Page 72 of There's Pumpkin About You
She tries her best to look around her. “Your eyes will adjust in a minute. When the harvest is over it can be a bit hard to see.”
“How come we’re here?”
I mark out a safe path for her by walking first towards the middle of the field, careful to avoid the leftover roots and vines. I tell her where to take a big step, where to hop, and there’s a swell of pride in my chest as she does everything I say, when I say it. It shows a trust that definitely would not have been there in the beginning.
In the center of the field lies a pile of discarded pumpkins that were considered too damaged or moldy to be sold. We allow it to turn into compost and mix it in with the soil when we sow the new seeds.
“Usually, when the harvest is finished, I come out here late at night to work off some steam.”
Wren listens carefully, eyes on the mountain of pumpkins as if imagining a younger Gus running amuck in an empty field.
“I would come when I felt alone in the world, alienated for something I can’t control. I used to come out here, grab a mallet or an axe and just let loose.”
“You were out here smashing pumpkins?” Wren laughs.
“Better to say that I was out here smashing demons. Why let them continue to plague my mind when an empty field is just as dark?”
She hums in agreement and I take this moment in which she’s unaware to appreciate the sight of her—eyes large, bottom lip stuck between her teeth in quiet contemplation. She wants to ask questions, I can see it; wants to know a million things about me all at once and can’t think of which question should take precedence. She’s very inquisitive, Wren is, seemingly trapped by the urge to know everything but having to think before she speaks.
I don’t do that. It’s not an autistic trait—unfortunately, I can’t blame every one of my difficult qualities on that, as easy as it would be. That seems to be a problem I have with others—they assume to those who are not “conventionally autistic”, their struggles or their quirks are merely cop-outs to get away with murder. A necessity is seen as a choice, a need seen as a preference.
“It must be hard,” Wren says, pulling me from my thoughts.
“What must be?” I ask.
“Being different somewhere where no one really wants you to be.”
I shrug lightly knowing she can’t see me when she’s looking in front of her. “I wouldn’t say no one. My brothers want me to be myself. And I suppose there’s the occasional person here and there in town that I don’t think is terrible.” Iturn towards her. “And I guess there’s also this girl I met a few weeks ago who doesn’t really mind it either… I think.”
The smile on her face when she looks at me could be a beacon for the lost with how bright it shines. It makes her cheeks glow, her eyes sparkle. I think it might be my favorite thing about her.
“You’re annoying,” she says, her words completely void of malice. “You’re stubborn, you’re difficult and a know-it-all… but none of that is down to you being neurodivergent, Gus.” She surprises me by stepping towards me and reaching up to plant the softest kiss on my lips. “It’s just because you’re an ass.”
The laugh flows from me smoothly, no longer being restrained by my stubborn personality. It still feels strange, it’s something I used to do so easily and often but now it’s a rarity, only offered when I’m trying to be polite to customers. Laughing with Wren is easy. I haven’t had easy in a while.
I grab a mallet from the ground beside the pile and hold it out to her. “Have at it.”
A perfectly manicured eyebrow raises. “Don’t trust me with the axe, huh?”
“I’m not an idiot, Southwick. It’s going to take more than a gorgeous pair of hazel eyes to trust you with something sharp.”
ChapterThirty-Three
WREN
Gus’s way of helping me feel better is the very thing I needed without even knowing it. The ability to remove one’s frustrations by smashing something that doesn’t know pain is truly a cathartic experience. The moment my shoulders couldn’t take any more, the pain in them was nothing compared to the lightness of my chest.
I felt like a new woman. It’s not just that the embarrassment that I felt over my incident the other day has dissipated, but also the pain and betrayal I once felt towards Adam is now replaced with a determination to become a better version of myself—a version that respects me and values my heart. I deserve love, I do, and even though I’m not sure if I’m ready for that yet, I think I deserve to at least know that I can be open to it despite being burned in the past.
I’m pretty sure that’s all clear on my face as I pull up to Goldleaf Farm. This time, there’s no coffee. This time, my excitement following Finn’s phone call has taken over and made me keep my foot on the gas as I drove past the Sweet Cinnamon Café.
The barn is finished. Seven weeks of work whittled down to four weeks thanks to a group of guys who are all too kind to put into words. I will forever be grateful to them. Grateful to my brother for pushing pause on other jobs just so he could do this one favor for his little sister. Grateful to Bash for still helping whenever he could despite having to do the harvest by himself for God knows how long. Grateful to Jamie for taking time away from his job to help, and Sam for coming as soon as he was called. And oh so grateful to Gus, who gave me the chance in the first place. None of this would have happened without him, without him having a determination that matched mine. Whether it was to rid himself of my presence or not, it fueled him to get it done and done it is.
The exterior gleams in the autumn sun, red walls and blue roof. Freshly sealed windows reflect the light and a large door stands open, letting the ghosts and demons escape from the interior. I chuckle to myself as I think back to my first moments in this barn—scared out of my mind, furious with a goat and a sexy pumpkin farmer who is now someone I can’t imagine not seeing each morning.
Speaking of sexy farmers…
“Morning,” Gus smiles. He strides over, his gait and posture seeming so much more relaxed than usual. When we’re standing no more than a single step apart, he surprises me by slipping his arm around my waist and planting the gentlest kiss on the side of my head, as if both actions are the most natural thing in the world. “Feeling okay?”
