Clean Break

by Erin McLellan

  When Connor pulled his truck into the driveway of an adorable farmhouse, nerves exploded in my stomach. He reached over his stick shift and patted my knee. “Desi will be here too. Plus a bunch of neighbors and friends of the family. You won’t be the only guest.”

  That was good to know, but I’d still probably stand out the most. Farm College had a pretty vibrant African-American community, but I couldn’t help but notice that it didn’t always follow me off campus.

  As Connor and I made our way into his backyard, which wasn’t so much a yard as a field that didn’t seem to end, I stared at Connor’s childhood home. It was very lived-in in a way that was completely different than the cookie cutters where I grew up. There were huge, unruly flowerbeds and paint-chipped shutters and a wagon wheel leaning against the side of the porch with thistle and dandelions growing up around its base. Everything spoke to a family history—a life of love and hard work.

  “Where are you going to live once you graduate?” I asked. We’d never talked about that.

  “My parents said I could move back in, if I want, but there’s a double-wide on the other side of our acreage. Family and seasonal farmhands have lived there over the years, and it’s empty right now.”

  He didn’t sound particularly excited by that prospect, but then again, he never did when he talked about his future. At first, I’d assumed it was just because he was serious all the time. Excitement wasn’t an easily accessible emotion in the Connor Blume playbook, but I’d seen him smile and laugh and be joyful. Maybe it wasn’t that he was serious, but that he was a closed book, scared to be opened. If he were opened, he’d have to face the reality that he didn’t want this life.

  Or I was creating fantasies out of sighs and stilted words, as usual. I was building up meaning from nothing. He’d told me he was scared of missing out on adventure by staying in Elkville, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be whisked away from his legacy.

  I was not this guy’s knight in shining armor.

  “Son!”

  I jerked my head up at the sound of a voice very similar to Connor’s. A man that could only be his father jogged toward us.

  “Travis, this is my dad, Red. Dad, this is my friend, Travis.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Red said and gave my hand a hearty shake. He was like friendliness personified, a huge contrast to his son—prickly, perfect Connor.

  “You too, sir.”

  “Oh, none of that ‘sir’ bull hockey. Any friend of Connor’s is a part of the family.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Connor gave me a funny smile at my use of ‘sir’ again, like he couldn’t tell if I was being a clown, but I wasn’t. I was just really fucking nervous.

  He put his palm on the small of my back, and I tried to relax.

  “Dad, we’re going to go get a beer. Where’s Mom?”

  “Oh, who knows. Probably with Lena plotting how to take ownership of my garden, which they’ll have to wrest from my cold dead hands.” Red grinned at us. “They’re mad I planted beets instead of kale.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. Was his whole family like this—chatty and gregarious?”

  “Come find me before you set anything on fire,” Connor said, bossy as usual. “I can help.”

  Red saluted us, then greeted a family who came around the corner of the house. Connor dragged me to a refreshments table where he popped the caps off our beers on the wooden tabletop in two quick smacks.

  “You should open beers like that more often. At parties and shit. Total competence porn.”

  Connor’s eyes flashed and a smile sparked quickly across his face. “Don’t talk about porn. It’s been a rough week.”

  God, he was cute. He was lucky I didn’t launch myself at him mouth first.

  “As I live and breathe, it’s Connor Blume, and he doesn’t look like he hates the world,” a deep voice said, and Connor’s expression immediately shut down.

  I whipped around, ready to do battle. Connor’s smile had been for me. It was mine. This jerk had no right to open his damn mouth.

  Before I could speak, Connor said, “Can’t help my resting bitch face.”

  The man, who had shiny embellishments on his cowboy hat, threw an arm around Connor’s shoulders.

  “Are you excited to take a swallow off that silver spoon, Con Man?” the guy said as Connor shrugged his arm off.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Connor said. Then he gestured toward me. “Don, this is—”

  The guy—Don, evidently—interrupted him. “I mean, it must be nice to be handed responsibility for a huge, lucrative business without having to work for it.” Don smiled and nudged Connor as if they were in on a big joke together.

  I was not going to be ignored by this douchebag. I took a step forward until I was crowding ol’ Don in a way that was a bit too close for strangers.

  “Hi, I’m Travis.” I stuck my hand out for a shake. Don jolted, like he hadn’t noticed me—racist prick—and shook my hand.

  He introduced himself, and I scooted closer to Connor, placing myself between them.

  “You should show me around, Connor,” I said. “I want to see your childhood home.”

  “Sure.”

  He nodded at Don, and we walked away.

  “What was that about?” I asked when we were out of earshot.

  Connor let out a long, slow breath through his nose. The muscle in his jaw was ticking.

  “Don’s parents sold off most of their land for housing development about ten years ago, when he was around our age. The money was too good for them to pass up. He’d expected to manage their holdings, but that obviously didn’t happen. Since that decision, he’s jumped jobs a lot, been the stereotypical wayward son.”

  “And that makes him dislike you?”

  “You think he dislikes me?” Connor asked, surprise in his voice, and tenderness for him made me ache.

  “Yeah, babe. I think he seems awfully jealous of you, and he was kind of mean. Did you not see that?”

  “I was just mad that he interrupted me when I tried to introduce you.”

  That was too sweet, but beside the point.

  “Is that how people view this whole thing? Like you’re being handed a future on a platter?”

  He shrugged, his nose scrunching up. “Perhaps. It’s a bit true too. Farm succession is common, though, and I’ll work hard. I’ll earn it.”

  “Of course you will.” I touched his elbow, and he flinched. “Are you okay?”

  He nodded as we walked in the back door of his house, and I pulled him to a stop.

  “I don’t like it being shoved in my face,” he said. “It makes me feel ungrateful when I’m not jumping up and down about my future.”

  “You’re allowed to feel however you want about your future. It’s yours. Picking a career path and trying to secure it—that’s no cakewalk.”

  “I know. Still.”

  There was so much emotion loaded into that one little word that my chest felt like someone had taken an ice cream scoop to it.

  Connor led me into what was essentially a den, and I sent up a prayer of thanks that there were no decapitated animals on the walls. We walked through the room and up a short staircase where he opened the door to his childhood bedroom. His room was ultra-organized and sterile, but also so clearly his.

  “I like to have stuff in its place,” he said when I took a step over the threshold.

  “I wish I could be this organized.” He had clear tubs in his closet that were labeled with their contents. I’d bet a million bucks he owned a label maker.

  “You like chaos,” he said, and oh, that was so true. “Everything having a place—it’s comforting to me.”

  “Is that part of your OCD?” I asked. I’d researched OCD some after he told me about his diagnosis. I knew it didn’t necessarily present as a compulsion to clean and organize.

  “No. Not always. I am organized. That’s part of my personality. I’m analytical and exacting—that’s als
o personality.” His eyebrows pitched down into a scowl. “Sometimes I . . .” He shook his head.

  “What? You can tell me.” I touched his hand, and it sent a zip of electricity to my stomach. I’d been hyped since Glitter Night, and it was only getting worse. I wanted to know everything about him.

  “When I relapse, so to speak—when it’s bad—one of my more common problems is the inability to change course during a task. When I was a kid, it would drive my teachers crazy. I remember doing a craft project once at school, and we were supposed to fill in a drawing of a hot-air balloon with glue and then glitter. Most kids slopped the glue on, spread it into the correct space, and put the glitter over the glue in one go. They did it in three actions, which makes the most sense, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I insisted on squeezing out one thin line of glue at a time, sprinkling the glitter onto the glue, tapping the glitter off, then doing another line of glue directly next to the first. Over and over.” He stared at me like what he was telling me held all of his secrets.

  I nodded. “That isn’t as efficient.”

  “Yes. And I normally love efficiency. The problem was, when the teacher suggested I do it correctly—when she told me to glob the glue on and spread it around in one go—I hyperventilated. I believed that if I didn’t go line by line with the glue that the glue would get on my hands, and once it was on my hands, the only way to get it off would be to rip my skin off. I knew that. I was absolutely positive that would happen, even though it makes no sense at all. I was so scared.”

  “Oh babe.”

  “I finally saw a doctor in high school about it. My parents thought I had anxiety, which I do, but they didn’t know about the OCD. I got good at hiding my obsessions and compulsions when I did have them, and I’d never told them about my intrusive thoughts. So, I guess that’s all to say that normally when I’m being particular about stuff it isn’t OCD. Unless it is.”

  I pulled him closer. “Thank you for telling me that.”

  He shrugged and gifted me a small smile. “It wasn’t easy.”

  “I bet.”

  “Connor Reginald Blume, get your rear end down here,” a feminine voice called up the stairs.

  I glanced at him. “Is your middle name Reginald?”

  “No. My mom just thinks she’s a comedian. My middle name is Redford.”

  “After your dad?”

  “Yeah.”

  We made it back down the stairs, and I came face-to-face with Connor’s mom and little sister.

  “Travis, this is my mom, Susan, and my sister, Lena. Guys, this is Travis.”

  Susan enveloped me in a big hug after asking permission, and Lena shook my hand with a wink.

  “Well, hello, Travis. I’ve heard a lot about you,” Lena said.

  “You have?” I glanced at Connor.

  “She hasn’t,” he said dryly.

  “Lena’s a tease,” Susan said. “She’s a menace to her brother.”

  “He deserves it. If I don’t tease him, how would we know his smile works?” Lena said.

  “Yeah, I don’t think your teasing makes Connor smile, ding-dong,” their mother said. “It puts that who-stole-my-calculator expression on his face. You’re a brat.”

  “Connor needs a brat in his life.” Lena glanced at me slyly, and both she and her mom laughed. My face heated, but I couldn’t help but smile.

  “I agree,” I said. Connor touched the small of my back, which made me want to swoon into his arms.

  “Well, Travis, tell me all about yourself. What do you do for fun?” Susan asked.

  “You don’t want to know my major or what I’m doing after graduation?” I said, grinning. “That’s usually all anyone wants to talk about your senior year.”

  “Oh, pish,” Susan said. “Those things don’t tell me the important stuff. They don’t tell me who you are.”

  “Well, I like to read, dance, craft, and play the ukulele. But I’m not very good at any of those things except reading.”

  “You’re a good dancer,” Connor said, speaking for the first time in what felt like minutes. Susan and Lena grinned at each other again. I blushed again. It was a pattern.

  What was it about the Blumes that made me giddy and embarrassed at the same time?

  After more small talk, during which I was thoroughly delighted by Susan and Lena, Susan begged off to start the grill.

  I wandered over to a wall of family portraits.

  Connor was stern and serious in every photo, even when he was a child. I noticed a candid in which a very young Connor was being pushed on a swing set by Red, and Lena was in the foreground, facing the camera and crying. It was a funny picture. I searched out the similarities between adult Connor and his dad. Similar hair, though Connor’s was darker. Same broad forehead and square chin. Same color of eyes. He was the spitting image of Red, minus the mustache.

  “I was crying because I was jealous,” Lena said. “I was a spoiled brat.”

  I glanced at her over my shoulder with a grin. “Baby of the family.”

  She stuck her tongue out at me, and I laughed.

  “Connor, you look so much like your dad.”

  Lena drew up next to me. “He takes after Cliff more. Same smile, when you can bully one out of him.”

  “Who’s Cliff?”

  Connor cleared his throat. “Cliff’s my father.” Huh? I was obviously missing something. He stepped up to the mantle, and pointed at a small Polaroid in a frame. In it, Red was holding an infant. “That’s me and my father, Cliff.”

  “That’s not Red?”

  “No,” Connor said.

  After a beat of silence, I said, “I’m confused.”

  “Oh, for goodness sake, Connor,” Lena huffed. “Use your words.” With her hands on her hips, she turned to me. “Connor’s biological father is Cliff, who was Red’s twin brother. Cliff and Mom were married and had Connor. Cliff died when Connor was about four months old, and our mom remarried Red soon after. Then the beautiful gift that is me came into the world.”

  It took me a second to work out all the moving pieces in that little anecdote. I peered back at the Polaroid. Now I could see the differences in Red and this man. Cliff’s lips were thinner, like Connor’s, and he had darker freckles.

  “Oh, that’s . . . I’m sorry, Connor. I don’t know what to say.”

  “It’s weird that you didn’t tell your boyfriend about our real life Dynasty-esque drama, big brother,” Lena said.

  I said, “Oh, we’re not boyfriends,” at the same time that Connor cut in with, “We’re not Dynasty-esque. They were oil tycoons.”

  Lena rolled her eyes at us. “Connor doesn’t like to talk about it.”

  I snuck a glance at him, and his whole body was tight with tension. I was hit with the same protective impulse as when Connor was talking to Don. This time I slipped a hand over his shoulder blades and he leaned back into it. Lena watched us with a speculative shine in her eyes and the ghost of a smile. That girl saw too much.

  Luckily, Desi came in the back door and saved the awkward moment. She shot Connor and me a breezy hello. Then she said, “My favorite lady farmer in all the land!” before enveloping Lena in a huge hug.

  A blush crept up Lena’s cheeks. Desi moved back, keeping her hands on Lena’s shoulders. They grinned at each other, and static crackled between them.

  I nudged Connor toward the door. “Want to keep showing me around?”

  He nodded and said, “Catch you later,” to his sister and Desi.

  A pleasant bite of cool air hit us as we reached the porch. It was a clear day, with no breeze, and I was excited to stand around a huge bonfire, which seemed to be mid-preparation.

  “Dad was supposed to get me when he started,” Connor grumbled, nodding toward Red, who was at the bottom of the hill preparing a pile of brush to be burned. Connor hurried down the hill. When I caught up, I heard him ask Red, “Did you talk to the Fire Marshal?”

  “Yes, son. Howard and hi
s family are already here.”

  I smiled. Connor probably had a checklist of interrogatory questions prepared in his head.

  Red and a few other men lumbered around the brush pile as he set it on fire. The men chatted with each other and added dried shrubby branches and tree limbs to the pile as it burned down. Most of the conversation went over my head—wheat yields, the cost of a particular bull’s offspring, no-till farming, lots of stuff about peanuts—and it really pounded home how different our worlds were. Connor nodded along with some conversations, or stood still and silent next to me, his presence as hot on my skin as the flames.

  Once some of the bigger pieces of brush had burned down to ash, they set up a circle of chairs around the bonfire and invited everyone to grab hamburgers from the grill.

  A handsome, middle-aged Black man in a full cowboy getup sat next to Connor. And damn but he was a sight for sore eyes. He introduced himself as Leon and quickly engaged Connor in a discussion about feed-efficiency testing in cattle. I’d never seen Connor so animated, except when he was spanking me. There was a lot of affection and good humor between them. Once Leon finished his burger, he stood up and ruffled Connor’s hair.

  “You let me know when your graduation is. I’ll be there with bells on,” Leon said.

  “Sure thing.”

  “Cliffie would be proud of you, kid. You’re going to do a great job here on the farm. It’s what he would have wanted.”

  Connor smiled and his cheeks pinked up, his fair skin turning that delicious rosy color that made me want to lick his face. Once Leon left, Connor’s smile fell off, and he stared at me with lost eyes.

  If only I could make that look disappear forever.

  “I didn’t realize I had a cowboy kink until this very moment,” I said, trying to tease him into good humor.

  Connor’s eyes sparked with laughter, and that was as close to a win as I could hope for.

  “And here I thought I was the origin of that particular kink.”

  God, that was kind of pathetically true. “You’re a farmer. You’ve told me that a million times. There’s evidently a difference.”