by Amy Aislin
“Okay, you’re right,” Marco said. “I have exactly zero idea where we are. Are we still on your property?”
“Oh yeah, for several more miles.”
The road dipped, and once they reached the bottom, the lights from the house disappeared. Las slowed and parked on the side of the road, a few feet away from where he knew the fence to be. Removing a flashlight from the cupholder pocket in the driver’s side door, he turned it on, the red glow highlighting Marco’s confused face, and opened his door.
“Come on,” he said, hopping out.
Marco met him at the truck bed while he was lowering the tailgate. “You do know this is creepy as fuck, right? Last person to see Marco Terlizzese alive,” Marco intoned in a flat news anchor voice, “denies any wrongdoing in his suspicious death on Windsor Ranch.”
Las was laughing before he finished. “You’ll be thanking me in a minute.”
“For…?”
Las ran the flashlight over the bed. Inside, he’d spread out a thick, downy comforter as padding; on top of that were two sleeping bags, and he’d brought an extra blanket in case they needed it.
Marco shifted closer to him; their arms brushed. Las briefly wished they were wearing T-shirts so he could feel Marco’s skin against his own. Unable to help himself, he leaned his right side—ignoring the ache from hip to shoulder—against Marco’s left.
Marco’s voice was hushed when he said, “What’s this?”
“You said you wanted to sleep under the stars. The other night,” he explained when Marco turned to him. “Now you can. We can. If you want.” Fuck, he was messing this up. “It’s safer here than in the forest.” Marco kept staring at him. Mouth dry, he blurted, “Except a bird might crap on you,” effectively shattering the mood.
Marco laughed and turned his stare upward, to the sky filled with too many stars to count winking above them. No Milky Way tonight, but Marco didn’t seem to care as he climbed into the truck bed, removed his shoes, and claimed a sleeping bag.
“I brought water bottles and snacks,” Las said, filling the silence with inane chatter. He climbed into the sleeping bag to Marco’s right. “They’re behind the driver’s seat if you want some.”
“I’m good,” Marco said, ensconced in his sleeping bag, arms folded behind his head. “You were right. I am going to thank you. This is amazing.”
Las turned off the flashlight and mimicked Marco’s position.
The email from UW, his throbbing hip, the unfinished USNC report for his mom, the worries and million little reasons she’d say no… It all fell away as he stared up at the stars, at something way bigger and more complex than his mind could grasp. It was the big unknown, so much universe humans knew nothing about. Yet there was familiarity in universal patterns and constellations, linking cultures and languages from thousands of miles apart.
He lifted an arm as if he could poke a star with a finger, then snatched it back down when he remembered he had company.
But Marco didn’t laugh at him. He raised his own arm and traced a shape with an index finger. “The Big Dipper.”
“The Little Dipper,” Las corrected. Grasping Marco’s wrist, he guided his hand upward and traced a different shape. “That’s the Big Dipper.”
Marco let his arm fall. “Well, shit. It’s massive. How did I get that wrong?”
“It’s pretty common.”
They stargazed in silence for a while, their breathing syncing. The sounds of the fields at night were vastly different than the forest. The forest was all wind through the leaves, shivering tree branches, chittering animals, the river trickling over rocks. The fields were mostly chirping insects and the occasional lowing of a cow.
“I’m curious.” Marco’s head rotated toward him. “Why does the flashlight have a red light?”
“It’s easier for human eyes to adjust to the dark with a red light than with a white one.”
“Oh. Cool.”
It was too dark for Las to make out any of Marco’s features; all he had was a vague outline of Marco’s body to tell him where the man was.
He could, however, tell that Marco was still looking at him. Or maybe he’d closed his eyes and left his head rotated in Las’s direction.
In the night like this, the possibilities felt endless. He could take Marco’s hand in his, thread their fingers together. He could shift closer, lay his head on Marco’s strong shoulder, his arm around his waist. He could run his fingers through the loose strands of Marco’s hair. He could kiss Marco’s bearded chin, his cheekbone, his lips. He could roll on top of Marco, cup Marco’s face in his hands, and nuzzle his nose against Marco’s neck.
All of the above, and in the dark it wouldn’t mean anything.
Except it would mean too much.
“I need to ask you something,” Marco breathed into the few inches of space between them, as if he too was counting the possibilities.
“Sure.” Las held his breath. Was Marco going to ask him on a date again? Las didn’t think he had it in him to say no this time.
“Do you…? Are you…?” There was a scuffing sound, like Marco was scratching his cheek. Then, with a despondent sigh, Marco turned back to the sky. “I was thinking of boarding the bus to town this Thursday. You know the one that shuttles staff to the pub? I was just wondering if you’ve gone. If you think I might have fun.”
That wasn’t what Marco had wanted to ask. Las would bet his horse on it. Marco, the guy who didn’t frequent the Café Bar on campus because there were too many people, wanted to hit up the town pub?
Disappointment, frustration, and relief swirling acid-like in his gut, Las said, “I haven’t been in a while.” Not in a couple of years, since he and Ben had returned home together after sophomore year for the summer. “I think they have a live band on Thursday nights. Sounds fun but…”
“But?”
Las’s turn to sigh. “I take it back. It doesn’t sound fun at all.”
Marco’s laugh weaved into the night and into Las’s chest.
“I didn’t think so either.”
Using the opening, Las said, “But you are having fun though? You like your job? You’re getting along with everyone else?”
“Yeah. Everything’s been great so far. Don’t laugh, but being here… I feel like I can breathe for the first time in a long time. There’s no pressure to find a—” Marco’s arms went up and Las thought he made air quotes. “—real job. To figure out what I want from life. To put my communications degree to use. Instead I get to work under the sun and sleep under the stars and try to figure things out at my own pace without all the added pressure.”
“Pressure from who?”
“My parents. They want the best for me, but they also don’t understand why I don’t already have the rest of my life planned out. How I could come out of college with a degree I don’t want to do anything with.”
Las rotated in his sleeping bag, onto his left side to face Marco, putting less pressure on his right hip. “Do they know you don’t want to pursue hockey professionally?”
“Every time I try to bring it up, they change the subject.” Marco’s tone was resigned. “They don’t seem to hear me.”
“I’m sorry.”
Movement from Marco, a shrug perhaps. “It’s like I said—they want the best for me and my sisters. I think success for them isn’t tied to doing what you love, but to having a steady job that brings in steady income. So when I tell them I don’t want to be a pro hockey player, they don’t hear it because they don’t understand why I wouldn’t want to do something that could potentially make me millions and set me up for life.”
“Success means something different for everyone.”
“That’s for sure.” Marco shifted too, turning onto his side to face Las. “What’s it mean for you? The ranch?”
“Yeah.” Las let out a soft laugh. “Fuck, I love this place, Marco. While I was in Vermont, some days it physically hurt not being here.”
“But you’re leaving ag
ain at the end of the summer, aren’t you? For grad school.”
“Yeah, but Laramie’s only six hours away. I’ll have a car, and I’ve scheduled my classes Tuesdays to Thursdays so I can come home any weekend I want.”
“You’re looking forward to it.” Marco poked Las in the nose. How he found Las’s nose in the dark was anyone’s guess. “Grad school. I can hear it in your voice.”
“One of my professors at GH works for the United States Nature Conservancy and they want to partner with us to research conservation grazing practices. My prof’s colleague at UW is interested in being my thesis advisor, and if I can convince my mom to partner with them then there’s my thesis right there. So yeah. I’m looking forward to it.”
“If your mom doesn’t go for it, is there a non-thesis option?”
“Of course, but I really want to do this research. And not just for the benefit of being an environmentally sustainable working ranch, but because I think it might help lower our costs too.” Lower costs. “Ugh.” He slapped himself in the forehead. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that angle sooner. There’s something my mom will actually listen to.”
“Sometimes it helps to talk things out. Tell me more about this project. How will it work?”
“Right now we’re on a rotational grazing system, which means we move the herd from one pasture to another every three to five days—” Las used his hands to demonstrate even though it was too dark to make a difference. “—to allow the grass crop to regrow and produce forage. This project with USNC involves a more intense cell grazing system. Basically, you turn a pasture into several smaller cells and each cell sees about three days of intense grazing followed by a longer resting period than is typically seen in rotational grazing. There’s a ranch in Alberta that’s done this with success—they’re seeing a healthier herd and because the cattle move more frequently, the ranchers are better able to spot any health issues. Plus, since you’re letting the grass rest and regrow, you’re providing habitat for other wildlife.”
Limbs thrumming with excitement, mind thinking ahead, Las flopped onto his back and—
“Ow, fuck!”
—pain shot up his hip, into his lower back, and arrowed into his neck.
“What?” Marco shot up. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine,” Las said through gritted teeth. “I got thrown off my horse today and just moved too fast—”
“You fell off your horse?” Marco’s voice went shrill.
“I didn’t fall off; I was thrown. There’s a difference.”
Marco wasn’t hearing him. “You fell off your horse—”
“Got thrown off.”
“—and are sleeping in a truck bed? Are you crazy? Get up, we’re going back. You need an actual bed.”
“I’m fine,” Las repeated. “I’ve got an extra blanket under my sleeping bag. See?” He lifted a corner of his bag. “It’s so luxurious I might as well be on a mattress. Feel.” Taking Marco’s wrist, he led his hand to the blankets and let Marco pat around until he was satisfied.
Marco was not satisfied. “That’s not good enough. Come on.” He slipped out of his sleeping bag and patted around some more until he found his shoes. “Let’s go.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” The pain having receded to a dull throb, Las got comfortable. “So you either lie back down or walk back to the house.”
Marco made a sound in the back of his throat, not unlike that of a frustrated animal. “Jesus, you’re stubborn.” He crawled back into his bag, movements jerky and sharp. “At least tell me you have an ice pack.”
Grunting an affirmative, Las reached a hand back, bumping his knuckles against the glass window of the cab. Grasping the edge of the blanket, he pulled up and removed the ice pack he’d stashed underneath it. Only a little bit melted. Carefully maneuvering it under his hip, he sighed as the ice numbed the pain.
“Are you really okay?” Concern underlined frustration in Marco’s tone.
“Yeah. Just sore.”
“You didn’t have to do this today of all days, you know. It could’ve waited until you’re healed.”
“I’d spend all my nights out here if I could get away with it. And I didn’t want you to be—” He cut himself off.
“Didn’t want me to be what?”
Las shrugged awkwardly. “I just . . . want to make sure you’re having a good time.”
“I am,” Marco reassured. “And if I wasn’t, that’s on me, not you.”
“No, I know. But I invited you here. I don’t want you to be bored.”
“I’m not bored.”
“No?” Las blinked slowly at the sky, fatigue hitting him. “Alice mentioned you might be.”
“Oh.” Silence for a minute, then Marco’s low murmur curled around him. “It’s just in the evenings, when things quiet down. I wouldn’t call it boredom so much as aimlessness.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve had something to occupy my time for as long as I can remember. Hockey, school, homework. Now I don’t have any of that, and I’m struggling to find who I am without it. I don’t know what I want to do with my life, I don’t have any hobbies to speak of.” His chuckle was self-deprecating. “I couldn’t be any more aimless if I tried.”
Heart hurting, Las let his eyes close and reached over to take Marco’s hand in his. Marco’s was callused and warm and he held on so tight. Las shuffled over, only a little, to nudge his shoulder against Marco’s. “My mom always says that things happen when you least expect them.”
“What if it takes another twenty-two years?” Marco’s vowels grew longer, as if he too were on the cusp of falling asleep.
“Then it takes twenty-two years.”
Silence but for their steady breathing and the insects in the fields.
“Lassiter?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
They fell asleep, shoulder to shoulder, hand-in-hand, to the light of the stars.
BY THE TIME MARCO LED his first hike on his own, he was over-prepared.
An entire week of walking each trail multiple times followed by a second week shadowing Cherie, and he knew the locations of all the protruding roots, the best spots for views of the river, the locations of the clearings where the group paused to rest and munch on snacks, and the names of all grasses, shrubs, flowers, and trees.
Not a single person asked about the grasses, shrubs, flowers, and trees. Not on his first day. Or his second. It wasn’t until his third that he took on a tour guide persona, narrating from his position at the front of the pack as he described some of the wildlife found in this part of Wyoming.
It wasn’t until his fourth day that he realized that, while he was over-prepared in a certain aspect, he was woefully underprepared in others.
“We’re learning about climate change at school,” a boy, about nine or ten, said. “What’s the Windsor Ranch doing to combat the effects of climate change?”
Well crap.
Instead of appearing like a deer in headlights, Marco kept his cool—he was a goalie, he was used to this kind of pressure—and told the kid about the research Las might be doing this fall.
Turned out, it wasn’t the best approach; it prompted the kid into a series of questions Marco still didn’t know the answer to.
“What do cows eat?”
“How much do they weigh?”
“How much water does it take to feed all the cows?”
“Could they squash me like a bug?”
Marco could at least answer that last one.
It wasn’t until Saturday morning, at the end of Marco’s third full week, that he had a chance to ask Las about the climate change thing.
“Unfortunately, we’re not doing much.” They’d skipped breakfast in favor of empty bellies with which to sample all the products at the market in town. Las dipped a piece of bread into apple-flavored white balsamic vinegar. “Outside of recycling and composting, w
e haven’t adopted many new practices. There are a lot of government regulations when it comes to ranching and a lot of upfront costs that come with changing management practices. We haven’t had the incentive yet. I’m hoping my research will change that.”
Marco eyed the different balsamic vinegars and chose blackberry ginger. “Your mom’s agreed, then?”
“I haven’t talked to her about it yet,” Las admitted with a rueful tilt of his lips. The bread disappeared into his mouth. “But I’m going on the assumption that she will.”
Marco toasted him with his ginger lemonade. “Think positive.”
“Exactly.”
Marco popped his own piece of bread into his mouth. “Shit, that’s good.”
He bought a bottle even though he didn’t currently have a kitchen.
There were new vendors that hadn’t been here previously. A woman selling glass jewelry. An older couple selling pies. An artist drawing a caricature of a teenage couple. A farm from the nearest town selling fresh produce.
Inevitably, they ended up at the tent taking up two vendor spots at the end of a row. Las gave a chin nod to Austin, who was busy talking to a tall man about Austin’s age, with a long face, wide forehead, small eyes, dark chocolate-colored hair, and a smile that dimpled his stubbled cheeks. Without pausing in conversation, Austin and the other guy waved back.
“Who’s that guy?” Marco asked.
“That’s Cal. My mom’s foreman. Also Austin’s best friend.”
Stepping into Austin’s tent, Marco beelined for the stand next to Austin’s desk that held the prints.
“Didn’t you buy one last week?” Las asked.
And the week before that. “So?”
Last bumped their shoulders together. “I’m teasing.” He didn’t move, his shoulder so warm against Marco’s through their T-shirts that Marco couldn’t focus on anything else. He browsed through the prints without really seeing them, barely noting colors and shadows.
Las was touching him. Again.
Ever since their night under the stars last week, Las had been touching him more frequently. Shoulders wedged together, like now. Fingertips to the back of Marco’s hand. A hand squeezing his arm. Fingers splayed over his lower back. A love tap to his asscheek to get him moving.