Plausible Deniability
NINE
Wesley
Jasper and I fall into the same shit routine we’ve got at home, like we have in the weeks since our trip to Brooklyn to see Dahlia.
Wake up, fuck off around the farm, and head to our respective cabins on either side of the main house at the end of the day.
I always wanted my own space and this cabin became my private oasis—the first place wholly mine.
It’s meant to house more ranch hands, so it’s decent sized; three beds, two baths and a nice ass kitchen.
Jasper claimed his cabin on the far side of the property, a bigger version of mine.
Jasper’s parents and his sister, Amber, stay in the main house still.
Amber’s two sons, my crazy nephews, share my old room.
Amber’s dick of a husband lives there too.
Sometimes. I don’t know the full story there, but I know Amber feels stuck.
Jas and I are waiting for the fucker to really slip up and earn the ass beating he deserves.
The slam of my screen door is the clock out of my time as a farmer. I shower, make a sandwich, and change gears for the second part of my day. This is the part where I indulge my artistic urges and create. My secret hobby, one I protect under lock and key, is my favorite way to unwind.
I started drawing young, mostly because crayons were cheap at the dollar store.
As I got older, I would draw scenes of a different life for me—a wizard coming to save me or a version of myself with huge muscles to protect myself.
Sad shit for a kid to be doodling, but I did it enough to get pretty good. I keep it to myself though.
Dad hated it and said it was a waste of time, a girly hobby.
Yet another bizarre thing to hurt your child over, but what do I know?
The kids at school thought I was a freak when I was caught drawing during middle school, apparently angry zombies and sad monsters were weird.
I got tired of defending myself constantly, so I had to play offense.
Art became my secret, something I did in the late hours of the night, without judgmental eyes. While I realize now my dad was an abusive prick and middle school sucks for everyone, I still feel incredibly protective over my art and I share it with virtually no one.
A younger, more hopeful me hoped I could’ve done more with it.
Shit, there was even a time I let a friend use my art for his first tattoo.
That was both a mind fuck and the coolest thing ever.
Since then, I draw a mix of art in neo and traditional styles similar to the tattoos I’ve got.
There was a time where I tried to bust out some kitchen table tattoos, but honestly it’s not for me.
In a perfect world, I could find something to do with my creations, but I’m not there yet.
Especially not with perpetual shitstorm facing Jasper as he manages the orchard and all the psychological weight of keeping this place a float.
I can’t let this shit blow up in his face, especially since he would fully take the blame of something far out of his control.
I sink further into the soft brown leather couch facing my fireplace, thinking of all the things to be done this week, when all I want to do is draw.
Not too long after I moved here, Uncle Stone was in a really fucked up accident leaving him with a below-the-elbow amputation of his left arm. He’s had a hard time keeping up with the more physical tasks of the farm, leaving much of it to Jasper.
Jasper loves this farm and what it means to his family more than anything, but it’s clear in the years since he’s taken over, the responsibility is heavy and he doesn’t carry it well.
The pressure is self-imposed. Stone only wants his kids to be happy, but Jasper sees the farm as do-or-die and he’s the only one who can do.
So while I don’t feel the same loyalty to this place Jasper does, I’m in no rush to flee it all either.
Lately, my inspiration has leaned towards vintage pinup girls and curvy women as fairies, mermaids, vampires, fantastical beings.
I don’t question where the inspiration has come from.
It’s only since I’ve met Dahlia I’ve damn near filled a full sketchbook with beautiful, faceless women.
I never sketch her face. Plausible deniability and all that shit.
My phone lights with a text from my muse.
Dahlia
Got my ticket for Sinning Saints next week. I’m fucking stoked.
Dahlia and I text, but it’s casual, keeping to our platonic agreement. She agreed to ride with me to this show next weekend and I’m looking forward to seeing some of our favorite songs live.
Dahlia
What are you up to? Hopefully cowboying wasn’t too tough today
Wesley
Naw, I’m built for hard work, little lady. I’m just relaxing right now. What about you?
Dahlia
You’re gonna be shocked, but I’m yet again working on my thesis for school. My course work begins at the end of next month, so I’m trying to cram as much research in now as possible.
Dahlia is working on her thesis nearly every night she’s not working. She told me how much it means to her and I honestly love hearing about it. She’s so passionate and smart and you can tell she really gives a fuck about this stuff.
Wesley
not again. It’ll be worth it though when you kick some ass and get your fancy diploma. How’s the research going?
Dahlia
Fingers crossed. I’m a bit lost, to be real. I think I have an idea of a direction though. Maybe teen mental health.
Dahlia
IDK though, maybe compare different kinds of therapy? I’m winging it at this point.
Dahlia
I’m rambling lol, using you as my personal sounding board.
Little does she know, I live for her rambles and would listen to her talk for hours. Gonna keep the thought to myself though.
Wesley
Ramble away. Could you do like horse therapy or some shit? I know being around the horses helped me a lot when I moved here.
They’re very peaceful creatures.
Dahlia
OMG, ok inspiration has struck. You gave me an idea, I gotta go. I need to get the words out of my brain BYEEEEE!
From what Dahlia’s told me, she’s passionate about mental health, because she knows how hard it is to deal with. She seems to overthink a lot and when she’s particularly stressed, she looks like she’s in physical pain. Hell knows I’ve had my fair share of panic attacks given my childhood.
It feels stupid to ask if she’s in therapy herself, since she’s in school for exactly that, but I worry about her. Begrudgingly, I started therapy when the court mandated me to, but honestly talking to the right person probably saved my life.
I needed it to unpack the truckload of trauma I carried around. In the beginning, it felt pointless to hash it out with a stranger, when the one person I wanted to yell at was six feet under in a county plot.
I packed those feelings away as long as I could, but eventually you run out of room and hit solid ground.
My current line of thinking is precarious—wondering about the future, thinking about the past. I fuckin’ hate the lonely feeling plaguing me when I’ve got nothing to distract me.
I love the farm for what it’s given me, but I hate what it represents.
I hate why I ended up here. I love the orchard because of what it means to Jasper’s family.
My family. I hate the pressure of the legacy and fear of failing.
Vision blurring with the late hour, I decide to call it quits, leaving an unfinished sketch of a luscious woman lying in wildflowers, faceless again. I hope for a dreamless sleep to ease the pain of the past, and am granted visions of a loving woman and easy devotion until the morning hours.