Hate You Not

Two hours after we set off in a little motor boat, we return it to the muddy pond shore, and Shawn takes me by Hardees for a “good ole artery cloggin’ biscuit,” which tastes better than I expected. We shoot the shit about football, with some lulls of silence between conversation. I feel half asleep as he drives us back toward his place.

“Wild night,” he says, shaking his head. “You fell asleep early. Or did you go do some work?”

“I didn’t get enough sleep,” I evade. “That’s for damn sure.”

Back at his place, I go to the room that’s mine for now and stretch out on the bed. This feels surreal—everything about last night.

While she slept on my chest in the back of her truck, I never even closed my eyes. Just laid there thinking, looking at the stars. I replayed what she said about her mom, and my reaction to it. It surprises me how I reacted—and I know she noticed. Usually I’ve got that shit pushed so far back, it doesn’t bubble to the surface. But things are different with her. I find that it doesn’t bother me as much as it might.

Still, it’s something I try not to think about, so having all that dust kicked up in my head makes me feel a little off.

I try to do some work, but I can’t rip my mind away from her. Gabe calls once, then texts me—call back—but…I don’t. I pace around the room, then shower, thinking about her hands and mouth and little throaty whispers. I feel different than I ever have before. It’s just…this rush.

I wonder if she feels it, too. I check my phone; she hasn’t replied. I pull on some clothes, and when I look again, there’s a text.

Hey there. I was sleeping. You went fishing… ;)

Yeah. We caught 12.

She waits a few minutes to reply—and I can see her typing. When the message comes through, I feel it like an electric jolt: When will I see you again?

Rather than reply, I get in Shawn’s Jeep and drive over. It’s a bright, clear morning with a soft breeze and birds chirping and a hazy kind of sunlight that contributes to the feeling that I’ve stepped into a dream.

By the time I park in her yard, my hands are sweating, and my heart is pounding like I’m in eighth grade. I walk slowly to the porch and stand there for a long moment before pulling the screen door open.JUNEI wake up grinning, and I can’t stop. The photo he texted is the first thing I see when I pick my phone up. I don’t reply to him for half an hour because I just want to savor this.

Burke texted me when I was sleeping. I was with him last night. He ran his hand over my hair as he left here this morning—at dawn—and that was after we kissed goodbye three times.

It’s wild and crazy stuff. Which means it’s smarter not to think too much about it.

I debate my next move only for a moment. Then I send a text that asks when I’ll see him again. If anybody knows how dangerous this is, it’s me, but I can’t seem to help myself.

I shower and throw some clothes on—my favorite soft white shirt and jean shorts—and pad out into the living room to hug the kids and thank Leah for letting me sleep in.

“Any time, babe. Auntie gotta get her Zs where she can.”

Latrice bustles in the door a minute later, her dreads piled high on her head, carrying a bag of popcorn and a plastic bag of uncooked pasta. I give her a wonky, silly frown.

She tilts her head at me in reply.

“Did you bring us some carbohydrates?” I ask.

“Did you bring me some attitude?”

She turns and rolls her eyes at Leah, and then holds her arms out to the kids. “All Latrice’s babies come and gather ’round.”

I join the kids at her side, teasing, “I’m one of your babies.”

“We don’t want you here, with that side-eye look you got on. We’ve got food to feed the piggies and some crackers for the goats.”

Turns out, pigs like popcorn and pasta. I put up a small fight—is she sure these foods are healthy for the animals?—but Latrice always wins. She shepherds the kids outside to feed Peppa, George, and P. Diddy and the newly re-named “bitches.”

“We’ll deal with the chickens and check on the horses next,” she calls over her shoulder as they go out the back door of the laundry room. “I’m needing a break.”

As they walk off, I notice that her boots are muddy. I told her not to worry with our broken disc plow until Monday when Burke had left and I could help, but I bet that stubborn hussy didn’t listen.

I check my texts there in the privacy of the now-defiled laundry room, disappointed to find that Burke hasn’t replied. I try to brace myself for if he doesn’t, but the truth is, I can’t imagine that he won’t.