by Liora Blake
Unfortunately, his gaze has started to drift down the front of my body in a measured inspection, and any instinct I had to mock is long gone. Then he starts to roll the little nub of wood between his thumb and middle finger, with a gentle dexterity that makes my mouth go dry.
His obscene handling of the twig stops and he places it back in my pocket. This time his touch feels like it’s everywhere, even if he’s only lightly tracing the center of my chest before dragging his fingers slowly across my collarbone.
“Now. What about that gift shop? I’m ready to buy up some souvenirs.”
7
(Whitney)
In the root cellar, a large building set on the north side of my property, the clean dirt smell inside is almost refreshing. Heavy fieldstones cover the outside and the rear portion is set back into a large berm of earth, keeping the inside cool and dry. The space is bigger than a typical root cellar, with tall shelves lining each of the walls, and the top ones are high enough that I can reach them only with a stepladder. The few remaining crates of late-season apples are stacked along one shelf, mostly an heirloom called Hubbardston Nonesuch—little beauties that most people haven’t heard of, but inevitably fall in love with.
Cooper strolls around and peeks in the crates, hands shoved in his pockets, but doesn’t touch anything.
“Try one.” I point to one of the crates.
“You sure?”
“I do grow them for people to eat.”
He reaches in and plucks one out, a tiny Nonesuch with multi-toned red skin that hints at its long history—heirloom fruit that looks appropriately artisan, untouched by the manufactured perfection of Big Ag seed science. After a quick turn of it in his hand and a swipe across his jeans to polish the skin clean, when he bites into it, I automatically swell up with excitement. It’s silly, but I love this moment. The first bite someone takes, the sound of how crisp it is, the way I can almost taste it along with him. It’s pride and delight, all wrapped up in someone else’s taste buds. In this case, we have the added bonus that it’s Cooper’s mouth on my fruit. That mouth, my fruit.
When he mumbles through a mouthful, the whole scene gets even better.
“That’s awesome.” He pulls the fruit back from his mouth, staring at the space he just bit into with the coolest kind of awe on his normally pouty face. Another bite. Another mumbling. “Seriously. Fucking. Good.”
The small size means he’s done in five bites and when he looks slightly disappointed that he’s finished, now holding just a well-bitten core in his hand, I consider stalking over there and kissing him. For a whole host of reasons, but mostly because it’s nice to remember why I put so much into this now sinking ship of a life. Maybe I didn’t go into it with the best plan, maybe I threw myself almost blindly into this, but I gave it my whole heart. However this ends, I’ll have that as a takeaway.
I drag an empty milk crate over from one dark corner of the room and set it in front of the shelves where jars of canned apple butter are stored. When I step up and reach out to the top shelf, the height forces me to one foot, on tiptoe. The precarious stance means most of my body weight tips to one side and I didn’t quite set my feet in the center of the crate, so it jumps a little and I have to grab the edge of the shelf to balance myself. I’m far too familiar with this hazardous dance, but I never seem to remember that the crate is a tipsy perch.
This time, I don’t particularly need the shelf, because before I’ve really grabbed on, I spy Cooper tossing his apple core onto one of the low shelves, then latching his hands on my hips, firmly.
“Get down.”
I wave him away once I have my balance, twisting my midsection a bit to indicate that I don’t need his hands there anymore. “I got it. I do this all the time.”
“That doesn’t make it a good idea.”
He wraps one sturdy arm entirely around my waist and proceeds to swing my body off the milk crate, placing me back on the ground. I feign dusting off my overalls—of imaginary cooties or dirt, perhaps a few strong-man-hands-induced tingles.
“Grabby, much? I’m not a football you can just toss around at your leisure.”
“I wasn’t tossing you around. Just tell me what you were trying to reach for. I’ll get it.”
I point to the uppermost shelves. “Your precious apple butter is in those boxes.”
When he steps like a sure-footed mountain goat onto the crate and easily pulls a box down, I decide this is a perfectly fine turn of events. Strong jawline, yes, but Cooper from this angle is also a damn fine sight. He steps down just as effortlessly and stands there with the box in his hands, looking down into the contents.
“These? They don’t have those labels on them.”
“I know. All those boxes up there are like that. I just got a new shipment of labels, but I haven’t dragged these inside yet to put them on.”
He looks down at the box in his hands, and then back up at the others. “I’ll carry them in for you. All of the boxes on the top shelf?”
“No, no. Just grab as many jars as you want to take home and set that box there. I’ll deal with the rest later. I’ve got a fall farmers’ market in Grand Junction this weekend, so I’ll make some time to get this handled before then.”
“Or,” Cooper shrugs, “I could help you now. I’m here, and I’ve got the time and the arms to heft them inside for you.”
“No, it’s fine. I don’t need your help—”
Words are useless, apparently. He’s already walking away, ducking down a bit to clear the low doorway of the root cellar, calling back over his shoulder.
“In the kitchen? On the table?”
I let my shoulders sag. Stubborn man. Nice, yes. Hot and helpful, also yes. But so, so stubborn. I don’t even bother answering. Pretty sure he’ll just do what the hell he wants, anyway.
Ten boxes later, Cooper strolls up onto the front porch and deftly uses just one finger to pull open the rickety screen door before stomping into the house to unload the last box. I’ve lingered behind to shut and latch the root cellar door, just as a faded red Ford truck with a lift kit rumbles into the driveway, a little faster than advisable, loud exhaust growling exaggeratedly in its wake. Tanner Euland rolls to a stop right beside to the enormous black Dodge that Cooper parked next to my truck, and gives me a wave before getting out.
“I hope your dad didn’t change his mind and send you to negotiate a refund on my Polaris, Tanner.”
Tanner unfolds his large frame—he’s both tall and bulky, the way I’m sure his dad was at that age, before too many years of beer got ahold of the bulk—from the driver side and laughs.
“No, ma’am.”
I absolutely adore that he calls me ma’am. Mostly because there isn’t the least bit of condescension in his tone; he isn’t some smart-mouthed kid who sounds smarmy when he says it. Just evidence of the honest, rural, homegrown manners knocked into his brain since he was a toddler. Reaching into the truck bed, Tanner pulls out a pair of hickory-handled loppers.
“We found a couple of things in the bed box that belong to you. Dad asked me to drop them off on the way to practice.”
“Oh, Jesus. Thank you.” I take the loppers and breathe a heavy sigh. These are my best pair, sharp and curved just right for efficient pruning.
Tanner moves to the passenger side of his truck, pulls open the door, and leans in. I follow and take up a spot just behind him, peeking around his frame, because it suddenly feels like Christmas, even if I’m just getting my own stuff back.
The screen door to my house slams shut and Cooper heads our way, just as Tanner’s head pops up from where he was rummaging around near the floorboard of his truck, now waving a small-toothed saw in the air.
“This, too.”
I clap my hands together. Cooper sidles up next to me, a slight grimace on his face, taking in the lopper, the teen boy with his back to us who is waving a saw in the air, and my delight at all of it. Tanner turns and when he sees Cooper, it’s déjà vu of the
boy at the hotel.
The kid’s face goes slack. His mouth flops open. And then he drops the saw on the ground and it just misses our feet.
Tanner mumbles a half-whisper. “Holy shit.”
Cooper gives a grin that’s mostly just the twitch of one side of his mouth going up, followed by a chin nudge in Tanner’s direction.
“Hey.”
Nothing but a choked sound from Tanner. That and a set of googly, crazy eyes.
I poke Cooper in the side with my elbow and he looks down at me, brow furrowed.
“Say something.”
“I did say something. I said ‘hey.’ ”
Another poke to his ribs. He responds with a low, short growl. “I’m getting there. But the kid just dropped a sharp, shiny-looking saw on the ground, a little too close to all of our toes. I want him to get right for a second, first. I’ve done this before, you know?”
Finally, Tanner manages to breathe again and Cooper bends down to pick up the errant saw, handing it my way, where it’s safely in the hands of someone indifferent—well, relatively so—to the presence of this pro football player.
Cooper extends his hand to Tanner. “I’m Cooper.”
Tanner blinks. “I know.”
Poor kid. He’s normally much more composed than this, well spoken without being an annoying know-it-all, and ceaselessly polite. Kenny brags on his son whenever possible, so I already know that Tanner is a national honor society member, finalist for a Boettcher scholarship this year, and he speaks Spanish fluently. The boy knows a whole lot of words in not just one, but two languages, and yet he can’t seem to find any of them right now.
“Cooper, this is Tanner Euland.”
I set the saw and the lopper aside on the ground between my feet before giving Tanner a gentle tap on the arm to reacquaint him with reality. His hand shoots out immediately and grasps on to Cooper’s, shaking it enthusiastically.
Cooper takes the hand jostling in stride, finally pulling back, without making the scene even more awkward. “Good to meet you, Tanner. You live around here?”
Something melts across Tanner’s features then, the look of a kid who just realized that Cooper Lowry is actually standing in front of him, being completely open and perfectly nice. That revelation restores his ability to speak, and Tanner manages to explain that he lives down the road.
“Oh!” I extend both of my arms and grab each of them by a bicep. “You guys totally have something in common.”
They both look at me as if I’ve suddenly taken on the role of an extremely odd matchmaker. One who is simply bursting with excitement about the amazing commonality I’m about to reveal.
I give Tanner’s arm a squeeze. “Tanner’s family has a cattle ranch.” I offer the same grip to Cooper’s very defined and pronounced bicep. “And Cooper grew up on a cattle ranch.”
I waggle my brows. They both just stare, giving blank looks that convey their continued confusion at my announcement.
“What? You both have cattle ranching in common. I’m just saying, it’s something you both know about.”
Again, nothing but two vacantly perplexed faces pointed my direction. I consider walking away and letting this play out sans my unappreciated conversation starters, but Cooper takes and pats my hand with one of his until I drop my grip on each of them, letting my arms swing awkwardly by my sides. Then he captures my free hand, lacing our fingers together. Tanner’s eyes drop immediately and mine follow, both of us gaping at the unexpected display.
If this teenage interloper weren’t here as witness, I’d ask Cooper what this is all about. I’d bring our linked hands up until they were directly in his sight line, then jiggle them for effect and demand an explanation. Instead, I stand there and fixate on the way our hands fit together, joined in perfect proportions, his grip strong, but still comfortable. And the way his hand warms my previously cold fingers only adds to the surprising Goldilocks just-rightness of the whole thing.
“I think we have other stuff in common, too.” Cooper glances into Tanner’s truck, where a gym bag and a set of football pads take up most of the bench seat. “You headed to practice?”
Tanner’s soft face turns bright and he arches his back a bit, the move a subconscious sort of strut. He’s headed to the gym for practice, he says, then casually throws in that they have a big game on Friday. Cooper responds just as informally about his own game on Sunday, somehow answering this seventeen-year-old kid’s game talk with his own, as if the two are same-same.
When the conversation takes off from there, I realize I’m doomed. Hopelessly doomed to never keep up with this discussion of run-heavy offensives, shotgun something-I-don’t-understand, zone-blocking gobbledygook, and no-huddle hokey-pokey.
Cooper finally drops my hand for a moment, working to explain a concept by using his arms to gesture widely. Watching his body language come alive when he does, it becomes clear that this—football, the game, his team, all of it—it’s who Cooper Lowry is. Authentically, at the core, and rooted in every part of his body.
Cooper pauses, then crosses his arms over his chest, tilting his head toward Tanner.
“You hunt, right? Waterfowl? Or shoot trap?” Tanner nods in response.
“OK, then think of it that way. When you shoot ducks or clays, you swing through the target, you don’t stop the gun. That’s how you have to think about being a receiver. Because the number of times a ball sails right into your hands, when you’re standing on the field just waiting for it, are basically nil. Doesn’t happen. So don’t let the ball come to you; figure out how to go get the damn thing.”
That little speech, the tone of his voice, the way his rhetoric was bone-deep without posturing, makes my heart swell a bit. Even if we were just wasting a day together—for reasons neither of us could probably explain—reducing Cooper to a series of clichés was incredibly shortsighted on my part.
I let my eyes find the dirt in front of me and focus my gaze there, considering all the ways I may have underestimated the guy standing next to me.
Cooper takes up my hand in his again and squeezes. “Sorry. We’re ignoring you. I got on my soapbox there a little bit.”
His apology makes everything worse, compounded by the fact that when I look up, his face is more animated than it has been all day. I give a loose shake of my head.
“Not sure I could offer much to the conversation. Throw the ball, catch the ball, don’t drop the ball. That’s all I got.”
I get a laugh from both of them, the kind that might accompany a head patting if I were a toddler. I let it slide, only because I set myself up for it a bit, jabbering about like the Hollywood caricature of a woman who knows nothing about football. If I had lip gloss in my pocket, now would be the time the script calls for me to reapply it, daintily yet haughtily.
“Crap.” Tanner looks at his phone and then shoves it back in his pocket. “I’m so late for practice. Coach will never believe me when I tell him why, which means I’m gonna run suicides for a while.”
Cooper makes a face. “Shit, sorry. Suicides are the worst.”
A resigned dude expression passes between them as Tanner sticks his hand out.
“I can’t believe I met you. I can’t believe you’re here.”
I’d take offense at the way he emphasized the last word—coupled with a glance my way—but come on, who wouldn’t agree with him? Even I agree with him.
Cooper shrugs nonchalantly, signaling that he can’t quite believe he’s here, either. Then he tilts his head.
“You guys always play on Friday nights? Every other week at home?” An enthusiastic nod from Tanner. “Well, if I make it down here again, maybe I’ll come by and check out a game.”
You’d swear that Cooper just alluded to buying the kid a pony, conjuring up a genie in a bottle for him, and hiring a stripper, because I’ve never seen a teenage boy look closer to a strange mix of crying and squeeing before. Fortunately, he resists both urges. He also manages to back out of my driveway withou
t damaging anything, while staring at Cooper the entire time.
It’s early evening now; the remaining light is dusky and receding quickly toward the mountains. I’m suddenly exhausted. Playing tour guide and trying to keep up with all the wacky events of my day means my shoulders are starting to sag heavily and my feet ache.
“I guess I should go, too.” Cooper looks as fatigued as I feel, but he pauses, hesitating.
“It’s getting late. Let me get that apple butter so you can head out.” I turn to trot inside, but Cooper tugs the sleeve of my hoodie to stop me.
“I already stole a couple of jars and put them in my truck when I brought the boxes in. How much do I owe you?”
The near darkness means I can’t see much of his face, shadows mostly, but his hand slips down from the grip on my sleeve and latches on to mine again. The move feels less orchestrated now, more natural than it did in front of Tanner. I let his hand tangle in with mine and give a playful tug to our entwined fingers.
“Just take them. Consider it compensation for all your help today. Moving those boxes and being my little chutney helper. Plus, I’m pretty sure you made Tanner’s entire year. Thank you for being so kind to him—he’s a good kid.”
“He’s just me, fifteen years ago.” Cooper raises his free hand to tuck an errant strand of my hair behind my ear, and it feels like the perfect setup for him to do something more.
Because it’s just the two of us here. Standing in the dark, holding hands, and letting the shadows keep whatever this is under wraps. But he doesn’t. All he does is thank me for everything and release my hand gently, before walking away to his truck. I head inside without turning back.
I strip off my boots just inside the front the door, then flip the living room and kitchen lights off as I walk to my bedroom. My hoodie lands on the floor, my overalls are unbuckled and kicked into a heap, and my tank top is replaced by the men’s pajamas I wear to sleep. Just the top, though, leaving the bottoms at the foot of my bed because the house feels too stuffy.
