SEVENTEEN
Dorothy
The cornfield eventually ends and where it ends, woods begin and I immediately miss the comfort of the crop fields. Corn I understand, woods I do not. And in a place like this, it seems twice as likely that something terrifying could reside among the trees.
I’m not about to admit it, but I’m grateful for Rook. Having another person to occupy my thoughts and to join in on conversation is enough to distract the anxiety and my wild imagination.
I don’t want to think about what kind of monsters might live in the dark Oz woods.
Instead I want to learn everything there is to learn about the handsome scarecrow.
He leans on me as we walk, but I suspect he’s holding his weight back to not overwhelm me. Still the warmth of his nearness is a welcome gift and I keep my arm firmly around his waist.
I very much do not want to notice the hard muscle beneath his jacket.
But I do.
As we walk, he asks me questions.
“What is your home like?”
Toto trots ahead to chase a firefly.
“Not too far, Toto!” To Rook, I say, “Kansas is quiet andbeautiful in its own way, but it’s landlocked. Farmland as far as the eye can see. I suppose that’s good if you enjoy farming.”
“And you don’t?”
I think of Edward and the life he’s promised me—having our own farm, a family. Do I owe it to him and myself to try to enjoy it?
“No.” The word comes out too quickly. “I mean, Kansas is home and I like home.”
“But not farming.”
“What about you?” I ask, changing the subject. “I don’t mean to pry, but I noticed you don’t have callused hands. Your nails are trimmed neatly. You must do something other than hard manual labor.”
He holds his right hand out in front of us. There are no distinguishing marks on him. No tattoos. No scars.
“You’re observant, Kansas.”
I start to correct him on my name again, but decide I don’t mind the nickname.
“Callused hands are familiar, is all.”
“How so?”
I get another flash of Edward and his rough hands on my bare thighs.
“Farms,” we say in unison, and then I laugh and he smiles and butterflies fill my stomach.
We continue walking and talking.
I tell him about Em and Henry but I find myself skirting around the topic of Edward.
What would I call him? We are more than friends, but we’ve never gone so far as to call each other boyfriend and girlfriend.
Was it just last night that he proposed to me? It seems like a month ago.
“Do you have friends here?” I ask Rook as the Yellow BrickRoad curves away from a grove of trees that shine silver in the lamppost light.
