I nod, recalling now which patient we’re talking about. His initial hemoglobin was a six, and we transfused two units which should have brought it up to an eight at the least. “He’s still low?”
She nods, showing me the Post-it note from whoever took the call from the lab. “Only at seven point one.”
The hospital has a stiff policy where we technically shouldn’t transfuse if a hemoglobin is above seven, butgiven his symptoms and fragility, I’m tempted to transfuse another unit. “How long has it been since the last bag was transfused?"
“About two hours.”
I rub at my temples with both hands, thinking over my options. “Let’s wait on another unit. I know he wants to go home, but let’s get him a bed on the floor. I’ll put in orders to check his hemoglobin in four hours, and if it’s still low, then the hospitalist can manage it.” The tech nods, and I stand to head down the hall to talk to the patient and break the news that he isn’t discharging home, when my phone vibrates in my pocket.
I pull it out, and a smile immediately forms on my face when I see it’s from Grayson. I pause, leaning against the wall as I open the message, and a giggle bubbles in my chest when I see the picture he sent.
He must be working on something, one of the tractors or a piece of machinery, because his face is covered with a layer of dirt and grime. A thick black smudge of grease runs across his forehead, and my body immediately flushes, imagining him bending me over one of those pieces of equipment and railing into me, sweaty shirt, grease stains, and all.
But then I take a good look at the picture, and I crack up, noticing one of the goats is standing right by him withits head resting atop his shoulder, peering into the camera as if it’s his sidekick, and smiling wildly as he takes a selfie. The caption reads: “Prancer decided to help me change the oil today.”
I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, the movement failing to hide my smile.
Once again, I’m jealous of the time the goats get to spend with you.
Grayson: Three more days. I’ll be counting down the minutes, baby.
Chapter Eighteen
Holly
The early afternoon sun beats down on me, baking the skin on my already burnt shoulders. I adjust my seat in the rickety, sun-warmed wooden bleachers that run parallel to the dirt lane, watching as tractors line up at the starting line for the pulls. Some smaller tractors have already gone, followed by a few pickup trucks. I clapped along with the other spectators as they started to hoot and cheer, but even after nearly an hour of watching, and the brief rundown Grayson gave me earlier, I’m still not sure what I’m supposed to be cheering for at a tractor pull.
“So, what do you think of the big event?” Harper calls out as she moves toward where I’m seated. She has a bottle of water tucked under one warm, balancing a paper container with a ear of grilled corn in each hand. She hops the wooden steps with ease, a telltale sign of her life growing up in a small town. Her belly button ring glimmers as it catches the sun, and I follow the eyes of the drooling local boys who watch her slide by in her daisyduke jean shorts. The ends of her hair are now bright blue, which looks as good as the bright pink did last time I saw her.
“Mexican street corn or Parmesan garlic?” She offers both ears of corn to me once she sits, and since they both smell amazing, I tell her she can pick her favorite and I’ll have the other. She looks at the containers in her hands and hands me the Parmesan garlic one.
I grab the tip of the corn with one hand, holding on to the dried stalk with my other, and jump in with a massive bite. “Oh my gosh,” I say, covering my hand over the mouthful. “This is so good.”
Harper nods in agreement, taking an equally large bite of her corn cob. “Copper Ridge might not have traffic lights or a movie theater, but at least we make good corn.”
We watch in comfortable silence as the next group of tractors pull, and after a round of cheers, I finally get the courage to lean over to Harper and say, “I’ve been watching this for almost an hour, and I’m still not sure what the point of this is.”
She snickers at that, taking another bite of her corn before pointing and speaking. “The point of it all, I guess, is that we live in a really small fucking town and get bored.” She looks over at me, her Hart family blue eyes sparkling in the overhead lamps. “Believe me, the first fewtimes you watch, you’re like, ‘What the fuck is going on?’ But once you see a few and understand how much weight they’re pulling and the technique that goes into it, it’s kind of fun.”
I nod along, taking another bite of my corn. “And Grayson has been doing this since high school?”
“Yup. He started fixing up one of our great-grandpa’s old tractors from the 1930s. He started driving tractors when he was around twelve, I believe, and entered his first competition at fifteen.”
“Jeez, I didn’t even know you could legally drive a tractor at that age.”
Harper laughs. “Legally?” She bops her shoulders back and forth. “That’s a loose term in this town, I guess. But no one is driving out to the homesteads making sure kids aren’t driving a tractor. You do what you gotta do.”
“Was Grayson good right away?”
“He pulled each year during the summer festivals.” She points to an old wooden scoreboard across the tracks with hand-painted results, one I hadn’t noticed the entire time I’ve been sitting here. “He still holds the highest record, earned that when he was only nineteen.”
“Damn,” I mutter under my breath. “He said he hadn’t done it in a while, how come?”
She looks back to the dirt track, working her bottom lip between her teeth for a bit before answering, “Gray decided one day to take on the responsibility of the family farm and put the entire weight on his shoulders.” She sets her corn down to crack open her water, taking a drink before she continues, “He loves the farm. When we were kids, my other brothers and I used to gripe about having our set chores. Gray never did. He’d be in the barn way after he was done, checking on the animals, talking to them under his breath. You know Maple, his horse?”
I nod, my throat feeling tight as her story unfolds.
“Senior year, he was driving to school one morning, pulled into the gas station, and at the other pump was a man with a horse in a trailer. Said the horse was only a few years old but was no good, wouldn’t listen, couldn’t train her or something like that, so he was off to bring it to slaughter.” She sets her water down by her feet and reaches for her corn again. “This is fucking amazing. Anyways, Gray took one look at that horse and his big heart went out to it. He asked the man to stay, skipped school, waited for the bank to open, and cleared out his entire savings account to buy that horse.” She chuckles, and her head falls back with laughter. The movement has a few heads turning, and I wonder if she realizes the effect she has on the guys her age, or older, based on who’slooking. It’s like they’re waiting for the moment her eyes might meet theirs, that they could smile and maybe get the opportunity to talk to someone as cool as her.
