Big Man

I wanted to kiss him. I wanted more. I never had the nerve.

I reach out and brush the tree trunk.

SB

GW

Right there in front of me. The evidence I’d been looking for all along. Grant and I used to be close.

But he abandoned me first. He started hanging with another crowd, stopped coming over to the farm. He never kissed me. That’s the part that really rankles. He never took this chance when he had it.

Then I came back, gave him another chance all over again, and he got angry.

Angry because he thought I forgot him. He believed the same thing I did. I thought he forgot, he thought I forgot…

No wonder he’s pissed, I realize. It’s the same reason I was so angry at first.

Suddenly, it all makes sense. A little too much sense, and it makes my skin itch, to know that I’ve hurt him, too.

I trace my fingers across those initials, over and over.

Deep down, I’d always believed Dad was right about this town. This place is a waste, I remember him shouting at Mama, late at night after they both thought I was in bed. The year before he left. The year he traveled all the time, tried not to come home at all if he could help it. The year he spent trying to talk Mama into leaving with him. But she wouldn’t budge.

This is my home, she said. I like this life.

I can’t stand it, he’d always say. How can you live like this, cooped up? Trapped? There’s a whole world out there. Opportunities! We could make so much more money doing the same thing we do in a bigger city, out in the Midwest…

I believed him. Deep down, even though he’s the one that threw us out, ran away… I always believed he was right. I left here as soon as I could, went chasing my dreams. Success, money, my big-shot career. That was what life was about. That was what was important.

No one would ever abandon me again, as long as I had those things.

But that hasn’t proven true. Guys have dumped me, and I’ve dumped guys, over and over. I’ve never really connected with anyone I’ve dated, not long-term, not enough to trust them to stick around.

And my money, my career? What has that brought me? A whole lot of anxiety about getting more. More money, a better career, the next promotion, and then the next and the next and the next. I’m never satisfied with what I have. I always want more, but more doesn’t satiate me either.

Maybe less is what I really want. Maybe less is actually more, in the grand scheme of things…

I turn away from the tree to squint back at the house. The farm house where Mama grew up, and her parents before her. The farm that’s been in our family since as far back as Mama knew to tell me about.

There’s a light on in the living room. I can’t make out anything more, but I figure Grant must be inside somewhere. Showering or sleeping, if he’s angry enough.

I take a deep breath of the fresh air. Hope that it clears my head enough to say what I want to say without stammering, losing my place, getting distracted.

I cross the lawn and quietly turn the handle on the front door. Step into the living room. He’s not there, but the kitchen light is on too. I follow that to find him still in his work clothes, chopping vegetables on the counter, his shoulders taut with tension. There’s already something bubbling on the stove beside him. Dinner, probably, or lunch for tomorrow. He always cooks when he’s upset.

Strange that I know that already. Strange how fast I’ve gotten to know him. But then again, maybe not strange at all, given how well we knew each other before. It was only a couple of summers that we hung out, but it was long enough. I’m the same girl, and he’s the same guy.

I step up beside him.

“Hey.”

He keeps chopping the vegetables, quiet, unresponsive. But he’s listening, at least.

“I thought you forgot me,” I say. “I believed the same thing you did.”

He turns to look at me then, but his dark eyes are unreadable. Inscrutable in this low light. When he finally speaks, his voice is low. Full of pain. “How could I possibly forget you, Sasha?”

I press my lips together, a tight line. “You abandoned me first, Grant. You started hanging out with the jocks, stopped coming by the farm. Never asked me to any of the school dances, never kissed me, when there were so many chances, late at night out watching the stars…”

“I wanted to kiss you every single one of those times,” he finishes, eyes still locked on mine. Then he sighs and tears them away, shoulders still tense. “I didn’t have the guts. I thought you weren’t interested, anyway—you were hanging out with the artsy crowd, never asked me over—”