Chapter 3
Chapter Three
HATTIE
My voice sounds thick and childish, but I don’t care. Maybe he’s staring because I have snot coming out of my nose again.
I don’t care about that either.
But then I swipe a knuckle under my nose because, okay, maybe I do care.
He’s staring, which even I know is rude, but the dirty farm boy holding a giant crate of dirty sweet potatoes is… interesting.
To look at.
His eyebrows are sun-bleached. I notice this when they climb higher on his face.
“I—I—you’re right. I know better.” Farm Boy performs a power squat as he sets down the crate, the move making his faded, dusty jeans squeeze against his thighs in a way that has me blinking and forcing my gaze to his truck.
Because nobody likes a hypocrite.
The side of the truck says, “Olivier Family Farms, Carencro, LA. Proud Members of the Louisiana Sweet Potato Commission.” Below the words is a design, a little cluster of sweet potatoes with the center one halved in two.
I swallow the thickness in my throat because the color of that sweet potato is one of my favorite shades of orange. Rich. Earthy.
Honestly, it’s hard to look at any shade of orange and not feel a little more cheerful. Sherbert. Tangerine. Pumpkin. Marigold.
Orange is the happiest color, am I right?
But then I remember that Margaret is moving away, and she might as well be taking every shade of orange with her.
Another battery of sobs hits, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
She’s kept this from me. Margaret. The one person I can tell anything. And everyone else knew but me.
Even Grandma Eloise.
And what the hell was that about Mom and Dad looking into group homes?
Margaret and Merrick are leaving and Mom and Dad want to send me away?
The betrayal is like a seam-ripper slicing me from navel to neck.
I lean back against the restaurant’s brick wall, not caring that it crushes the tulle against my skin like steel wool. The fabric catches on brick and mortar, rubbing me raw as I sink to the ground. My ass is about to hit cement, but I don’t think I can stand anymore.
“Easy… easy.” Rough hands grip my upper arms, halting my descent.
My eyes snap open and I stiffen.
He immediately lets go, throwing up his hands. “Sorry… Sorry… But you don’t want to sit down in an alley.” Then he points a thumb toward his truck. “My truck’s dirty, but it’s clean dirt.”
Watery-eyed, I stare at the open tailgate and register that is, in fact, quite dirty when it hits me that he’s offering me a seat.
“May I?”
I look back at him. He’s holding out his hands like he’s carrying an invisible blanket.
I sniffle, tears still spilling. “May you what?”
He tilts his head to the side, something in his expression softening in a way that’s also… interesting. “Give you a boost?”
The thought is so ridiculous, I snort. “You couldn’t pick me u—"
The words aren’t before he unceremoniously clamps his hands at my waist and lifts me onto the tailgate.
Like I weigh no more than a cotton ball.
I blink at Farm Boy, the shock of being airlifted onto a truck tailgate sending my sobs into hiccups.
The last three minutes have been the most confusing of my life. Margaret is leaving. Mom and Dad might want to send me away. I’m in a restaurant’s back alley, sitting in the back of a sweet potato truck, staring hypocritically at a Farm Boy.
I blame brain-overload for the question I croak.
“W-why… did you…?”
A gentle smile reaches his eyes, which are amber.
Amber.
Amber is not orange, but it’s the closest human eyes can get.
Despite being a distant cousin to orange, his amber eyes are not cheerful. They look sort of sad.
“My truck may need a wash, but no one’s taken a piss in it. Can’t say the same for this alley.” He wrinkles his nose, which is just a little sunburned but otherwise flawless. Not too long. Not too skinny.
I don’t like long, skinny noses.
Grandma Eloise has a long, skinny nose.
I have met few kind, patient people with long, skinny noses.
I swallow. “Th-thank you.” The words are still thick. Still shaky. I want to stop crying, but my eyes and my lungs and my heart haven’t quite gotten the memo.
Farm Boy shakes his head. “I wasn’t about to let your day get any worse.” He tilts his head. “Though your dress might still be ruined.”
“That’s okay. I hate this dress.”
His amber eyes flash, and I think he’s trying not to smile. “You… hate your dress?”
I swipe at the tears which are in the way of me taking in all his colors. And there are a lot besides his sunburned nose, his sun-bleached brows, and the not-orange-but-amber of his eyes.
Whereas my hair is technically a chestnut brown that is made up of a lot of different browns, his hair is blond but made up of so many different blonds. Golden. Straw. Flaxen. Birchwood. Maybe more, but I don’t have time to count.
And his skin is a walnut bronze.
Except for the sunburn on his nose.
And maybe a touch of it on his cheeks.
“You must get plenty of Vitamin D.” Then I glance around at the truck full of sacks and crates of sweet potatoes. “And Vitamin A and Beta Carotene, too.”
When I face him again, I have to catalog another color because he’s smiling wide, and his teeth are a brilliant white.
“Do sweet potatoes have a lot of calcium?” I ask, not even bothering to look away from his teeth, so I have an excellent view when he bites down on the inside of his cheek, and I hear a low chuckle.
“Not especially.”
“Hmm.” I hum over the mystery of his radiant teeth and then sniffle. “Ah, fuck, I can’t stop crying.”
He winces a little. “Yeah, but it’s okay.” And the way he says it, unhurried and easy, I really believe him.
Which is weird. Because other than Margaret, and now Merrick, most people get a little freaked out when I cry.
Because I cry when I’m happy. I cry when I’m mad. I cry when I’m sad. It makes Dad uncomfortable. It makes Mom fretful. It mortifies Grandma Eloise, and even I run out of patience with my crying jags sometimes.
It’s just that when I’m done crying, I. Feel. So. Much. Better!
Yeah, it’s a snotty pain in the ass while it’s happening, but when it’s over, I feel dewy and loose and limp. It's like a spa day, only better because it doesn’t involve strangers touching me.
Except today.
Because Farm Boy is definitely a stranger and he definitely touched me.
Though, I have to admit, I don’t exactly mind.
I think about how I want to tell Margaret about this, but then my chest quakes all over again. Fresh tears gush, and my nose runs. I clap a hand over it.
“Y-you wouldn’t—” I gulp. “H-happen to have… a… a Kleenex, would you?”
Farm Boy pats his front pockets. Then his back ones before he pulls out a faded red, paisley bandana. Like a cowboy.
And it's absolutely filthy.
“Oh, fuck me,” he mutters, stuffing the thing back into his pocket. “Stay right there.”
I watch the backside of those faded jeans—with the tail of a dirty cowboy bandana peeking out of one back pocket—as it disappears into the restaurant’s kitchen.
He’s gone only long enough for me to blink and look down at my legs dangling off the edge of the tailgate and wonder why this weird situation doesn’t feel weird.
I mean, it does. But not the weird that’s uncomfortable. More like…
The weird of stepping onto a travelator in a big airport. The tug of momentum under your feet. The sponginess in each step. The zoom.
Farm Boy comes back, holding out one of the restaurant’s black polyester napkins. And, yeah, it’s polyester, but any port in a storm.
I take it and do my best to mop up my face. My eyes are still streaming, and honestly, I don’t know if they’ll ever stop. I’ve never gone more than a few weeks without seeing Margaret. Not even when she was at LSU.
But Denver?
Another wave of sobs crashes over me.
Farm Boy raises his hand, and I think he’s going to touch my shoulder, but he stops a few inches from me before reaching behind him and gripping the back of his neck instead. Muscles and tendons move in a riveting choreography beneath the skin of his arm.
“I’d… I’d ask if you’re okay, but it’s clear you’re not,” he says, his voice a kind of soft that is also rough. But not rough like tulle on my skin. Rough like tweed. Sturdy. Protective.
I sniffle in appreciation. “I’m glad you didn’t. I don’t understand why people ask questions when they already know the answers.”
The corner of his mouth tilts up for just a second before he flattens it. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
I clear my throat. “See. That is a good question. Because you don’t know the answer, and neither do I.”
His smile is like a geyser shooting up from nothing but drenching everything in sight. Despite the steady stream of my tears, my face does its own thing, and I smile back.
Farm Boy sucks in a swift breath, his big chest rising.
It makes me realize how close he is. His body is just a few inches from mine.
When I stand this close to people, sometimes Mom, Dad, Grandma Eloise, or even Margaret will put a hand on my elbow and nudge me back, reminding me that people need their space.
Maybe Farm Boy’s family does that to him. Except, no one else is here. And, suddenly, that thought makes my smile grow even wider.
“That’s—” Farm Boy snaps his mouth shut and swallows. The movement pulls my gaze to his walnut bronze throat. The muscles in his neck stand out like bamboo stalks as his Adam’s apple bobs, and I think I could stare at the way his throat works like I stare at my bobbin winder.
But then it hits me that I am staring, and my gaze snaps back to his.
“Huh? What were you saying?” I ask, worried I’ve zoned out.
He presses his lips together, and I can tell he’s choosing his words.
“I’m terrible at that,” I announce.
Farm Boy blinks. “Terrible at what?”
“Choosing my words.”
His lips part and he hesitates, again, doing the thing I always fail to do. “You mean you just say what’s on your mind?”