Page 115 of Heartland
“It’s Christmas Eve,” I grumble. “Maybe give it a rest?”
“How much longer can you put off this conversation?” he demands. “I have things I need to discuss with you.”
“Can we just finish up the goddamn chores and have a holiday?”
Griffin lets out a sigh. Then he retaliates by asking a favor. “This drizzle is supposed to give way to real snow,” he says just as we’re finishing up a bunch of chores. “Before your friend shows up, will you drive the Kubota back into the shed? I left it back by the Winesaps.”
I give the farmhouse a longing glance. My fingers are just about frozen off, and I want to find a quiet spot to call Chastity. “The Winesaps? Why didn’t you just park it in the next area code for fuck’s sake?”
Griffin makes an angry noise. “Just do this one thing for me.”
“Yeah, okay,” I grumble, walking away.
“Don’t come through the center meadow!” he calls after me. “Take the road!”
So I’m basically going for a long drive on a tractor that does ten miles an hour. Awesome.
I lower my head against the drizzle and trudge through the orchard. It’s a long walk, so I have plenty of time to think about Chastity. That talk we had in the truck yesterday is troubling me. I should have just come out and said what I feel for her. I don’t know why I couldn’t.
It’s a little like choosing a major. I fear being pinned down more than I fear anything else. For a guy who claims to be fun, I have a way of overthinking everything.
And I let her walk away thinking I don’t care. That was cowardly of me. But it was literally the last mile before home, and I don’t know how to sort out my feelings on the fly like that.
I’ll call her. Soon. Maybe I can find a way to say it.
I find the Kubota. It’s a small tractor that we use to mow between rows of apple trees. There’s no top on it, so I’m going to be pelted by drizzle for the entire drive back.
She starts right up, so I sit down on the wet seat and begin the slow trip through the orchard. The drizzle has become more of a freezing rain at this point. My face is constantly pinged by little bits of ice.
I love Vermont. But maybe that’s because I’ve never tried farming in California.
My hands are red and frozen by the time I pull onto the little dirt track that separates our farm from Isaac and Leah’s. I can just make out their farmhouse from here, its windows lit up golden in the fading light. They have those electric candles in all the windows. It’s a New England thing—an unspoken rule that you have to put those up for Christmas.
It looks cozy there. I have the strongest urge to get off the tractor and find Chastity and kiss her until she understands that I’ve honestly got it bad for her.
But I have a job to do, and Rickie’s going to show up any minute now at my house, so I putter along until I realize that there’s a length of fencing across the road. It’s a flimsy, moveable fence, but it’s also electric. Isaac’s chicken tractor is just inside the protective circle of the fence.
Well, that’s inconvenient. I could find the electrical box, shut it off, and move the fence. But when it’s raining, the poles like to fall all over the place. It’s a job for two people, and I don’t want to bother Isaac on Christmas Eve.
So I turn around, and—oh joy—the sleet begins to hit the other side of my face. I drive off the track and head back through the center meadow, instead. It’s a shorter trip, anyway. I can get out of this weather faster.
The tractor shed is in my view and everything is going great. Until the tractor suddenly lists to the right.
I turn the wheel to try to get her out of the rut, but it doesn’t work. The tractor’s still leaning, and I’m also slowing down. The engine complains, so I take my foot off the gas and sort of ooze to a stop.
I’m stuck in the mud. This is about to become really embarrassing.
* * *
“Ready? Push!” Griffin roars.
I lean in and give it all I’ve got. We’re shoulder to shoulder, trying to get her out of the mud. Daphne is sitting at the controls, ready to drive out of the rut.
“There. GO!” Griff yells.
We push again, and the tractor moves. Daphne does her best, but the damn thing is still wonky.
“Fuck!” Griffin yells. “It’s the fucking tire. Look.” He points at the ground, where tire fluid is leaking into the snow that’s begun to accumulate.
