He’s quiet for a moment or two. Something settles over his expression, and he’s looking at me differently. Mostly with pity. It’s pathetic, I know, to have come all this way completely unannounced and uninvited. To think that he might fall into my arms in gratitude and tell me everything is okay, pal. You’re all right, pal. I was just sending you a telegram,pal.
But I want to hear him say it all the same. Call me his pal once again, because then it would mean this wasn’t all to just humiliate me. That he’s at least somewhat pleased that I tried.
He looks me over for a moment or two, thoughtfully. “Let me show you something.”
He walks off and I follow. We get to a little creek cutting through a meadow. Beside the creek is a tall willow tree, picturesque. Almost something I can imagine in a magical forest. Asher parts the hanging leaves like a curtain and stands with one hand against the trunk.
He looks out over the water for a few seconds, and then he turns to me. “This was my favorite spot. When I was a kid.” He nods to the creek. “It was pretty in the evenings.” His voice gets softer. “The sun setting over there and the water sparkling in it. It was nice.”
I stand closer to him, our shoulders touching. It takes me a minute to absorb. To consider him out here, noticing how light sparkles off water, and that he’s showing me and telling me. I think about us at that cabin by the lake and wish we could be alone again, escaped.
It almost feels that way now.
The back of my hand brushes against his knuckles. His hand is warm, and it twitches away from mine, instinctively. He looks around us before his gaze lands on me. “There are memories here. Good and bad. I wanted you to see a good one.”
I nod slowly.
“I didn’t plan for any of this.” He looks out over the fields again. “But I’m glad I came home. To see how it all went on.” He swallows, and I feel a sting in the pit of my stomach. “Their lives just went on.”
Tentatively, I flex my fingers outward and slip them through his.
“One son left. Maybe it was all they needed,” he mutters, like he’s talking only to himself.
His hand doesn’t move away and to be touching him after all this makes my stomach flutter. His hands are so rough, working hands, hands that do things, hands that touched me in places no one else ever has.
“Their lives might have gone on,” I say, inching closer to him, “but I’m sure they missed you.”
He pulls his hand away from mine like a reflex. “I’ve got some work to do.” He starts walking off, then he stops, lingering. He looks back at me. “I have to clean out the stables later. If you want to come. You don’t have to help or anything…just if you want to.”
His mouth is a hard line, but there’s gentleness in his eyes.
“Okay,” I say to him and follow along behind him back to his childhood home.
The smell of horse shit is pungent.
I sit on the edge of a fence between the stables and a field where a couple of the horses are grazing. Asher pushes a wheelbarrow back and forth, carrying fresh hay, emptying it, then carrying some more. He makes it look easy. Fascinating.
The air is thick with humidity. I look up and squint at approaching storm clouds. As I gaze around me, it’s altogether difficult and easy to imagine him growing up here. Difficult because it’s such a wholesome place. The kind of place where motorcycles and leather jackets spell trouble. But it’s easy because it’s labor. Hard labor and the way he does it is just as stern and exacting as I’d imagine Javert would do it. I watch his biceps bunch under his shirt sleeves and sweat drip down his brow. He’s totally lost to the rhythm of it, completely forgotten, perhaps, that I’m here.
It feels voyeuristic, as if I’m watching the kind of moment fellas pay to see at those places in the city. Red lights flashing outside, the silhouette of a lady, the glimpse of knee-high stockings. He goes about his labor as if it’s no big deal. There’s nothing to contain him out here, yet he’s contained. Nothing to interrupt him, yet he’s intruded upon.
But there’s been no more talk of me leaving, at least.
There’s a crack of thunder behind me. Still distant, but loud. One of the horses makes a noise, and I turn. I watch it trot over to the other horse, then they both break into a gallop. They’re contained inside the fence, so they run around it like a racetrack. There’s a flash at the corner of my eye, and when I turn to it, I lose my balance and fall back, landing in the grass, almost upside down.
I’m disoriented for a moment, my feet are over my head, like I’m going to do a backward somersault. Then I hear pounding in my ears. Getting closer and closer. There’s a hand grabbing at me, turning me upright, and pulling me underneath the fence. I slide under the wood and grass and Asher pulls me over to the stables, his hands on my shoulders as he turns to watch the horses gallop past. When he turns to me, his face is full of panic, his eyes wide.
He pulls his gloves off, tosses them aside, and puts his hands around my face. “Are you okay?” They’re shaking. “Are you hurt?” His tone is clipped.
“No,” I reply. “I don’t think so.”
But he clenches my face, his fingertips digging into my scalp. Then he feels around on me, my arms, my back. “Are you sure?” Panic makes his voice rise. “Did you break anything?”
“I’m sure,” I say.
He’s trembling, his eyes watery. The sky unleashes just then, and rain pours all over us, making my shirt stick to my skin. He pulls me inside the stables and pushes me up against the wall, hands on either side of my head, his eyes searing into mine. His breath is quick. In and out of his nostrils. I’m afraid he’s hyperventilating, so I reach out to him and wrap him in an embrace.
“It’s all right,” I whisper. “I’m all right, Asher.”
