First Step Forward
Page 19
Cooper’s cheeks turn one shade brighter. “Change of plans. I’m at …”
He pauses, and the silence on this end means I can hear all the background noise at his family’s house and it’s nothing but complete chaos. They must have nine televisions on. There may also be a small army of children who’ve stormed the castle, because it sounds like gleeful mutiny and mayhem are afoot.
Cooper’s eyes flicker to mine as he continues to hesitate, his jaw flexing and working over words that don’t actually come out. I raise my brows. He clenches his jaw once more.
“I’m at my girlfriend’s place.”
That explains the fish-hooked jaw action. Girlfriend. The big launch of us as a couple just happened and had I known this was coming, I would have put on a dress and done my hair.
The other side of the line stays quiet—well, sort of … aside from all of the not quietness that’s transpiring somewhere in Texas. Cooper shrugs when he notes how my eyes have widened, then continues to look right at me, searching my face for a response, until a flash of unease lights in his expression.
I kiss his cheek, keeping the phone in one hand as I do. Unfortunately, leaning up to kiss him means that the phone is closer to my ear, and when his brother bellows—not an exaggeration—I flinch and immediately pull the phone away.
“MATTY!” A pause of three beats, maybe, then, “CALEB! WHERE ARE YOU GUYS?”
Cooper glares at the phone face and shouts back. “Christ, Mikey, take it down a notch! You’re on speaker and Whitney’s ears aren’t fucking calibrated for Lowry level yet.”
Oh my God. They’re all barbarians. My head is actually ringing. I close my eyes and pray that might somehow equalize the blow to my hearing.
“Shit, sorry. But you can’t just lay that kind of thing out there, that you have a girlfriend, and not expect everybody in this house to lose their minds. You’re a goddam Sasquatch when it comes to relationships, Cooper. No one believes it’s even a possibility. So they need to be made aware, stat. But I think they’ve taken the lead on manning the turkey fryer.”
Mikey takes a deep breath and I start to cringe out of some newfound instinct, preparing for the onslaught of hollering that’s bound to follow. Instead, he lets an exhale out, measuredly.
“OK, I’m good. Let me talk to this Whitney person.”
I’m up, I guess. I stare at the phone for a moment. “Hi.”
“I’d like to start by apologizing to your ears. Please don’t leave Pooper because I hollered like that. He’d never forgive me if I ran you off and he’s a crybaby when he doesn’t get his way. I know, because he sniffled his way through the first ten years of his life. I was there as a witness.”
Cooper gives up and goes to wash the stuffing off his hands, barking as he walks away.
“Don’t tell her that. I wasn’t a crybaby, I had allergies, you asshole. You try living on a cattle ranch with hay fever. I got shots for it and you know it.”
“Oh, yes. I forgot. Jujube and his hay fever. Anyway, back to Whitney. What’s your story, Whit?”
“Well, I, uh …”
How in the hell do I describe myself to this guy? “I like long walks on the beach, grouchy football players, and pie? In my spare time, I try to figure out how to save my only asset from impending foreclosure?” None of that sounds quite appropriate.
Before I can stumble my own way through an answer, Cooper interjects.
“Oh, hell, that reminds me. Mikey, would you look at Whitney’s website? She owns a fruit orchard and her site sucks. Maybe you could work your web designer mojo on it, try to make something decent out of it.”
I give Cooper a scowl and pinch his ass. No reaction, because he’s rattling off my website address to Mikey. A minute or so passes. Mikey makes a few noises that do not sound appreciative.
“Cooper, promise me something. She’s hot, right? Because this website is an atrocity. This girl had better be hot and brilliant and have a heart of gold. If you knowingly entered into a relationship with her after seeing this dreck, and she isn’t all of those things, I’ll disown you.”
“She’s all that and more. But, the website … seriously shitty, right? Try using it to find your way here. It’s practically impossible.”
Nope. No more. I elbow Cooper in the gut.
“As a reminder, I’m standing right here. Don’t hate on my stuff. I couldn’t pay anyone to design it, so I did the best I could. I also can’t pay anyone to redesign it.”
Mikey chuckles. “Whitney, sweetheart. This is fucking terrible and I can’t live another day knowing it’s out in the world. I can fix it, easily—with one hand tied behind my back, one of my toddlers hanging off my leg, while giving my wife a back rub and frosting a cake. And you’re approved on Lowry credit, so I’ll charge Cooper double, and make him pay me in beer and fishing lures. Don’t sweat it.”
I want to tell him not to bother. Because soon, I could be orchard-less and living somewhere else. Where? No idea. I’ve tried to avoid picturing what that will look like, where I’ll go, or how hard it will be to start over.
Cooper takes the phone from my hand and kisses my forehead. And, now there’s Cooper. My boyfriend.
Will he take me in? Would I go, even if he did? Because a soft place to land isn’t always best for the ambitious, independent parts of your soul. Sometimes you need to fall, land squarely on your ass, and let the impact knock the wind from your lungs. Sometimes that seems like the only way to feel you paid for your failures.
The two brothers exchange a few more details and Mikey promises to turn my website into something less revolting and rudimentary. His words, not mine.
“Hey, hey, Coop. One more thing.” Mikey lowers his voice. “Jana’s pregnant.”
Cooper’s mouth drops open a little. “No shit?”
“Yeah. She’s almost three months along, but they’re keeping it quiet until she’s a few more weeks in. Matty told me, but I figure you can keep it on the down low, too.”
Cooper trains his focus on the frosted pear trees wintering in rows outside my kitchen window. He takes a labored swallow. “Tell him to keep her safe, OK?”
Mikey snorts. “Hell, he’d cover her in bubble wrap if he could. She wouldn’t let him, but you know he’d do anything for her.”
Cooper nods, still staring out the window. One of his arms stretches out and I find myself tugged closer, until my body presses to his side. “Be sure to hug all those little terrors for me.”
Mikey promises to do exactly that, followed by the exchange of manly, and lovingly offensive, affection. After he sets his phone on the counter, Cooper moves me to stand in front of him, draping his arms over my shoulders and propping his chin on the top of my head.
“Jana is Matty’s wife. They’ve been trying for a few years to have a kid but she’s miscarried twice. Caleb and Mikey barely have to look at their wives and they’re knocked up again, so being surrounded by all their healthy, happy kids has been hard on her. Matty, too.”
My heart starts to knock about in my chest, a guilty pulse that won’t slow. Turns out the reason I should have sent him home for Thanksgiving had nothing to do with whether his mom could play proper nursemaid. It’s because this wasn’t his home. Girlfriend or not, home for Cooper was too many states away.
“Aw, shit.” Cooper reaches behind me and grabs his phone off the counter. “All that, and I still didn’t get to ask about saving the stuffing. Think you can handle another round?”
19
(Whitney)
“Come on. Stop dawdling.” I toss my head back and close my eyes, hoping that will prompt Cooper to get a move-on. “In. Now.”
“I won’t fit. You’re always moaning on and talking about how big I am. Usually you’re pretty enthusiastic about it, too. But this will be one of the times when my size is going to be a problem.”
“The only size issue at hand is the enormity of your Texas ego. Get in the truck, Cooper, or I’m leaving without you.”
Just
as I don’t appreciate the over-the-top bellowing persona of Cooper’s truck, he apparently doesn’t appreciate the subtle workhorse quality of mine. I’d consider continuing this discussion inside—where there being so much of him is something I never complain about; he’s right about that—but the last fall farmers’ market starts in two hours and we don’t have time for this (or that) right now.
Cooper asked to come along, claiming he wanted to help in whatever way he could. This, after he already spent yesterday working with me among the tree rows as we cleaned up downed limbs, leaves, and dropped fruit.
After that, I trained him on the basics of pruning. Cooper took to the task easily and even with frequent breaks to rest his knee, he still cleared more rows than I did, leaving each tree thoughtfully and symmetrically pruned. And he did it all with nothing but the sexiest sort of relaxed concentration spread across his features. The little furrows that crisscrossed his forehead as he snipped each limb and then determined his next cut ranked right up there with one of his full-on smiles.
Today, those same furrows are related to his scowl. Cooper is standing in the driveway, glaring at my truck. He draws a hand over his mouth and sighs.
“At least let me drive. Where I’m from, men don’t ride shotgun. We drive.”
I shoot him a withering glare. He shrugs. As much as this is an argument I want to have, my truck is already loaded with booth supplies and crates of apple butter … All we need to do is start driving.
Cooper makes his way to the driver side and opens the door for me. I give the door a tug and shut it again. He tips his head skyward, likely asking some higher power for a better solution or, if he knows what’s good for him, the restraint to keep from provoking his girlfriend any further.
I count to ten, then open the truck door myself and step out, outstretching one arm to hand him the keys. He reaches for them. I yank them back.
“I’m driving us home.”
“OK,” he says.
The word is right, but the tone is all wrong. Mischief with a touch of sarcasm. Not nearly enough hangdog humility for my taste.
But Grand Junction is over an hour away, which leaves enough time for me to sharpen my tongue like Dorothy Parker and lecture him on suffragettes. Perhaps remind him that my father is dead, so a dowry is out of the question. And I’ll spend whatever time is left over declaring exactly how much I like having the right to vote and being able to wear these here trousers.
Cooper has officially redeemed himself.
The man is a superstar. An apple butter–hawking, superstar sales machine. A machine, I tell you.
It’s possible that his being Cooper Lowry might have something to do with all the dudes that have wandered by once, twice, even three times before finally approaching cautiously with quizzical looks on their faces. Fortunately, even when Cooper confirmed his identity, none of them asked for an autograph or insisted he pose for an awkward bro photo.
Likely because Cooper was quick to redirect the conversation to our wares. “You like apple butter? Here, try this sample.” Then he’d nod his head, raise his brows, and grin. The guy would mirror the act, move for move, like an eight-year-old boy who just stumbled upon Santa Claus on Christmas Eve. “We’ve got pints and half-pints, but we’re running low. How many do you want?”
Sales 101. Time-tested techniques currently being exploited by a man who has a real-life job that so many other guys have spent decades only dreaming about. I couldn’t compete with that even if I were half-dressed and somehow incorporating body shots into my booth display.
But the women? I’m worried some of them are dangerously close to experiencing vertigo-like symptoms from circling about us. Of course, setting up next to Justin’s booth did not help matters. The two of them, side by side, is too much for any mere mortal hetero woman to handle. While I can’t blame the gals for wanting more than one glimpse, I’m just praying there aren’t any eventual fainting spells.
“So your orchard is organic?”
The latest of the fresh-faced gawkers pulls her long fishtail braid of dark blonde hair over one shoulder and adjusts her Patagonia knit stocking hat. The three pints of apple butter she just purchased are clasped to her chest, in the crook of one arm.
“Not certified. We’re working on that. But we’re keeping things organic and biodynamic. Even the little stuff, like using yarrow as a cover crop to attract the good bugs and keep the bad bugs in check.”
The words ring familiar in my head, as I note how effortlessly Cooper has slipped into this role. He hands her one of my brochures. She pretends to study a few lines, but her eyes return to his before it would have been possible to read a single word.
“That’s so important. I love the premise of biodynamics. The interconnected wholeness of it all, respecting the wisdom of every living organism.”
Cooper nods solemnly. She flips over the brochure to glance at the back.
“I know you said you’re out of fresh apples for the year, but do you grow the SweeTango variety? My twin boys love them.”
“Twins, huh? Bet that keeps you busy. Let me just confirm on that variety.” He turns my way. “Hey, babe?”
I had stopped my own personal ogling of Cooper to sort all the singles and five-dollar bills he’s snake-charmed out of people over the last four hours. I was now ogling all the cash in the bursting bank bag, just as affectionately.
“Babe?”
I slant my eyes in his direction. He can’t be talking to me. First, there was the verbal caveman jostling of me out of the driver’s seat. And now this.
Calmly, I turn his way. When my eyes meet his, I’m not sure what to think because he looks too handsome, too softhearted, and entirely at ease in my world. My little heart likes it all so much that suddenly the cutesy-pet-name thing doesn’t seem quite as problematic.
“SweeTangos? Will we have those next year?”
My belly tumbles and plummets in the span of seconds. The tumble inspired by how he’s phrased the question, the plummet at the prospect of there being no next year. I sweep my gaze over to the woman, if only to avoid Cooper’s.
“SweeTangos are a club apple. I’m not one of their growers. Wish I were—they’re great little flavor bombs.”
Her face falls a little and Cooper apologizes, then sends her on her way with a thank-you that is also a subtle, but still charming, brush-off. I zip up the bank bag and toss it into the cardboard box under the table.
Cooper comes up and wraps his body around mine, his chest pressed to my back and both arms draped about my waist.
“What’s a club apple?” He drops a kiss to my neck.
“They’re patented and trademarked varieties with a limited numbers of growers who are licensed to grow them. You can’t just go buy a SweeTango tree. You have to be selected to be in the ‘club.’ ”
“Huh.” Another kiss, this time to my temple. “I’m going to go buy another bottled water and see if that food truck is still outside. But I want to hear more about this club apple thing on the way home.” He steps back. “You need anything?”
I look over one shoulder and shake my head, then off he goes. He’s only steps away when Justin lopes in at his side. Turns out Justin likes football. Justin. The guy with the hemp necklace and the organic farm and his growlers of craft beer. He likes football. As they walk away, I catch the beginnings of a conversation that will either lead to the clinking of beers or a shoving match.
“ ’71 Cowboys up against the’85 Bears. Who wins?”
Cooper tips his head back and chuckles. “Too easy. ’71 Cowboys.”
Justin lets out a loud groan. “You’re biased. They were mostly offense. But the ’85 Bears? They had everything.”
Cooper starts in on a litany of stats. Rushing yards and passing yards, total points for the year and first-down gains. Once when they’re out of earshot, my heart starts to wiggle until I’m nearly convinced that one of those fainting spells I was worried about is going to land me on the floor.
I’ve always done this on my own. A sole proprietor by the very definition. So I’d long given up on the fantasy of a partner in crime, a backstop for my heart, or someone to take the lead when I’m exhausted. Then Cooper stoked that neglected ember by way of one word.
We.
20
(Cooper)
This morning I discovered how to tame an organic farmer’s diesel truck–hating heart. Far easier than I would have thought, too. It wasn’t by way of kale or tatsoi, and there wasn’t any coconut oil involved. Even spending half an hour with my face between her legs hasn’t elicited quite the same reaction as this newly discovered kryptonite.
All I had to do was get her in my truck and press one button.
Heated seats.
Whitney and I had another spirited debate as to what mode of transportation to use when she announced that she needed to run into town and pick up a few things at the co-op. I won in the end and now Whitney is reclined in the passenger seat, making sounds that can only be described as obscene. I’m familiar with how she sounds when I’m doing obscene things to her, so I know these noises pretty well. Her face is entirely relaxed but the way she’s languidly squirming around on the seat, you’d think my hands were somewhere other than the steering wheel.
“God. I take back everything I’ve ever said about this beast. This is the best feeling. I’ve never felt this good. Ever.”
I turn in her direction and raise my brows. She gives a coy smirk and averts her eyes.
“I can’t believe you’ve never been in a vehicle with heated seats before. This isn’t exactly new technology.”
“I don’t spend a lot of time with people who drive anything other than thirty-year-old pickups. But I should definitely meet new people. Based entirely on whether their vehicle has heated seats or not.” She shimmies down a bit. “Can we turn it up? Does it go any higher?”