“Tell me this—what are your plans for the rest of the week?” I demand. He’s terrible at planning. And I need him to use his head for once, before I lose mine.
“Well, tomorrow I promised Dad I’d take him to the newest Robot Wars movie in Montpelier…”
While he talks, my attention is snagged by a man who’s just climbed out of a bright blue Volkswagen Bug. He’s reading the sign on the door of the gym. I can’t see his face, because he’s turned to the side. But I get a good look at his muscular shoulders, which are straining his black T-shirt. And his forearms have terrific muscle definition…
“Kieran?” my brother prompts. “Did you get that?”
No, I was just admiring a dude. I close my eyes and try to forget the hot guy across the parking lot. This is the extent of my sex life—admiring men, and then feeling confused about it. I spent the first twenty years of my life thinking that attractive men were interesting to me only because I admired them as people and wanted to be like them.
But that was only half right. Lately it’s gotten harder to ignore the fact that I also want to be under them. Or over them. Or even side by side.
Just as I’m having this bold thought, the guy reaches for the door to the gym. And he turns his body in a way that lets me see his face…
That’s when everything goes a little haywire. Because I recognize that face. It’s been years since I’ve seen it, though. And I’d bet every dollar in my wallet that he doesn’t even know my name.
Thank God.
My face flushes hot and my body runs cold. It doesn’t matter that he didn’t look my way before disappearing into the gym, or that there would be no way that he would remember me the way I remember him. I still feel a flash of utter shame.
“…so that’s why I’ll need your help the next few nights,” my brother is saying.
“The next few nights,” I echo stupidly.
“Look, I know it’s a lot. But this thing with Dad’s back is a bummer, and there’s really no way we can get through the next month without a lot of extra hassle.”
I must still be experiencing an adrenaline rush, because I suddenly snap. “Hassle for who? You want to pull a shift at the bar, where you can earn extra money and hit on women. And tomorrow you want to go to the movies, but it’s with Dad so you think that excuses your lack of planning. And I zoned out for that last thing you said, but I’m sure it doesn’t matter. Because unless you said you’re going to save babies from a burning building, I can’t understand why you think it’s okay to bail on me three or four nights in a row.”
There is a deep, stunned silence after I deliver this tirade. I never go off on Kyle, although maybe it’s time I did. My life is ridiculous. I work like a dog, and I never complain. I never do a thing for myself, and all I wanted tonight was a goddamn workout.
“Well,” he says a moment later. Then he clears his throat. “Tell me how you really feel.”
I feel like a dick, that’s how I feel. A wave of cold remorse washes over me.
“I won’t take the bartending shift,” Kyle says. Then he hangs up on me for the first time in his life.
Standing here in the gym parking lot, I’m breathing a little too fast and my heart is hammering. I can’t believe I snapped like that. Yes, it’s time to stop doing everything my family expects. Standing up for myself is a fine idea. But I didn’t have to be a dick about it.
And Roderick Waites is back in town.
My gaze travels back to the gym door. He’s still in there. Which means that I just blew up at my brother for nothing, because I’m not going into that gym.
My thumbs are tapping out a text to Kyle before I can even think twice about it. Take that bartending shift, I say. It’s fine. I’m on my way home to move the cows.
By the time I get into my truck and start the engine, he’s already replied.
Dude. Are you sure? You just lost your shit at me.
I’m sure. But tonight when you get home we have to make a plan for the rest of the week. Because I’m not doing all your chores again tomorrow just so you can go to the movies.
Fine, he replies. Thanks. Later!
I back out of the parking spot and turn the truck toward home. I suppose I could take my dad to the movies tomorrow. But Dad wouldn’t want my company, he wants Kyle’s. The privilege of being Dad’s favorite is lost on my goof of a brother. Kyle is incapable of imagining that life doesn’t fart rainbows on everyone the way it does on him.
Something’s got to give, I tell myself as I put some miles between Colebury and home. This isn’t the first time I’ve wanted to break out of my rut. I’m twenty-five years old and still live at home. My family is a minefield, yet they depend on me for farm labor.
And—worst of all—I still care too much about what other people think. Case in point: I just ran away from the gym, because of a guy who won’t even remember me. That’s ridiculous.
But at least I realize that. It’s a start.
Back at home, I do all the chores and then some.
First I put the cows in the north pasture. Moving cows is easy enough in good weather. It only requires me to move the portable fence and wave them through the opening. “Go on, enjoy,” I say as they file past me eagerly. Our herd is grass fed, and they don’t need to be asked twice. The long, seedy grass and corn stalks I’m offering are like a recently freshened, all-you-can-eat buffet.
Let’s face it—the cows are easier to handle than any of my family members. They go where they’re needed, no questions asked. But my dog—Rexie—gives the cows a nice loud woof just to pretend he’s working hard.
Rexie and Kyle have a lot in common, honestly. They’re both a little ridiculous. They both have an inflated sense of their own usefulness. And I love them both in spite of it.
After the cow parade, I close up the fence and turn the electricity on. Since it’s October, darkness is falling fast. In another couple of weeks we’ll have to set our clocks back, and then it will be pitch dark before five. I’m already squinting as I check the hens’ nesting boxes for eggs, and topping up their water, and I have to turn on my head lamp to connect up their electric fence.
Most of our farming income is made on grass-fed beef. We also grow some corn and organic oats as feed crops. By this time of year, all the crop work should already be done, but Kyle and I still have to bale the oat straw. It would have been done weeks ago, if it weren’t for my dad’s back pain getting worse.
I make a mental note to remind my brother to make the baling a priority. Again. After that, I spend forty-five minutes raking cow shit out of the lower farmyard in the dark.
It’s boring drudge work, and my mind starts to wander. And, fuck, it wanders right to Roderick Waites—the guy who climbed out of a blue Volkswagen and right back into my brain.
I wish I could say I haven’t thought about him since high school, but that would be a lie. And if I were a more spiritual person, I’d probably interpret Roderick’s reappearance in town as a sign. A wakeup call.
Nobody knows all the tangled things in my brain, but for a split second when I was a teenager, Roderick came close to learning one of my biggest secrets.
The first time I saw him on his knees in front of another guy, it was an accident.