied, talked down to, and talked into things.
And the worst part is, I don’t realize it’s happening until it’s too late.
Normal people are puzzled by me. Just ask some of the tourists who stop by the produce stand.
Most folks can’t figure out autistic people like me.
People get confused and sometimes afraid. ”
“Afraid of you?” I ask, overwhelmed by what he’s saying. “Why would anyone be afraid of you?”
“I don’t show my emotions the same way that neurotypical people do.
I could be falling apart on the inside and look totally fine on the outside.
I smile too much. I’m not good at reading emotional cues.
I’m obsessed with sameness and my routines.
When I was younger, I’d have meltdowns, which were misinterpreted as temper tantrums. And I’ve had classmates who thought I was strange because I brought the same thing for lunch every single day of high school, the same thing I now eat as an adult every Saturday at noon. ”
“There’s nothing wrong with loving peanut butter and strawberry jam.” I stand and offer him an empathetic smile.
George stops pacing and runs his hands through his dark hair, messing it up. “My grandfather has done his best to protect me my entire life.”
“Of course he has. He loves you.”
“I know.” His voice cracks. “But what he doesn’t know is how isolating it can be to live your life in a community of people who will never understand you like he does. And when he’s gone, I’ll have no one.”
I scroll his moonlit features and try to come up with something to say. But I can’t find the right words. I quickly realize I don’t need words.
Coming up to him, I meld my body against his in a hug and hold him tight. His quiet sniffling annihilates my spirit, and I dig deep to keep it together. I’m pulling for him. Rooting for him while knowing he’s up against a huge wall.
“I want to help you,” I whisper into his ear.
George stiffens in my embrace, his voice cracking. “How?”
“I don’t know yet. But we’ll figure something out.”
I want to bottle up this moment in his arms, the sounds of the summer evening settling around us. Porch boards creaking underneath my bare feet and wind chimes tinkling in the corner.
The good things.
I’d been so close to kissing George all night.
Outside by the grill, while he cooked kabobs wearing a frilly apron that once belonged to his grandmother.
At the dining room table, when his hand brushed against mine reaching for his fork.
In the kitchen, with my hips an inch away from his, laughter filling the air as stray ice cubes skated across the kitchen floor after falling from the hand-cranked ice cream maker.
But I’d held back, knowing Ralph was always nearby, confounded by my attraction to George in such a short amount of time.
And now, pressed against him in the serious moonlight, it feels nice, his skin warm and his staggered breath gentle against my ear. From the moment I first met George at the produce stand, I felt a strange pull toward him.
I like spending time with the gentle farmer, and I’m happy when he shares bits of himself I know he hides from the others.
His routines and his obsession with order and sameness are not weird but heartwarming.
And so is his loyalty to his grandfather and his quiet solitude on the big farm that often overwhelms him.
George steps back from me, his fingers tenderly sliding across my cheeks and into my hair. His deep, muddled blue eyes fixate on mine, and blood roars in my ears, knowing what is about to happen.
Our eyes lock, and the roaring intensifies, the heat beneath his hands sending a spark curling through my stomach. He blinks, eyes shining with tears but smiling. I watch him lick his bottom lip, his eyes scrolling my face and the tangle of my hair hanging over my shoulders.
George backs me into the porch post, caging me in with his arms. And then he devours my mouth with a searing-hot kiss that sets fire to every cell in my body.
His tongue sweeps between my lips, nipping and kissing. I run my hands down his strong, muscular back. He groans and crushes his mouth against mine over and over again, the kiss so passionate, so unexpected, I think I might pass out.
His voice startles me, deep and sexy against my ear, like it’s coated with warm whiskey. “Was that okay?”
I take a breath, my lips lingering with the sweet taste of vanilla. The verdant scent of this man defies all description. “Yes.”
“Just so you know, being different doesn’t mean I’m broken.”
“I know.”
He smiles with relief. “Mmmm… Madison.” My name falls from his lips like a reverent prayer before he kisses me again, long and hard and deep, his tongue thrusting into my mouth. Fingers threading through my hair.
Contrary to what George had just told me, earlier Ralph had pulled me aside and explained there was no hiding George’s happiness. Or disguising his sadness. He said if George liked you, then he just liked you. He had no other agenda.
But I know to my core, Ralph was wrong. George definitely has his own agenda. And right now, the handsome farmer has clarity about what he wants.
George Jamison wants me.
And he’s making it his mission to kiss me like I’ve never been kissed before.