Big Man

It’s not simple, anyway. It’s not easy to understand. It’s not feeding yourself off the fruits of your labor—except maybe metaphorically, with all the money I make from being a desk jockey, running errands and playing glorified secretary. I feel like I’ve been lost behind a computer screen for the last few years, and only now am I waking up to it. Remembering what life used to be like a million years ago… before.

Before I let the stress get to me, start dictating my life. Before I let other people control everything—my schedule, my plans, my happiness.

Back when things, just like life on this farm, were simpler.

“You doing okay, City Girl?” Grant asks, tugging on my hand a little. I realize I’ve been lagging behind him, my feet slowing as I tilt my head back to take in the sky, the stars, the endless expanse above us.

I shake myself and jog a few steps to catch up with him. “Doing just fine,” I say.

“Not too dirty and messy for you?” he asks. I know he’s joking now. He’s seen how down and dirty I’m willing to get.

In more ways than one.

“Never,” I promise, and he laughs softly.

Then we round the corner, past the fields, toward the trees that edge the borderline of Mama’s property, and I gasp.

I don’t know how he set this up. He must have taken a while, snuck out in between projects back at the house somehow. My eyes widen, taking it in. He’s built a whole tent out here—not a simple pitch tent either, but a big billowing thing made of silk, taller than both of us, with open sides. In the center is a little fire pit, and there is a tray, with all the ingredients for s’mores arranged on it. Not to mention, a little bucket of ice with a bottle of wine cooling in it.

“I know you’re used to the finer things in life,” he’s saying. “I just wanted to point out that you don’t have to be fancy to know how to pamper someone properly.”

I laugh, not sure what to say. Not sure what this feeling is beating in my chest, as he kneels down on the blanket he’s laid out as the base of the tent and sets about building up the fire.

The peak of the tent stands out stark white against the night sky, stars twinkling all across the background. It looks like something out of a movie or a painting. It looks fake, all of this. Too pretty to be real. Especially when he gets the fire going and beckons me down to his side.

I drop down beside him, snuggle in next to him as we listen to crickets in the distance. Fireflies wink here and there over the field, and we hear the soft hoots of owls, the distant reverberations of frogs somewhere in the forest, where there’s a little stream that runs past the property. I breathe in deep, savoring the scent of the fire crackling away merrily at our feet, mingled with the cool, crisp fall air, so fresh that I can’t believe I ever thought I could breathe properly at home. You never notice things like that—stale, muggy, smog-choked air—until you’re away from it. Until real fresh air fills your lungs, and suddenly you realize what you’ve been missing.

It’s not just the air I’ve been missing, I realize.

Grant hands me a stick, a marshmallow already speared on its tip, and I grin at him. Huddled up beside him, wrapped in the blanket that he tugs up over our knees, I set about toasting this marshmallow to perfection. He’s a burner—he just sets his on fire, blows it out a few times, and calls it a day. Me, I like to slowly toast it. Get all the sides evenly browned before I slide it off the stick onto the chocolate-covered graham crackers to make the sandwich.

“You’re such a perfectionist,” he accuses me, and I elbow him, eying his attempts.

“You’re so lazy,” I counter.

“Not lazy.” He takes a huge bite, chases it with a sip of the wine he’s poured for us both. “Just practical. I get things done, you know.”

I laugh. “I’ve noticed. You’re making good headway back at the house.”

“Can’t say you haven’t been a big help, City Girl. Despite appearances.”

I snort and roll my eyes. “What, like I can’t do work just because I dress fancy?”

“You can’t blame me for making assumptions.”

“Sure I can. Why are you so biased against city people anyway?”

“Why are you so biased against everyone in this town?” He raises an eyebrow.

I bite my lip. Fair. “They never liked me,” I reply, shaking my head.

“That so?”

“I mean… I don’t know. I was never super close with anyone here.”

“So that’s their fault then?”

I laugh. “No. I just didn’t jive. I wasn’t built for this life.”