“Try me.” She glowers at me, and for a moment I think it might actually be possible for someone to trigger a heart attack. If anyone could do it, it would be her.
I grumble again, loudly and dramatically, as I slide out of the Jeep. Gravel crunches under my feet as I land with a thud. Ungraceful, that’s my style. I don’t know how to walk forward, so I just stand there, blocking the sun with my hand. Malcolm’s silhouette comes into focus, muscles at peak performance after the ax wielding.
I can’t do this.
I reach for the door handle to the Jeep, but Lola has already locked the doors. She smiles innocently at me and then proceeds to back out of the driveway. The woman is leaving me here.
“You gonna chase after her?” Malcolm calls to me as I stay firmly planted in place.
Chasing after her might be an option.
Alright, don’t be ridiculous. Just go talk to him, the voice from last night echoes in my head. I replay the sound again, noting a familiar depth and drawl to it.
My grandpa’s voice. It comes from deep in the back of my mind, nudging my feet forward.
“Gosh, where did you come from?” I quietly ask the voice, which is technically asking myself, since it’s my brain talking to me.
Malcolm watches me warily, looking from my face down to my slow, shuffling feet.Let him love you,Grandpa whispers to me.
“You good?” Malcolm asks. He glistens in the afternoon sun as beads of sweat cling to his forehead and neck.
“I, uh…don’t know.”
He raises an eyebrow at me. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Feels like it,” I joke half-heartedly. I can’t really tell him my grandpa has decided to start talking to me from the great beyond…and that's the only advice I’ve truly needed this entire time. That’s not crazy at all.
“Well, then…” He pauses, dropping the ax to the ground and grabbing the hand towel tucked in his pocket. Please don’t dab yourself right now. “How are you?” he asks with a dab to his chest, then neck, and then a wipe to his face.
“Well, other than being forced here against my will, I’m fine.” My mouth feels dry, as if him wiping himself has the ability to strip my tongue of any and all moisture.
“I see…” He pauses. “Well, if you don’t want to talk…” His voice is thick and hesitant as he saunters off to grab a feed bucket and heads toward the back of his house.
“Ugh, I do! I just don’t know what to say.” I follow him as he heads toward his chicken coop that is now overflowing with almost fifty chickens. “Whoa. Where did these guys come from?” Last I checked, he only had thirty or so. I lean over the edgeof the gate surrounding the coop and start counting. Malcolm hands me the bucket, and out of habit, I toss feed in for the little chicklets.
“Nugget!” Malcolm whistles, and our pride and joy rounds the corner of the coop. The oldest and most senile chicken of the group. The chicken he denies trying to kidnap from me five years ago. I swear I see the other chickens part like the Red Sea to let her through. Malcolm gives her a piece of melon and scratches the top of her head.
“Spoiled,” I giggle, rolling my eyes and emptying the bucket for the others.
A beat of silence passes, and I realize Malcolm isn’t going to force this conversation. I have to take the leap, or we will be on this carousel of silent feelings for the rest of our lives.
“So…” I drag out the word, “how’s it going?” I lean against the gate as gracefully as I can, but it's flimsy, so I lose my balance and almost fall into the coop.
Malcolm grabs me by the elbow to steady me. “Careful there, Stanley.”
His hand lingers on my elbow, soft and gentle. I glance down and see his thumb twitch against my skin before moving down my arm and resting at my wrist. A shiver moves up my arm and across my sternum in response.
I suck in a breath. “I don’t want to lose you.”
Encircling his hand around my wrist, he doesn’t look at me. Eyes pinned on our hands, he lets out a shaky sigh. “Me either.”
The truth sizzles inside me, waiting to be unleashed, but I feel distracted. I squeeze my eyes shut and block everything out—the feel of his fingers grazing my palm right now, the taste of his lips as they pressed into mine, the sound of his rumbly morning voice—all of it, I block.
“Are you processing?” Malcolm asks, because clearly he can read my mind and probably knows everything I was just thinking.
“Yes,” I mumble. “I just…ugh, I just can’t lose you, Malcolm. I physically can’t.” My words are weak and vulnerable, and I hate it. The goal of being a strong, independent woman deciding her own future feels so far away. I didn’t want to be that person who clings to another person so much. All that’s ever done is get me heartbroken.
“You won’t.” Malcolm’s hands are on my shoulders now, gripping me as he rubs his thumbs back and forth.
