23. Love Is Patient, Love Is Kind, Please Blow My Mind
TWENTY-THREE
love is patient, love is kind, please blow my mind
Dahlia
The night air cools around the farm as the sun sets, framing the barn in a halo of orange.
Being here settles something in me—safety maybe?
The property has such character. Tall trees frame Wes’ cabin, while the dirt road kicks up dust with the breeze.
It feels like a gentle hand caressing my cheek, soothing in a way I didn’t realize I needed.
I find Wes on the front porch, legs stretched out, hands behind his head.
I don’t think he sees me sneak out the door yet from the angle he’s at, so I take the time to drink him in.
He’s changed into gray sweats and a Fata Morgana band tee and he sits in what looks to be a well-loved rocking chair.
I love how he and I share the same taste in music, and it certainly doesn’t hurt he’s so close with my favorite band.
Strong arms raise above his head to stretch and his lower stomach peaks out below the hem of his shirt.
His stomach looks soft, yet I know there’s a wall of solid muscle hidden beneath.
From this angle, I can’t see too much but I remember the dark hair trailing down his stomach and into his pants.
His bare feet move to stand and I clumsily trip on the door’s threshold as he turns my way.
“Dahlia, were you creeping?” he asks with a hand on his chest as if he’s scandalized and I bite back a smile.
“Oh dear, I could never. What would the townsfolk say if they caught wind of my indecency—ogling a gentleman in the night. The scandal!” Our easy banter is familiar and it’s another way I feel close to him, safe with him.
“Ogle away, Princess,” he says, leading us back inside.
He gestures at the couch area then at the hallway, silently giving the choice of where we work.
I’m feeling bold so I head down the hall to his room, allowing him to trail behind me.
If I didn’t know any better I’d swear I heard a muttered curse.
My cheeks heat as I remember the events following the last time I was in his room.
When I shamelessly fucked my fingers to orgasm imagining him roughly taking me in his bed.
Hopefully my thoughts aren’t obvious as I plop down on his bed and open my computer.
Wes looks at me for a beat before lounging beside me.
“When I spoke to my professor, she told me about this program”—I turn the computer to show the Mental Health Marvels website—“and said this would be a good starting place.”
“Sounds good. What do you need from me?”
What a loaded question, how about everything? A kiss. A caress. Fuck, he could lick my face for all I care. Being in his space has me so on edge. The evidence is undeniable as my arousal ruins my panties, again.
With the application pulled up, we start chipping away at the proposal draft. We work in tandem, Wes explaining how the horses interact with people, what kind of supplies and maintenance they’ll need.
Hours pass easily and we have a really solid start before long.
Wes reads it over and gives his approval on the more technical things relating to the property.
There’s a portion for a narrative entry to complete as well.
“I think we can both add to this part. Maybe write something here about how we see this working and why it’s important to us,” I suggest.
Wes nods. “Sure, I’ll give it a shot. No pressure.” He laughs.
“I’ll meet with my professor next week and see if she has any tips before I type it up and make it all pretty. My brain is fried.” I fall back onto the bed next to Wes. I turn to look at him and he has that look on his face again—the one making me want to kiss him senseless.
“Same. I don’t know how you do this all the time for school. I’d be ready to throw in the towel after one day.”
“It’s not all bad. I really like school. My crippling anxiety leaves no room for throwing in any towels anyways.” I do the drum motion, complete with a bu-dum-tsh sound effect to punctuate my joke.
“That doesn’t sound fun. You get anxious a lot?”
“I guess. It’s been a part of me as long as I can remember.
As a kid, I was terrified of everything.
It felt like everything was wrong and dangerous all the time, except there was never a solution to it.
” Wes nods, nudging me to continue. “My dad, if he was around, knew fuck all about anxiety, even though he caused so much of it. I was constantly in trouble for crying or not wanting to go to school, not wanting to go to sleep. My grandma did the best she could, but she didn’t get it either.
I couldn’t really make sense of it as a kid, so I kinda always assumed I was the problem. ”
Wes looks away before returning my gaze. “I get that. Parents can fuck you up real good and then blame you for their consequences. I take it your dad’s not around now? What about your mom?”
“Yeah, my dad will text me every now and then, but it’s usually a barrage of misspelled complaints or asking for money. Mom is a mystery. All I know is she didn’t want to be a mother and asked me not to contact her. Shitty, but I don’t know her, so…” I trail off.
“I lived with my grandma growing up and she passed after I graduated high school. It sort of felt like she was holding on until I could move away and be on my own. I miss her a lot.” Normally, I hate talking about this, but Wes’ presence is soothing and it surprisingly feels good to share this with him.
“It sucks, but there’s not much I can do now except work on undoing the years of bullshit they left me with.
Maybe in a different world, my dad could’ve done better, but in this world he fucking sucks.
” I laugh. “I gave up on trying to understand him when he showed up to my high school graduation absolutely blasted and made a fool of the both of us.”
Wes reaches over and holds my hand. “Fuck. I’m sorry. He’s missing out on a wonderful person.” His thumb rubs back and forth over my hand and I lose myself in the soothing rhythm.
“It is what it is. Sometimes family is the people you love along the way, not the assholes who definitely shouldn’t have reproduced.”
“Still, I hate you went through that, Dahlia.”
“You’re quite insightful for a little ol’ cowboy, huh? Tell me about your parents. You never talk about them either.”
He pulls his hand away from me and I look into his eyes, a flicker of panic in them before his carefully crafted mask slips back into place. Slowly my hand reaches for his again, mimicking the comfort he gave me when I was sharing. I lace our fingers together and hold them close to my chest.
“Um. Not much to say. Same shit as you, I guess. Dad’s dead, Mom’s gone.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Don’t be. I’m better for it. I, uh, moved here to live with Jasper when I was a teenager. My dad beat on me a bit too hard the last time and I got taken out of the home. He overdosed after he served his sentence and that was that. My mom left before it all went to shit, because he hated her, too.”
My heart breaks for the little version of Wes who experienced this—how scared he must have been, how brave he had to be. It’s a wonder he’s such a gentle person. Trauma can harden you and for good reason.
“You ever miss your dad?” he asks, still holding my hand, so I take the moment as a win.
“Sometimes. Or maybe I miss what he could’ve been.
He fucked me up real good so it makes it hard to trust. One of the many reasons I’m scared of relationships and love.
I’m destined to be a crotchety old maid.
I know you get it—the people who were supposed to love us most damaged our hearts the worst. Why would I ever risk it again?
” I’m tearing up now, but it feels cathartic to get this out of my head.
“I understand what you’re saying, but I need you to know love isn’t supposed to hurt.
Our parents fucked up because they were deeply flawed people, not because we were.
You can’t deprive yourself of love because they were too stupid to see how god damn amazing you are.
The right person will love you unconditionally—no terms, no hatred, no resentment. ”
He brings our clasped hands to his mouth and presses a kiss to them. I know he’s right and I want nothing more than to pour all the love I have into him, but I still can’t garner the courage to let go. The vulnerability of this moment feels so fragile. I’m fucking terrified and eager at his words.
Wes and I lie side by side, holding hands well into the night before we drift off to sleep. There’s no way I can ever settle for anything less than this.