My eye catches on the front railing, and when I reach a hand out, the tip of my finger traces a wornL + Metched into the old wood.
“How come the other houses were built?” I ask Grayson. “If this was the first one, and it was clearly gorgeous at one time, why didn't they build the farm around here?”
Grayson leans down to snap the head of a yellow dandelion off its stem. He brings it to his nose, twirling once and inhaling, before tossing it aside. “The original barn is still the one that stands today. They built the house here knowing that they would want the farm down the road, but I guess as the years went on and their family grew, they decided that they wanted the house closer to the animals. Probably safer that way.”
I nod in agreement. “Makes sense.” And it does, but it’s such a shame to see a beautiful house sit abandoned.
We get back into the UTV and take the worn driveway to the main road. Overhanging branches scrape the top of the vehicle, scratching at us as we drive. Grayson immediately turns left into his driveway, taking us through the lot, around his house, and down into the small ravine that leads us up and into the main fields.
“I love how all of this is connected,” I tell him. “How everyone has their privacy, or how all the houses are separate, but the family is still close.”
“Same. It’s like what we built is surrounding us, you know?”
I inhale a slow full breath, holding it for a few seconds before I release it. “This is going to sound crazy, maybe, but it’s like I can breathe out here.”
Grayson keeps his eyes in front of us, but I can tell his brows are pulled together. “Tell me more.”
I lay my head against his shoulder again, letting the slow rumble of the tires over the rocks and rough land soothe me. “Sometimes, when I’m anxious, or in a stage where I’m wound too tight, it’s like I can’t breathe.” Physically, I can. But in the moment, it’s hard to remind myself that nothing is physically wrong with me. “My chest feels tight, and my breaths will get choppy. There’s nothing physically wrong, I know that, but it’s like my mind doesn’t agree and messes with me anyways.”
Grayson’s head turns a bit, and the side of his cheek rests against the top of my head. “I give you so much credit for living like that day in and day out.”
I huff out a laugh. “You credit me for being crazy?”
“I don’t see it as being crazy. You know as well as I do, hell, better than I do, what anxiety can do to yourbody. The work you do every day is more stressful than anything I could ever imagine, so the fact that your body reacts that way makes sense.”
Funny how that’s exactly what I would tell, and have told, patients of mine when they come into the ER. Many times, someone is rushed inside thinking they are having a heart attack. They’ll be in tears, telling me about their crushing chest pain, their difficulty breathing, then when all tests come back normal and we talk about the situation that led up to their symptoms, it’s often traced back to anxiety.
The reaction is usually the same. Confusion. Embarrassment. Embarrassed that they couldn’t tell the difference between true cardiac chest pain and panic. But now that I’ve experienced it, suffered through it just like them, I understand why they’d think it’s something more.
“Maybe. I know you’re right. It’s just … I guess it’s hard to see it as anything but a weakness.”
His cheek brushes against my head and we ride in silence for a few minutes before he responds. “But you feel like you can breathe easier out here?”
I inhale another breath, letting my chest expand before I push it out. “Absolutely.”
Nothing but a smug laugh from him. “So, it’s like I’m the cure, some might say. Like you should plan on spending a lot more time with me.”
I twist my head so I can rest my chin on his shoulder. “Don’t get too cocky, now. It might be the open air, the land. I’d argue it’s the chickens and goats before it’s you.”
He scoffs at that, and I playfully reach over to squeeze his arm. I’m about to tease him again about the chickens, because I can’t get enough of that, when we enter the fields that the cattle are grazing in.
As we get closer, the mooing we had heard at the house grows louder, more urgent, and Grayson's brow pinches in a worried expression.
“What's going on?” I ask as goosebumps threaten to spring up on my skin.
He shakes his head once before murmuring, “I don't know,” under his breath. “Sounds like one of the moms is not happy.”
He explains to me that spring is calving season, usually May into early June, and that there were a few mamas still waiting to have their calf. He slows his speed once he gets to the group of cows.
They hesitantly part to let us take a path through the herd, our ears perked to follow the sound until we spot a cow that's separate from the others. She's standing onthe other side of a knee-high creek next to a thicket of gray thorny bushes. Grayson parks the side-by-side, cuts the engine, and climbs out. I go to follow, and he spins, surprised to see me.
“Is it okay if I come with you?” I ask, looking around at the other cows. I'm not sure if they would charge me or trample me, and I'm not sure what's on the other side of the creek, but I'm pretty sure I'd rather be next to Grayson than sitting here by myself.
“Of course,” he says, reaching for my hand. “Watch your step, it’s mucky back here.”
I reach for his open palm, and when our skin meets, he curls his hand around mine. I try and fail to ignore the fluttering in my belly that has me wanting to tuck myself under his arm when we walk.
He wasn't kidding about the muck. The rains must have flooded this small creek recently, leaving the earth surrounding it a wet mess. Our boots squish underneath us as we traipse through mud mixed with clay and manure, some pockets so deep I sink to my calves.
