Chapter 3 #2
I nod, but my face heats. Because speaking my mind usually gets me into trouble, and I don’t want him to know that.
How I embarrass my family when I blurt out things.
How I got detention in tenth grade for telling Mrs. Bailey, my civics teacher, that she should try apple cider vinegar for her halitosis.
How pinched Grandma Eloise’s mouth got that time I noted that she had two new liver spots on her right hand.
One of his sun-bleached brows arches, and I realize I was wrong.
He isn’t just interesting.
He’s beautiful.
But not like the field of poppies my family and I saw in Antelope Valley on our trip to California.
More like the sequoia forest in Kings Canyon. Where you stand at the base of one of the giant redwoods, and you have to hold onto something as you tip your head back to see it all. Because you can’t believe something so big and breathtaking isn’t just the stuff of legends.
“Have you ever been to the Sierra Nevadas?” I could tell him that he has the legendary beauty of a sequoia, but it might not resonate without context.
Farm Boy laughs. It is better than the whole Aurifil catalog. Better than the porch at the beach house. Better than brunch.
“I’ve been as far east as Disney World and as far west as San Antonio.”
“How far north?” I must know this now.
“Hot Springs.”
“And south?”
His grin pulls to the side. “Also Disney World.”
“I’ve traveled a lot more than you have.”
He shrugs. “That’s not hard to do.”
A jolt shoots through me. “I’m not crying anymore!”
He laughs again, his face shining, and it feels like a hot air balloon festival in my chest.
“No, you sure aren’t.”
I bite my lips and test out my heart.
Margaret is moving to Denver.
But I’ve traveled further than Denver.
Hell, I’ve traveled through Denver to Telluride three times.
I can visit her.
Not whenever I want. That’s true.
But I can text, call, and FaceTime. Almost whenever I want.
Still, my heart wears a bruise.
Why didn’t she tell me?
I look back at Farm Boy, my bottom lip trembling. “I don’t like secrets.”
His smile fades. “Is someone keeping secrets from you?”
“My family.” The words come out choked just as two tardy tears make their appearance. “Dammit.” I mash the napkin against my face.
He sighs. “That must feel shitty.”
I like that he says this. That he doesn’t say things that aren’t true. Like:
I’m sure they didn’t mean it.
Maybe they had a good reason.
It’s okay.
“It does.”
His narrowed gaze softens. “Want to tell me about it?”
The question is an offer. So casual. No pressure at all. But it also feels like a gift. I’m nodding almost immediately before the words fly from me.
“We’re here for my sister’s bridesmaid luncheon, which, honestly wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be—even though this dress feels like wearing a cheese grater and I had to suffer through a meal with my sour-faced grandma—”
He blinks twice before his face cracks with a big smile, showing me those brilliant teeth again.
“When my sister handed out the bridesmaid gifts, I worried I’d have to wear a necklace or bracelet—” I sweep my hands down my neck, reassuring myself that it’s still unshackled.
Farm Boy’s gaze follows the path of my hands down below my collar bones before snapping back to mine. “But she gave me this brooch instead.”
I smile when I finger the little sewing machine, watching the gold leaf wink in the sunlight, but when I look up at him, Farm Boy isn’t admiring the pin. His neck looks stiff, his jaw tight.
“Do you not like brooches?” A terrible thought occurs to me. “Or sewing machines.”
He swallows and clears his throat. “I think I’m a huge fan of both,” he says, his voice sounding rough. Maybe he’s thirsty.
I smile huge. “Me too! I was so excited when I opened it. Especially after I unwrapped the specialty presser foot Margaret gave me.” At the flicker of his frown, I hold up a hand. “Sorry. Margaret’s my sister. Sometimes, I get ahead of myself.”
His mouth twitches. “Just a little.”
I like the way little brackets frame his smile when he’s not trying to smile. Not quite dimples, but punctuation marks. I touch the brooch again and press the back of it against my skin because the way my heart is jumping is an odd sensation.
“Anyway, I got a little overwhelmed and I needed a minute.” My cheeks heat, and I press the pin harder, needing the bite of it to settle me. “I, um… Margaret says that I… feel things deeply, and…”
He has little creases at the corners of his eyes. Probably from squinting against the sun. As a Farm Boy would.
I’ve never realized how warm the color amber is.
“And?” he asks softly.
This time I swallow, coming back to my story. “But on my way back from the bathroom, I heard my grandmother talking about—” The words get stuck in my throat, and I have to clear it hard. “Margaret and Merrick, her fiancé, moving… to Denver.”
Saying it out loud makes me feel a bit queasy, but the gentle look on Farm Boy’s face is a quelling distraction.
“Fuck,” he curses softly.
I don’t think I've ever heard that word spoken so softly.
I like it.
He tilts his head a little. “I take it you’re really close.”
I nod wildly. “She’s my sister. My best friend. My…” I search for another noun that could capture all Margaret is for me. She’s my confidant. My champion. My interpreter. My advisor.
“My person,” I say finally, shrinking a little. Because even though I haven’t listed all of these roles out loud, I know—in a way maybe I’ve never quite known before—that it’s too many. Too many roles for one person.
Is that why she didn’t want to tell me? Because she knows how much I rely on her and she doesn’t know how I’ll manage without her?
And if she knows that, is she feeling a guilty sense of relief about getting some distance from all that I am?
All that I ask of her?
And that’s when Grandma Eloise’s words slam into me. When is enough enough, Hillary?
“I’m too much.” I don’t mean to say it out loud, but that’s what happens when you don’t choose your words.
Farm Boy blinks his way to a frown. “What? No.” His frown deepens, and he opens his mouth to say something and—
The heavy restaurant door creaks open. “Hattie! There you are! Thank God!” Mom’s face is pale.
She rushes into the alley before pulling up short.
She looks from my perch on the truck’s tailgate to Farm Boy standing right in front of me.
Her eyebrows form an iron bar on her face. “What’s going on here?”
Farm Boy steps back, raising his hands. “We were just talking. She—”
“Hattie, it’s time to go.” Her words are clipped. She forces her way into the space Farm Boy has exited and clasps me by both elbows. Not gently.
“Are you alright?” She hisses the question like it's a secret, her eyes searching my face. “You’ve been crying.”
I open my mouth, but all my questions crowd my head. About Margaret and Merrick and Denver. About how long they’ve known. About what the hell Grandma Eloise meant about a group home. About that fact that everyone in my family must think I’m too much.
“She came out upset. We were talk—”
Mom spins on her heels. “Get the hell away from my daughter. Can’t you see she’s vulnerable?”
“Mom—” Heat swarms my face like yellow jackets. “He didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
I jerk my elbows from her grip and hop down from the truck. Mom gasps.
“Look at your dress!”
Farm Boy and I both look down.
“It’s just dirt. Not piss,” I explain, glancing at Farm Boy for confirmation. “No big deal.”
Our eyes connect, and the wary look he’s worn for my mom tips sideways. Then he grins at me.
“What the—” Wide-eyed, Mom looks back and forth between us. “Hattie, we’re leaving. Now.”
It’s like I’m twelve.
“Mom—”
“Now, Harriet.” She grabs my elbow again, and when I look back at Farm Boy, wishing I could vaporize, I see confusion written all over his face.
Does he think I’m twelve? Or any age below twenty-one?
Has anyone ever died of humiliation?
I open my mouth to tell him that I’m not a child. That—despite my rap sheet of diagnoses—I’m not mentally incompetent. That picking me up, setting me on his tailgate, and listening patiently as I cried was one of the greatest acts of kindness I’ve ever received.
But Mom does CrossFit, and even though I’m heavier than she is, it’s clear when she starts frog marching me up the alley that she’s stronger than I am.
And when I look back over my shoulder at Farm Boy, he’s gaping at us like we are pretty fucking weird.
Who am I kidding? We are.
But I have to say something to him. Even if he climbs into his truck and drives off into a sweet-potato-orange sunset never to be seen again, I want him to know this meant something to me. I hardly know where to begin.
So, I blurt the first thing. The first thing I noticed about him.
“Farm Boy!” I shout from the end of the alley.
He blinks at me.
“Thanks for staring at me!”