By Way of Accident

by Laura Miller

  “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.

  We walk back over to the tractor. Grandpa and Tim have the baler and wagon ready to go already.

  “Grandpa, this is Brooke.”

  Grandpa smiles at Brooke and then touches his fingers to the brim of his old cap and nods.

  “That means he really likes you,” I whisper into her ear.

  She blushes a little, and if I’m not mistaken, a tiny bit of shyness shines through that brave smile of hers.

  I lead her over to the wagon then, and when we reach the edge, I jump on first before offering her my hand. She doesn’t hesitate as she lays her hand in mine. It’s the first time I’ve ever touched her. She steps up onto the tongue of the wagon, and then I pull her up. But all I can think about is how soft her hand is. I pray a little silent prayer that it’s not the last time I get to hold it.

  “Tim, this is Brooke.”

  Tim’s posted up at the back of the wagon. He looks more skittish than a squirrel tryin’ to steal some birdseed off the porch, but he manages a hi nonetheless.

  “Hi,” Brooke says.

  “Tim, give Brooke your gloves.”

  He looks longingly at his gloves. I can tell he contemplates what will happen if he doesn’t do what I tell him to do. But then, I’m also sure he’s considering the fate of his hands as well. But after a moment, he starts to slide the gloves off one by one.

  “No, it’s okay...,” Brooke says, holding out her palm.

  I snatch the gloves from Tim and hand them to her. “You’ll thank me later,” I say, giving her a confident wink.

  She looks a little worried as she smiles and whispers a thank you to Tim before slippin’ the gloves over her soft hands. The gloves are old and frayed, and they look huge on her. In fact, they make her hands look like that Stay Puft Marshmallow Man’s hands in the Ghostbusters, but she could wear the whole darn marshmallow suit and still be just as cute, I think.

  “Okay, you wanna help me stack. “Tim’ll pull ‘em off.”

  “Okay,” she says, nodding. She looks a little unsure of her next move, but she’s wearin’ a smile nonetheless.

  Grandpa looks back one more time before he takes off with the tractor and the baler, jerking the wagon back. And the next thing I know his shirt hits me in the face. I peel it off and then catch him grinnin’ as he turns the tractor to make the first round. I just smile and force my arms through the shirt’s holes. It’s a little big, but it does the trick of coverin’ my arms just fine.

  I find Brooke again. She’s holdin’ onto the wooden slats of the wagon, steadying herself as the wheels hit uneven patches of dirt. “You still want to do this?” I ask. I figure I’d give her one last chance to back out.

  She gives me a devilish grin and then nods her head. Hot damn. She might be crazy, but hell, maybe crazy’s my type. I just can’t seem to get enough of her—or her daring smiles.

  The first bale comes out. Tim snatches it up and throws it back to us. I take it and start a row with it in the back of the wagon. Then I go for the next one Tim throws our way, but a pair of big, round marshmallow hands beat me to it. I back off and let her take the bale. She picks it up and scoots it next to the first one. She struggles a little, but she’s surprisingly stronger than she looks.

  We keep it up like that for the most part. When two bales come out pretty close together, I’ll take one in each hand and stack them to give her a little break. But the whole time, she never complains once. The sun’s beatin’ down on us, and it’s as hot as hell out here, but she never says a word about it. She just wipes her forehead every once in a while and then just keeps goin’. Hell, Tim’s been doin’ this for years now, and he can’t stop complainin’. And I try not to think about how much hell I’m gonna catch when Tim’s blisters start showin’ up on his hands in a day. But then I guess it’s probably good for him. If you never get blisters, your hands never get tough. I’ve been tellin’ him that for years.

  We eventually get the field done. It’s a small field, so it’s not even a whole load, but with the heat, it pretty much feels as if it might as well have been. I unhitch the baler, and Tim and I hook the wagon back up to the tractor, and then I climb back up onto a bale next to Brooke. Once I get settled, I hand her my water thermos. She takes it without any hesitations and drinks down what looks like half of it. She tips it up too much at one point, and some water trickles down her lips and chin and eventually slides down her neck and past the pl
ace covered up by my long-sleeved shirt. It’s a miracle that while watching that drop of water slide farther down her body, I notice out of the corner of my eye Tim starin’ at her too. I kick him in the shin. He sends me a mean look and then goes to rubbin’ his leg.

  “Thanks,” Brooke says, handing me back the thermos and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She’s no longer wearin’ the marshmallow gloves.

  Tim doesn’t say anything to Brooke the whole ride back to the barn. He’s definitely in rare form, and it must be killin’ him. He’s always got at least thirty questions for every new person. But if I’m not mistaken, I’d have to say that little shit is scared to death of her. Then again, I guess I’m not that much better.

  We get to the barn, and Grandpa stops the tractor and wagon right next to the two hayloft doors.

  “We can do this part. It won’t take long if you wanna go rest in the shade,” I say to Brooke, pointing to a spot under an old maple tree.

  “Are you resting in the shade?” she asks.

  “No, I’ve gotta help Ti... Oh,” I say, stopping mid-thought.

  She smiles at my understanding, and I just shake my head. “You wanna help Tim put the bales on the elevator then?”

  She doesn’t answer. She just slips her big gloves back on and grabs a bale.

  ***

  Tim and Brooke send the last bale up the elevator, and I grab it and stack it on top of the others in the corner. Then I jump down from the loft and land on my feet and onto a patch of dust and loose hay.

  “I see why you’d want to cool off after that,” she says, eyeing me. “You do this every day?”

  “Bale?” I ask.

  She nods her head.

  “Naw,” I say, “not every day.”

  I look over at her. The poor girl looks exhausted.

  “Farming’s a lot of work,” she says.

  I just smile at her. “Yeah, it is.”

  She pulls off her gloves and swipes her forehead with the back of her wrist. I ain’t never seen sweat look so good on someone.

  “You wanna cool off?” I ask her.

  I catch Grandpa’s eyes on me out of the corner of my own. He smiles before he starts makin’ his way up to the house. Nosy old fart.

  “Yeah,” she agrees. “Let’s cool off.”

  I notice Tim under that old maple tree lookin’ as if he’s on his last leg, as usual. He’s sippin’ out of his thermos. I’d ask him if he wants to come too, but I really don’t want him along, and anyway, he’s always too tired to make the walk to the creek. It’s only half a mile, but he acts as if it’s halfway around the world.

  “Let’s go,” I say.

  We start walkin’, and we get barely ten feet before I realize I don’t even know this girl’s full name.

  “What’s your last name?”

  “Sommerfield,” she says before she takes off runnin’. “Race you, farm boy.”

  Before I can even realize what’s goin’ on, she’s already got a good head start on me. I take off after her, and I don’t even catch her until right before she makes it to the bank of the creek. Damn, this girl’s fast, and it looks as if balin’ hay did little to slow her down. She pauses only to pull off her boots before she jumps right in—feet first, clothes and all. I can’t get my boots unlaced fast enough before I’m kickin’ mine off too and jumpin’ in after her.

  Her pretty voice is hitchin’ in laughter by the time I hit the water. And I don’t know why, but I start laughin’ too.

  “Brooke.”

  She stops and just looks at me with the biggest smile on her face.

  “I ain’t never met a girl like you.” I don’t know why, but I just feel as if I need to say it.

  She drops her eyes before she returns them to me. And I swear in that moment, I’m hers. For the rest of this beautiful life, I’m hers.

  “Well, I’ve never met a boy like you before either.”

  I shake my head. “I’m just ordinary.” I feel the need to tell her that too—before she finds it out herself.

  “No,” she says. “Nobody’s ordinary, River.”

  I’m not sure what she means by that, but I do notice she’s still smilin’. And I don’t know what gets into me. I don’t know what courage I muster up or where from all of a sudden, but when I look into her eyes again, I just know that I’m starin’ into the eyes of a girl I don’t think I’ll ever forget. And with that thought, I lean in, and I plant a kiss on her lips. And that’s it—I don’t rest my hand on her cheek or stare into her eyes, like they do in the movies. It’s not planned or thought out. It’s just a short kiss onto her soft lips—and then I pull away. But still, somethin’ like fire shoots through me. And that becomes the single-most greatest moment of my entire short life. I don’t even care if she slaps me next or knees me in the balls. Okay, maybe I do care a little about the balls part. But the bottom line is that if I did die tonight in my sleep—like in my grandma’s old, scary prayer—I know now what I would miss about life. I would miss Brooke Sommerfield, and I would miss this moment.

  I stand there in the water just as happy as can be as I await my fate—and whether it be the hand or the knee. I’m nervous when she opens her eyes. Her dark hair is wet and slicked back, and there are tiny drops of water hangin’ on her long eyelashes. And she’s lookin’ at me like she’s studying me. I hope she likes what she sees because my luck’s gotta be runnin’ short soon.

  “What was that for?” she asks.

  I just shake my head. I can’t find one explanation that sounds good enough in my mind.

  “For balin’ hay,” I say. “For wanting to bale hay. For showin’ up. For your green and gray eyes. For your pretty smile. For the way you look at me like you know what I’m thinkin’. ...And because it’s Wednesday.”

  Her green eyes burn into mine. They almost look unnatural for a person, I think. It’s as if she’s of the wild or somethin’. And my mind’s goin’ all sorts of crazy just thinkin’ about her. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I want more of her. I want more of her lips. I want more of her soft skin. But I also want to run because I know you can’t trust anything from the wild—even if it is pretty. And somethin’ about thinkin’ those two things—that I want more and that I want to run—at the same time makes me want to lay her down on that bank and kiss every part of her body—even if I lose my life to a beautiful wild creature in the process.

  “Because it’s Wednesday?” she asks, snappin’ me out of my crazy thoughts.

  I just smile at her and let my shoulders rise and then fall.

  “What happens Thursdays around here?” she asks.

  Hell if I know. I’ve never kissed anyone just because it was Wednesday before.

  “I guess you’ll have to find out.”

  Did I just say that?

  She lowers her eyes and laughs softly to herself. “Okay,” she says, slowly nodding and eventually meeting my stare again. “Tomorrow,” she says, unbuttoning the shirt I lent her. I try to tell her it’s okay—that she can keep it—but nothin’ comes out. Instead, I just watch her fingers dance around each button. And then she carefully slides the wet shirt off and holds it out to me. I instinctively take it.

  “Thanks,” she says, before she turns and starts to make her way slowly out of the creek. “You were right. I did need it.”

  I’m tryin’ to think of somethin’ clever to say. Hell, anything at all would be nice, but my mind can’t get past her lips and that smile and the way her wet clothes cling to every part of her body.

  Then, all of a sudden, she stops and turns back toward me. “Tomorrow evening?”

  I nod my head and miraculously find the willpower to at least repeat her words.

  “Tomorrow evening,” I confirm with a nod.

  Tomorrow and the tomorrow after that and then the tomorrow after that too—I’d come back for her. In fact, I’m pretty sure I don’t have enough tomorrows to give to this pretty girl because there’s this sinkin’ feelin’ in the back of my m
ind. It keeps tellin’ me there’s gonna come a time when there will be no tomorrows left. And it will come fast, and it will come hard, and I will hate every painful second of it.

  Chapter Four

  It’s My Kansas Thing

  I’m not sure what time the evening starts exactly, and I’m pretty sure it’s not three o’clock, but just in case it is, I’m here—waitin’ for her. I brought my fishin’ pole, so I can pass the time fishin’ and thinkin’—two things my grandpa says will calm even the most anxious of men. And right now, I’m pretty anxious. I know she’ll show. But I think that’s what makes me even more nervous. I know that at any minute she’s gonna come walkin’ out of that brush and over to me. Every time the thought comes to my mind, my heart races and my palms get sweaty. I have to rub them against my jeans every once in a while just so the fishin’ pole doesn’t slip right out of my dang hands. But I can’t stop thinkin’ about her. All day, I think about her. I’m beginning to think there’s somethin’ wrong with me. I’ve never thought about a person so much.

  After about an hour of pretendin’ to fish, I hear some rustlin’ off to my left. I look up and catch her pawin’ through the dirt and sticks. There go my palms gettin’ sweaty again. I swallow the lump in my throat and try to slow my heart down. And before I know it, she’s sittin’ down next to me.

  “Hi.” Her smile spreads wide across her pretty face.

  “Hi,” I say back, reeling in the fishin’ line. I can feel her watching me. I hope she can’t see how nervous I am.

  “You always wear that baseball cap?”

  I get the line reeled in, and I set the pole onto the ground next to me before I touch the bill of my cap. “Pretty much, I guess. I kinda feel naked without it.”

  She laughs. I’m happy I made her laugh.

  “My momma says marrying-men wear hats,” she says. “My dad wears a cowboy hat most days.”

  “Oh, I ain’t never gettin’ married.” I don’t know why I blurt it out. It’s just one of those things I’ve decided, and when you’re thirteen, you don’t have much decided yet, so I’m pretty proud of it.