“Anyone who devotes their life to animals is a saint in my book.”
“I’m no saint.”
“Neither am I.” I debate my next move, but after she shared something so personal, I feel a need to reciprocate and level the field. “I have something I want to share with you.”
“You do?”
I feel the need to switch topics, moving from something heavy to something I hope will inspire her. She needs a bit of a pick me up and to know she did the right thing in kicking Scott out of her life.
“Growing up in the commune, animals were useful only for what they provided.” I gaze out toward the horizon and admire the fading glow of the sunset.
“I thought you said you were in a cult?”
“I was born into a cult and we lived as a commune.”
The thought disgusts me. How someone can cede over that degree of control to another escapes me. Perhaps this is one of the reasons alternate lifestyles don’t appeal to me. Too many bad memories.
“I’m sorry.”
“My mother joined the cult when she was sixteen. Ran away from home. Her parents tried to rescue her, several times, but never succeeded.”
“Wow.”
“She became one of my father’s many wives, devoted herself to serve him. Got knocked up and fell from grace.”
“That sounds horrible.”
“It was.”
Those details are not something I’m ready to share. Not yet. If something takes off between me and Kaye, I may tell her the rest of the story. In the meantime, I tell her about the animals and why I admire her career choice as much as I do.
“You mentioned animals?”
“Yes. We all had chores. Once I was old enough, I helped take care of the animals, and like I said, they were useful only for what they gave us.”
“What do you mean?”
“Milk from goats and cows. Eggs from chickens. Wool from our bedraggled flock of sheep. Pigs for the meat they provided. Cattle for leather as well as meat. We kept one bull to impregnate the dairy cows, and slaughtered all the male calves after a year.”
I pause, shudders run through my body as memories of slaughter day run through my mind.
“It was brutal.”
“I can only imagine. I’m an animal lover myself, but I understand the need for slaughtering animals. I’m not a vegan, or vegetarian. As long as it’s humane…”
“Ours was not,” I murmur softly. “I cried every year when it came time to slaughter the calves. I spent the previous year raising them in the fields, tending their injuries, making sure they were fed. I brought them in during blizzards so they wouldn’t freeze.”
“You took great care of them.”
“I did, but one of my jobs was to slaughter them. I had to slit their throats and drain their blood as they writhed in agony.”
“Oh, Zeb, that’s horrible.”
“They were helpless and terrified. But worse than that, they looked at me, someone they trusted, with confusion, pain, and betrayal.”
“I’m so sorry.” She places a hand on my arm. “I can’t imagine how much that must’ve hurt.”
A lump forms in my throat as memories of those horrific days threaten to overcome me.
“I hated it.” I’m a grown man, yet recalling this brings tears stinging the corners of my eyes. “I hated their fear. I hated the way my heart broke when I was forced to end their lives.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“To this day, the smell of manure and hay bring overpowering emotions front and center.” My voice cracks as I recall my childhood.
On slaughter days, the coppery tang of blood brought bile rising in the back of my throat, but it was the acrid stench of fear and the pervasive smell of death that never left me, that caused the most trauma.
I shake my head slowly and sigh. “Like I said, we weren’t kind to our animals. They were to be used and that was it. Compassion was seen as weakness and a sin. Which is why you inspire me.”
“Me?”
She needs to know how her life impacts others.
“I can still see it.” I suppress a shudder. “The sheep, their blood staining the wool. The hooks, dripping with the last drops of life from the cattle. The bleats and squeals and screams.” My fists clench and I shake my head at the memory. “It’s something I’ll never forgive my father for making me witness, and be a part of, at such a young age.”
Odd. I haven’t delved down that deep dark well in ages. Why now? How did Kaye get me to reveal this much of myself? I’ve told no one in such gruesome detail.
Why are memories of my father surfacing now? Probably because this prick of a man, Scott—Kaye’s abusive ex—reminds me of my father.
Whatever the reason, I need to pack up those memories and shove them in a deep dark hole in the farthest recesses of my mind.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to over share.” My molars grind together as I try to force the memories away. “But you inspire me because you want to help animals. Not hurt them, like I did.”
“Don’t be sorry. Thank you for sharing that with me.” She’s sincere in her words and what she says resonates powerfully with me.
“If you need any help, when it comes to Scott, if things go south with him, I’m here if you need someone to talk to, or someone to beat Scott to a bloody pulp.”
“Oh please…” A smile warms her face. “No beating anyone to a pulp, bloody or not, but thank you for offering. I just need to figure out how to deal with him, once and for all.”
And I’ll be right by your side.
At least, I’d like to think she might want me there.
Until she asks, or Scott forces my hand, I’ll wait for her to come to me.
She turns to face me and a million emotions swim through her troubled gaze. It feels like ages, that we stand together, as if time no longer exists.
The wind kicks up, sending waves of chilly air across the rooftop. The sun sets in a spectacular riot of colors. Dark blues merge with fiery oranges. Those blues drift to deep purples and eventually the inky blackness of night lays claim to the world below.
The city lights up, attempting to push back the darkness, and comes alive as people continue on with their lives.
A wave of warmth spreads over me when Kaye closes the gap between us until only inches remain. I almost think she’s about ready to lift on tiptoe and kiss me. There’s an invisible energy pulling us together.
That energy seems to waken something deeper than mere physical attraction and lust. It’s something far more ethereal…an emotional connection orchestrated by fate.
“Kaye…” My voice is barely above a whisper.
“Yes?” Her face tilts up. Those rosebud lips of hers are kissably close.
“Whatever happens with Scott—know that no matter which direction you choose, whatever decision you make—I’ll be there if you need me.”
The air between us crackles. My heart pounds in anticipation as we inch ever so close toward our first kiss. Our gazes lock, and like two magnets, they pull us together.
Her lips part ever so slightly as her breath hitches.
I take both her hands in mine, gently squeeze, then release them. I cup her chin, tenderly, and stroke my thumb along the curve of her jawline, enjoying the moment and soaking in every breath, every beat of my heart, and every sigh she whispers.