Libra Rising Page 6

  I raise my brows. “Really? It doesn’t matter?”

  I’m definitely not a Taurus.

  She lifts one shoulder, feigning indifference. “Nope. My perfectly compatible sign is out there somewhere, just waiting for me.”

  I laugh under my breath, not being able to help myself, taking the bait. “So, what’s your perfectly compatible sign?” I ask, reaching for more nails.

  “A Libra. I’m an Aries, which is fire. A Libra is air. Even though they’re opposites, fire needs air to burn, a perfect match. Instant attraction.” She sighs, and her face lights up as she continues, “It’s not always an easy road, though, for an Aries and a Libra, but if they can survive the bumps and hurdles, their bonds cannot be broken. The fact that they are opposites – and, if it works - it’s for life.”

  Wow. Okay.

  “I have to say, for someone who wants to be a lawyer, a profession all about facts and cases, it seems odd that you have this obsession with astrology.”

  Harper lays both hands on each side of her so they rest along the tops of the blades of grass, sweeping her hands back and forth, causing the tiny stalks to bend from the motion. I can’t take my eyes off her. She draws me in like an invisible force I have no control over. Her innocence is breathtaking. She looks up at me through those mile-long lashes and scrunches her nose.

  “I wouldn’t call it an obsession.” Her words are spoken in a lilting tone, almost childlike. “I told you…” her voice drops somewhat, “it’s a hobby.” And just like that, she springs up on to her feet, wiping her backside of any unwanted debris and states, “Well, I’ve got work to do. See ya.”

  Shaking my head, unable to pull my gaze from the natural sway of her hips, I watch her until her body disappears on the other side of the screen door. I wish we had met under different circumstances.

  It takes me several days to complete the chicken coop. It was a job fashioned from many hours of sweat and grueling labor, but one I am proud of, nonetheless. I only lost my temper a few times, each one a direct result of the goddamn hand saw. But I worked through it, utilizing skills I had been taught in earlier anger management classes. Most times, I fly off the handle so quickly, there’s no time to think about my training. It’s different here than at home. If it weren’t for Brent and Kylie, I might not be so anxious to get back there.

  Mr. H ambles up to the house, almost inside the door, when he spots me admiring the chicken coop. He shortens the distance between us, taking his sweet time. I watch him, thinking he looks tired. He works harder than anyone I’ve ever met before.

  Without saying a word to me, he casually inspects my work, walking inside and then back out. My ears await his praises. The pride is already settling in, my chin up, shoulders back, chest puffed out.

  To my horror, he says, “Okay, son. Now, tear it down.”

  Convinced that the cotton seed that blanketed the air like snow in June had settled into the crevices of my ears, I say, “Sorry? What did you just say?”

  With the straightest of faces, he replies, “I said tear it down.”

  Frustration bubbles on every level. “Why on earth would you want me to tear it down?” I ask, my voice rising a couple of octaves higher than normal.

  He looks at me inquisitively and says, “Son, do you see any damn chickens around here? I have no use for a chicken coop. Now, tear it down.”

  And then, he walks away as if he had just asked me to fetch the mail for him, chuckling all the way to the house.

  I’m too shocked to let the anger seep in. He must have lost his ever-loving mind. Who would pay to have all the lumber and materials brought in to build a chicken coop just to have it tore down?

  Mr. H. That’s who.

  When I told Harper what he told me to do, her mouth fell completely open, her eyes wider than I’d ever seen them as she absorbed my words. And then she laughed. Laughed so hard that tears streamed down her face, her hand holding her stomach as she nearly doubled over.

  I should have been pissed being ganged up on that way, but I couldn’t be. The sound of Harper’s laughter filled me up. I hope like hell that she would always have reasons to laugh like that.

  I wish like hell that I could be one of them.

  Chapter Seven

  Harper

  July 17-23, 2010

  Aries Horoscope: The success is in the details this week and making sure you see to them in a timely manner is key, especially around the 18th and 19th. Romance can spoil near the 20th, only to adjust itself as early as the 22nd or 23rd after some sort of dialogue. Have all your facts before you open your mouth and if you even so much SMELL a bad idea, stall or just cut and run.

  This summer is flying by. Only, I want time to stand still. I want to confiscate every calendar and flip the page back to June, reliving every moment that I’ve spent with Reed, memorizing every stolen glance. The cleft in his chin, the flex of his forearm as it glides across the slope of his forehead, ridding it of glistening sweat before it trickles down past his eyebrows and stings those beautiful brown eyes.

  Those eyes invade my dreams every night, dreams where Reed and I are driving in Mr. H’s truck. My hand is nestled in his as we race down a country road, windows down, smiles on, and Reed unable to take his eyes off me. There’s no expiration date to our fun, no dreaded day where he must leave, extricating himself from my life. I’ve been living in denial, pretending in my head that his departure is anything but imminent.

  The Fourth of July came and went, hardly celebrated. And when I say hardly, I mean it was in the form of cupcakes adorned with red and blue icing, transported to the fields. Unfortunately, the Fourth landed during the wheat harvest. During those eight days of grueling ten-to twelve-hour days, I hardly saw Reed at all, except for meals. This was the first time I had ever been a part of such a crazy time. Sure, I’ve seen the combines in the fields at different times of the year, but it never really affected me.

  I learned that different farmers plant different crops. Some plant wheat, some plant soy, some rely merely on corn. So, the farmers in the community who weren’t harvesting wheat showed up on Mr. H’s doorstep, willing to lend a hand.

  Members from the Drummond farm, the Gentry farm, and even from the Hallert farm five miles away volunteered their services out in the fields. Their wives came, too, and I received a crash course in whipping up food for a huge crew. Mrs. Gentry was especially sweet, taking me under her wing. She taught me how to make biscuits from scratch, saying she would never touch those “imposters in a round can.”

  Sometimes, meals were driven out to the fields in white Styrofoam containers. Other times, we prepared a feast and stuffed Mr. H’s house to the gills with card tables and chairs – anywhere they’d fit. Even my dad joined us, grateful for time with his neighbors.

  The big dinners after a long day were my favorite. One night, as we sat down to fried chicken, mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, and homemade biscuits, the men shared their stories of mishaps on their farms. Mr. Hallert told us about the time he fell asleep in the combine one year, nearly crashing into some trees that lined his property. That caused a good laugh throughout the house.

  But more than the stories, the best part was watching Reed. I could tell he felt part of something bigger than himself. The way Mr. H would include him – well, his eyes shone bright. I had never seen him laugh more than I did around the dinner table that week.

  Sometimes, he would catch me watching him. But I didn’t care. And he didn’t seem to, either. He always managed a tired smile my way, filling me up like a tall glass of water, always leaving my thirst not quite quenched.

  It was a crazy week, but it was a good one. It made me wish I had been raised on a farm.

  Now, I’m grateful for the normalcy the days bring. Mr. H is easing up on Reed a bit as a kindness extended for all his hard work. Reed and I are sitting on Mr. H’s front porch, my duties for the day finished, gathering ideas of how to pass our open afternoon.

  “How about taking the
horses out?” I ask him, knowing my idea would be shot down. Reed finds the horses a little intimidating.

  A quick side-glance tells me what he thinks of my idea. Yeah, shot down.

  Leaning back into the gray metal chair, bouncing my upper body slightly, my eyes land on Mr. H’s pickup. I still myself while an idea formulates in my head, excitement coursing through me. “Um, Reed?”

  Without looking at me, his eyes fixed on something straight ahead, he says, “Yeah?”

  Barely being able to keep the grin off my face, I lean up, both of my hands perched on the side railing of my chair. “How’d you like to teach me how to drive?”

  His head whips my way. “What?”

  My grin widens to a smile while my eyes leave his, landing on Mr. H’s truck. I’m envisioning Reed coaching me through the steps, praising me as I go along. Turning my head back to him, my eyebrows arch in question. “Please?”

  Shaking his head, he says, “No way, Harper. Mr. H isn’t around to ask.”

  I think about what he said, and I really don’t think Mr. H would care. He has let Reed take the truck plenty of times. “We know where the keys are. It’ll be fine.”

  I can tell he’s tossing the idea around, chewing on the inside of his mouth while staring at the truck. “Yeah, okay. Go get the keys. I’ll meet you at the truck.”

  Practically jumping out of my chair, I nearly trip over the mat that sits in front of the door. The words Life Is Better on the Farm are printed in bold black letters. Only, the color is faded due to years of continual use. I hurry inside to snatch the keys from the end drawer in the kitchen. Running out the screen door, I meet Reed at the truck, his passenger door already open.

  “Don’t make me regret this, Harper.” He climbs in while I do the same on the driver’s side. The keys are dangling from my fingers; the clink-clink is music to my ears.

  I roll my eyes, forcing the key into the ignition.

  “Seat belt,” he instructs.

  After I’m buckled in, he continues, “Okay, turn the key and start her up.” I do as I’m instructed. “Now, put your right foot on the brake and bring the gear shift into drive, keeping your foot on the brake.”

  He scoots over the tan cloth interior of the bench towards me and my stomach clenches a little. “With your foot still on the brake, turn the wheel, get a feel for it.” I do as he says. “Good. Now, with your wheel still turned, slowly press on the gas and try to steer your way towards the driveway.” Placing my foot on the gas pedal, I apply a bit of pressure, but nothing happens. “Press a little harder,” he says.

  His mouth seems closer to my ear, but I’m trying to concentrate on the gas pedal. After pushing a bit too hard, the truck lurches forward and my foot automatically flies to the brake, causing both of us to jerk forward. Reed reaches for the dash to brace himself.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” God, I couldn’t be any worse at this. My heart pounds. This wasn’t the scenario in my head.

  Reed puts his hand over mine on the steering wheel, turning the wheel to straighten up. “Relax, Harper.” My eyes close for a second, loving the way he says my name. One more thing to store in the deep crevice of my memory, tucked away to retrieve on a day when he’s no longer around.

  “Let’s just practice easing down on the gas.” I nod twice, slowly bringing my foot to the gas pedal once again, applying steady force. The truck moves forward, and I keep the pressure, inching my way a few feet.

  “That’s it. Keep it up.”

  And there it is. That sweet praise, making my heart instantly lighter, feeling like I can do anything.

  “Now, turn the wheel and head for the driveway.”

  I got this.

  Even though I’m only going about fifteen miles an hour, I maneuver the truck onto the driveway and head for the end, hoping I’ll be able to turn onto the empty road. Reed’s left-hand hovers near, ready to grab the wheel if he needs to. His hand then lowers, grazing the side of my bare leg. Pandemonium ensues, my foot applying too much gas as my hand jerks the wheel, a scream escaping my mouth as I slowly watch the front bumper of the truck plow over Mr. H’s mailbox. The horrid crunch of metal scraping underneath the truck drowns out Reed yelling, “Brake! Brake! Brake!!” He reaches for the wheel but it’s too late. The shiny copper mailbox is already down, my foot now finally on the brake. Reed reaches and throws the truck into park. “Lesson’s over,” he says, slamming his back into the seat, his hands combing through his hair. “Shit!”

  Finally finding my voice, I say, “I’m so sorry. I’ll take full responsibility, Reed. As a matter of fact, get out. You were never in the truck. I’ll tell Mr. H it was all me. I was curious. Wanted to see if I could do it…” I’m babbling a mile a minute, my nerves totally taking over now.

  Reed blows out a huge breath and looks at me. “I’m not going to let you do that, Harper.” We sit in the cab of the truck, silence cloaking us as we try to wrap our heads around what just happened. Finally, Reed says, in a low voice, “Go ahead and get out. I’ll pull the truck back up.”

  Feeling deflated, I unlatch my seatbelt and reach for the door handle, throwing my legs out until my feet hit pavement. I slowly shut the door while Reed slides behind the wheel. He slowly starts to back up, and I cringe at the sound of him dragging the mailbox a bit. Finally, free of the mutilated metal, he turns the truck around, heading towards the side of the barn. My eyes are frozen on the mangled copper, a lump wedged so tight in my throat that I can hardly swallow around it.

  Turning back to Reed, I watch as he gets out and inspects the front of the truck for damage. His head disappears for a minute as he crouches down to see how bad it is. In moments, his head pops back up and he says, “Good news is that you were going slow enough that it only dinged the bumper.” His eyes travel towards the end of the driveway. “Can’t say the same for the mailbox, though.”

  We both begin walking, closing the distance between us. Reed holds out his hand and waits for me to hold my palm out. “Take these and put them back in the drawer. I’ll tell Mr. H about it.”

  I can’t let him take the blame. He’s worked so hard to gain Mr. H’s trust. “We’ll tell him together. Exactly how it happened. It’s all my fault, Reed. All of it.”

  Just then, we hear Mr. H’s whistling being carried through the air and know he’s coming in from the fields. When he’s finally in view, he looks up and sees us watching him, his body language already signaling to us that he knows something’s up. Approaching us, Reed instinctively steps in front of me, causing Mr. H to look at us even more suspiciously. “What’s goin’ on?”

  I can’t help it and I look back at the downed mailbox. Mr. H’s eyes follow mine. A long, drawn-out whistle leaves his lips as he scratches the side of his head. “Well, that don’t look too good,” he says. “Someone wanna explain?”

  I step beside Reed and say, “It’s my fault –”

  I’m interrupted. “I take full responsibility.”

  Mr. H looks back and forth between us.

  “I asked Reed to teach me to drive. I’m so sorry, Mr. H. I’ll pay for the mailbox.”

  He looks at the wreckage again and says, “Well, either Reed’s a crappy teacher or you’re a crappy student.” He chuckles. “As for the mailbox, I never did like that thing – too showy. No need to pay for it, Harper.”

  “I insist…”

  Mr. H looks me in the eye, motioning to the empty space at the end of the driveway. “Did you do it on purpose? Was malice involved?”

  Scrunching my brows in confusion, I answer, “Well, no, but –”

  “Then, it was an accident. Accidents happen. But what doesn’t just happen is the keys to the truck bein’ where they don’t belong.”

  “I grabbed the keys, Mr. H. I’ll take the punishment.” Reed isn’t backing down.

  Mr. H eyes him and nods his head. “All right. Tomorrow, you can tack weeding all the flower beds on top of your regular chores, yeah?”

  Reed nods but doesn’t sa
y a word. I keep my mouth shut, for now.

  Mr. H turns to me. “Run on home, Harper. We’ll see you tomorrow.” I turn to look at Reed before I go, but he’s already started towards the bunk room. I hand Mr. H the keys that have been clenched in my fist, now covered in the same dampness as the palm of my hand.

  Turning back to my house, I start to make the short walk, avoiding the crumpled heap by the side of the road, taunting me.

  I’ve seen enough, knowing it will take some time to get the scene out of my head.

  My guilt follows me all through fixing dinner, washing the dishes, and catching up on laundry, all a ploy to keep my mind on anything except the trouble I caused Reed today. It eats at me like a flea on a cat, wishing I could flick it away.

  Finally, after going to bed, my mind won’t shut off, hating the fact that Reed took the punishment. I don’t think he should have. My head tilts up, checking the time glowing from the clock on my nightstand. It’s almost one-thirty in the morning. I swing my legs to the side of the bed, pushing to my feet, and grab some shorts and a T-shirt from my dresser.

  After changing into my clothes, I tiptoe quietly through the house, not wanting to wake my dad. I hope he made it to his bed and didn’t fall asleep on the couch. I’m three steps into the family room when I notice the vacant cushions, appreciating this small victory.

  I slip through the door that leads to the garage in search of a flashlight, finding it on one of the shelves beside the washing machine. I press the button, light instantly appearing on the wall. I slowly dispense the breath I’d been holding, thankful for that second small victory. Clutching the light in my hand, I also grab a large bucket.

  Making my way to the door that leads outside, I carefully push it open, knowing it emits a small squeak, one that’s been there for years. When I’m standing outside with the door shut behind me, a weird sensation overcomes me. The air is perfectly still, the insects overwhelmingly loud. I inhale the night, taking it deep into my lungs. A feeling of freedom overcomes me from being out here in the middle of the night when I’m not supposed to. I start to walk down my driveway. The flip-flop of my sandals causes me to cringe, wondering why I didn’t choose quieter footwear. When I reach the edge of my driveway, I look up and down the country road for oncoming cars out of sheer habit, chastising myself for being so ridiculous.