Laura Miller - By Way of Accident

“So, you’re balin’ hay with me tomorrow?” I ask, with a wide grin spreadin’ across my face.

She rests her head sideways on her bended knees. It looks as if only her eyes are smilin’. “Yep.”

“You got any more torture-ridden interests I should know about?” I ask.

Her lips edge high up her pretty face before she shrugs her shoulders.

Oh, boy. What in the hell have I gotten myself into? I lower my head and just laugh to myself. Somehow, I know I’m in way over my head with this girl. But I guess I’m already in too deep to turn back now. In for a penny, in for a pound . That’s what my grandpa says. And anyway, it would be like findin’ a treasure in a field somewhere and then burying it and actin’ like you never found it in the first place. You just don’t forget somethin’ like her. And maybe if I would have known she’d be here yesterday, I never would have come to this creek at all. I would have saved myself from knowing the coolness her absence would inevitably leave on my skin and also in my heart just a few short months later. But then, I guess, I never would have experienced her fire either, and most importantly, I never would have known her at all. And in the end, I think that just might have been a greater burden to bear.

It’s probably only a few minutes past noon, and I’ve got the wagon hooked up to the tractor, ready for the field.

“All right, son. You ready?”

“Yep,” I say, kicking the wood block away from the wagon’s wheel.

Grandpa slowly makes his way into the tractor seat. He’s not as quick as he used to be, but he can still climb onto a tractor and chuck a bale farther than I can when he wants to. I follow behind him and climb up onto the wheel guard. And in no time, we’re headin’ down the path to the county road. We stop when we get to the road, and my cousin, Tim, hops onto the wheel guard on the other side of Grandpa. Tim is always late. Hell, I’m pretty sure he’d even be late to his own funeral.

“Phew, you ever gettin’ rid of that thing, Grandpa?” Tim waves his hand in front of his nose. Grandpa just chuckles to himself and then sets out toward the field.

Grandpa has worn the same old black leather cap probably all his life. It doesn’t matter if it’s winter or summer, he’s always got that same darn leather cap on. And apparently, it’s acquired a certain odor over the years. Tim describes it as a combination of smelly feet and skunk, but it’s never really bothered me. And plus, right now, all I can think about is Brooke. All last night and all this mornin’, she’s all I got runnin’ through my mind. In fact, I damn near almost put my boots on the wrong feet this mornin’ just thinkin’ about her. There’s a part of me that feels as if she won’t show. But then I keep tellin’ myself that she showed yesterday and that if she’s as crazy as I think she might be, she’ll be there waitin’ in the field when we get there.

“It’s hot already,” Tim shouts over the tractor’s engine.

Grandpa doesn’t seem to hear Tim. Instead, he blinks an eye and just keeps drivin’. The jury’s still out on whether Grandpa’s trouble with hearin’ is mostly selective. But I think it is.

I notice Tim starin’ at me. “Yep,” I agree, simply to please him. That would be Tim’s first hot complaint of the day. I’m prepared for about nineteen more. They’d come as sure as the sun was gonna rise in the mornin’.

We race down the dirt road. In a car, I guess we’d barely be movin’, but on top of a tractor with the wind in your face, you feel as if you’re flyin’. We eventually slow when we get to the two treads of flattened dirt that lead into the field. I grip my fingers tighter around the edge of the wheel guard as the tractor maneuvers its way over the uneven path.

“Who the hell is that?” Tim shouts all of a sudden.

Even before my eyes rush upward, somethin’ tells me I already know. And soon enough, I spot her. There she is. She’s sittin’ on a mound of dirt off to the side — just a girl with pretty long, brown hair tied back into a ponytail sittin’ in a field waitin’ to do somethin’ she thinks is gonna be fun.

“Well, I’ll be,” I say to myself, without even thinkin’.

I doubt anybody hears me. Grandpa doesn’t say anything. I know he saw her; he looked up when Tim opened his big mouth. He sure as hell heard that. Yep, it’s definitely selective.

Grandpa pulls the tractor and wagon into the field and hits the brakes. As soon as he does, Tim and I jump off.

“Hey, who do you think that is?” Tim asks, jabbin’ an elbow into my ribs. His eyes are almost fallin’ out of his darn head.

“It’s Brooke,” I say. “She wants to help.”

“Bale hay?” he asks, his face twisting into a big mess.

I look at him and shrug my shoulders. “I know. I couldn’t believe it myself.”

“Wait. Who’s Brooke?” His face is contorted into a big question mark.

“Help Grandpa get the baler hooked up. I’ll tell ya later.”

Tim doesn’t say anything. He just keeps starin’ at Brooke like she might disappear if he blinks or somethin’.

“Go,” I say, shovin’ his shoulder.

“Okay, okay.” He walks off, rubbing his arm.

I watch him for a few heartbeats just to make sure he keeps movin’ before I turn and make my way over to Brooke.

She stands and dusts off the back of her jeans when she notices me makin’ my way toward her.

“You came.” It’s like a statement and a question all rolled into one.

“Yeah. I said I would, didn’t I?”

I refit my cap over my head. I’m beginning to think it’s a nervous habit. “I just thought once you found out what it was, you wouldn’t want anything to do with it.”

She rolls her eyes but keeps her little smile. “For your information, I did look it up. And I’m still here. So don’t underestimate me, River…?”

She glares at me as if she’s waitin’ for somethin’.

“Oh,” I say. “Asher. River Asher.”

“Asher,” she repeats.

She pushes past me and starts walkin’ toward the tractor. Today, she’s wearin’ long, tight jeans that show off her great ass — ets. Jeez, now I don’t know which I like better — the shorts or the pants. And she’s got these black combat-boot-lookin’ things on her feet and a little black top with no sleeves coverin’ her top half. Damn it. I should have told her to wear somethin’ with sleeves. Man, I can’t believe I’m even thinkin’ that. An image of her wearing her bikini yesterday pops into my head. And even though it’s just an image, I trace every inch of her curves. This girl’s not made for long jeans or long sleeves — or long anything — but if she’s gonna survive today, she’s gonna need both the pants and the sleeves.

I catch back up to her and unbutton my shirt. “Here,” I say, pullin’ it off and handin’ it to her. “Wear this.”

You would have thought I handed her a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles costume or somethin’ by the way she scowls at the shirt. “What? Why?”

“The hay’ll scratch up your arms.”

She looks suspicious and maybe a little nervous. It’s a cute combination. But she takes the shirt regardless and slowly forces her arms through it, buttons it and then ties a knot at the bottom. And right then, I wish Tim wasn’t helpin’ today. He’s only a year younger than me, and I just know I’ll spend the whole day fightin’ his stares off her.

“Ready?” I ask.

She looks down at herself and then back up at me and smiles. “Let’s bale some hay.”

I laugh and shake my head at the same time. I really hope she doesn’t hate me after today. I’ve done all I could to warn her.