Page 15 of The Farmer
Tears well in my eyes. I’m not a crier. I don’t even cry watching sad movies or reading sad books or listening to sad music. But there’s something in this moment, something beautiful and profound that makes my chest ache and expand at the same time.
“You barely know me, Parker.”
“My cows and goats love you. That’s enough reason for me to think you’re not here to murder me while I sleep.”
A single tear slides down my cheek as I chuckle, and Parker wipes it with his thumb. “What’s your middle name?”
“Keith. You?”
“Elle.”
“Hmm.”
“You wanna know why?” I can’t resist rolling my eyes. “My parents had their honeymoon in Paris and London. Elle as in similar sounding to the letter L. My dad wanted to name me Paris London Page, but Mom said that was the kind of name kids get bullied for. They compromised and used Elle, spelled E-L-L-E, instead of London. As if Paris is any better. Do you know how many times I had to hear ‘Oh, like Paris, France?’ growing up? IfI had a dollar for every question, I’d have enough money to buy your entire farm.”
Parker’s face splits into a smile. “Well, Elle spelled E-L-L-E, we’d love for you to stay on the farm. No pressure, obviously, but I also wouldn’t mind going with you to the city and introducing my fist to your boss’s face.”
I laugh out loud. “You wouldn’t dare!”
“Wanna bet?”
I open my mouth to answer, but he wraps a hand around the back of my head and presses his lips to mine. Just like that, I forget what I was thinking.
7
PARKER
The damn tractor won’t start. Again. I swear to God, it works on random days when I don’t need it, but when I do, it simply … goes to sleep. It’s like it feeds off my frustration.
I’ve been out here all morning, tools scattered in the dirt, sweat sticking to my back like glue. The humidity’s thick enough to chew, and I’m two more failed engine cranks away from launching a wrench into the horizon.
With a grunt, I strip off my shirt and throw it to the ground.
One of my golden retrievers, Otis, who stayed at the neighbor’s farm during the festival and came home just now, lets out a slow, unimpressed huff from where he’s sprawled under the shade of the old pecan tree. Doris, who also just returned, sits beside him, tongue hanging, eyes tracking my every move.
“Stop judging me,” I say, wiping grease on my jeans. “You two just sleep and fart all day. You also just had a mini vacation. I never did.”
Another turn of the key. Another sputter. Still no roar of life.
Jesus Christ.
Inside the house, Paris is working on her laptop. I can picture her curled up in my flannel again, legs tucked under her, coffee within reach. She blinked at me yesterday like I’d grown a second head when I gave her the Wi-Fi password.
“You have internet?” she said, like I was someone who powered his stove with firewood and never knew what modern plumbing was.
“I’m a farmer,” I told her. “Not an alien.”
That memory makes me smile … until I remember the tractor isn’t gonna start itself. I’ll probably just toss it in the ocean or sell it or, if worst comes to worst, bribe someone to take it off my hands.
The tractor groans once, coughs, and dies. Again.
I stare at it, jaw tight, chest damp from the humid air. There’s a streak of grease on my forearm, and I’ve already run through three different ideas of how to destroy this thing with minimal evidence.
Gravel shifts behind me, and I turn.
Paris walks toward me with a cold glass in hand. She’s wearing one of my old shirts, too big on her, so it slides down one shoulder. Her eyes take their time traveling up from my jeans to my chest, lingering just a second too long at the line of sweat running down from my throat.
I drop from the tractor, boots hitting the ground with a thud. Paris hands me the glass without a word, her fingers brushingmine. The cold hits my throat in one long pull. I barely breathe between gulps.
