by Sarina Bowen
Sure enough, Mr. Pratt steps out of his office a minute later, phone pressed to his ear. “What the heck is going on?” he stage-whispers. “I’m on a call.”
Whatever. Even if a client heard Deacon yell fuck in the background, the world won’t end. But this time I’m smart enough not to argue. In fact, I say nothing at all. I simply shrug and pull up the Mayer Farm files where I’ve hidden them—so Deacon can’t tweak my work. And I squint at Mr. Pratt’s notes about the typeface.
“What’s the problem?” he whispers from the doorway.
“I don’t have a problem,” I say carefully. “I’m changing the typeface now.”
“And the cows!” Deacon yells.
“Not the cows,” I say in a low voice. “There is nothing wrong with these cows.”
Apparently Deacon’s only life skill is supersonic hearing, though. Because he comes storming out of his office. Never mind his father’s call. He’s out for blood. His face is red and getting redder. Spit starts flying as he shouts. “I asked you to change the cows. And you will do it.”
“You asked for a change the client would never approve,” I say in a low voice. “So I’m going to prioritize the typeface.”
“It’s not your call,” he says through a clenched jaw, as his father stands there just observing this ridiculousness, his phone pressed to his ear. “You don’t make the decisions around here.”
“I make plenty of decisions when I make art,” I point out. “We all do. And as an owner of cattle, maybe this is one moment when my opinion is especially useful.”
“Bullshit. You think you’re such an artist. With your new design classes and your faggot boyfriend.”
My head actually jerks backward like I’ve been slapped. “What did you say?”
“You heard me,” Deacon rages. “Get off your high horse and do the thing we hired you to do. You’re still an hourly employee after all.”
I look down at my hands where they’re gripping the armrests of my chair. My heart is thumping loudly, but I am not about to let this go. “Just because you’re the owner’s son,” I say, lifting my chin to look him in the eye. “Does not mean you have the right to use a slur. Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”
And then I stand up—all six feet and one inch of me. Now I’m looking down at Deacon, who’s clearly stirred himself into a rage.
His father slides his infernal phone into his pocket. So much for his super-important call. “Boys, this has gotten way out of hand.”
“Is that what you’d call it?” Each of my words sounds like ice chipping.
“Let’s have everyone go back to his corner and cool down. Deadlines are stressful,” Mr. Pratt says, in a tone of voice that implies he’s the sane one here.
But he isn’t. “I can’t hear the word faggot and then pretend it’s just a little deadline stress that’s turned Deacon into a raging homophobe.”
“You’re not even gay,” Mr. Pratt says. And then his eyes widen, as if he’s realized that maybe he missed something. “Are you?”
“Maybe I am, but that’s none of your business,” I say coolly. “And now you’ve both gone too far.” I feel surprisingly calm as I open the desk drawer and retrieve my truck keys and my phone. I glance around the desk and spot only one other thing that belongs to me—a pencil cup that Roderick bought for a quarter on one of his thrift shop runs, because artists need pencil cups.
I pick up the pencil cup and grab my jacket off the back of the chair.
“Where are you going?” Mr. Pratt’s voice is worried. “The cow art is due at four.”
“You’d better get busy, then. Here’s a tip—google ‘Randall cattle.’ It’s Vermont’s only heritage breed. I quit.”
“What?” Mr. Pratt yelps. “But we have some work for the farmers’ market association, too.”
“Deacon can draw it, whatever it is. His portfolio needs a few new images. Originals, this time.” Man, it felt good to say that. “And my last check had better not be short, or I’ll contact the department of labor.”
Yup. That felt good, too.
“Kieran, wait!” Mr. Pratt calls as I head for the door. “Deacon will apologize!”
“Save it for the next guy,” I say. “Poor slob is going to need it.”
I leave in a blaze of glory. At least, that’s how it feels.
Quitting this job was not on my to-do list, but it should have been. Mr. Pratt used my skills without ever treating me like I had any. And his son is just a first-rate asshole. They deserve each other.
Now what? my truck asks as I sit there letting the engine warm. It’s only three o’clock on a weekday. Setting aside the fact that I’m suddenly underemployed, I have a few empty hours all to myself. That never happens.
And I really want to talk to Roderick. Right this minute. Giving in to this craving, I pull out my phone and hit his number. He should be finishing up at the bakery right now.
“Hello? Kieran?” he answers on the second ring. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I grunt, suddenly shy. What did I think I was going to say to him, anyway?
“I thought maybe you had car trouble.” He chuckles. “Or does that only happen to me?”
“It’s more like life trouble,” I say, because the sound of his laughter in my ear is so nice that I feel a pain in the center of my chest. “I just quit my job at Pratts’.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I just had all I could take of Deacon Pratt. He made it easy, though, by calling me a faggot.”
“Oh honey,” he gasps. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
I think it over for a moment and realize that I really am. The interaction was more shocking than hurtful. “Honestly, it was just a wakeup call. I don’t care what he thinks of me. But I can’t work for someone who says that.”
“No, you can’t,” Roddy agrees emphatically. “Why did he say it, anyway? Random slur? Lucky guess?”
It’s funny, but until now I’d forgotten to even wonder. “I think he must have seen us somewhere. Whatever. It doesn’t really matter. I walked out, and you should have seen their faces.”
“You amaze me,” he says softly. “Congratulations. But I’m sorry you’re out of a job.”
“Yeah.” I let out an awkward chuckle. “I didn’t think that through. I need a nighttime job now, seeing how I also got my financial aid package today. So I’m definitely starting school next week.”
“You did? Congratulations! This is so exciting.”
“Thank you.” I clear my throat. “So anyway, I’m free right now. And we haven’t cooked together in a while. What if I went to the grocery store and got us something to make?” Maybe I sound pathetic right now, but it’s worth it. I don’t want to be alone tonight. My life is completely up in the air. But the only thing I really care about is how much I miss him.
“Sure,” he says softly. “In fact, swing by the house and pick me up. We’ll shop together.”
“Okay, yeah.” My heart gives a happy kick. “I’m on my way.”
Then I hang up before he can change his mind.
Roderick
Here I go again, breaking my own rules. Spending time with Kieran isn’t the problem. He had a crazy, shocking afternoon, and I am here for him. The problem is the hope that’s fizzing through me as I climb into his truck and see his bashful smile. There’s no denying how we feel about each other.
Maybe he’ll become the kind of man who’s not afraid, my poor little heart says.
“So what are we cooking?” he asks as we pull away from the curb.
“I’m not sure yet. Let’s see what looks good. How do you feel about fish?”
He shrugs. “If you’re cooking it, I’ll probably like it.”
Oh, Kieran. He kills me sometimes.
The truck does a careful circumnavigation of the town green and then points toward the commercial strip. It’s a gray, cold day, but the truck is warm. There’s country music on the radio again, because I apparently have a t
hing for guys who like twangy guitar and heartbreak. But I’m in a sentimental mood, so I don’t even change the channel.
Kieran’s phone rings in the cup holder. “Man, that’s loud,” he says. “Could you silence it?”
“Sure.” I grab the phone. “It’s your mother.”
“I’ll get ’er later.”
“Are you going to tell your family you’re enrolling in the art school?” I ask.
“Nope,” he says. “I already know what my father would say. I’ll save us both the aggravation.”
And now I’m sorry I asked. The phone rings a second time. “It’s her again.”
“Hmm. Well, maybe I’ll call her before we go into the store. Just turn the ringer off?”
I’m doing that when Kieran makes a startled noise. “Did you hear that?”
It takes me a second to figure out that he’s talking about a story on the radio. The announcer is saying, “Country star Brian Aimsley made this announcement onstage in Tampa last night.”
And then I hear my ex’s voice. “I know it will surprise a lot of my fans to hear that I’m attracted to both men and women. But it’s just part of who I am.”
Wait. What?
“And I’m telling my story now, because there might be some fans out there who are struggling with their sexual identity. And I want them to know that it’s okay to be yourself.”
“Christ.” I feel a hot rush of anger, and I squeeze my eyes shut as Kieran pulls into a parking spot.
“Hey, that’s crazy!” He pops the parking break. “I can’t believe he’s bisexual. It’s pretty cool to just announce it like that.”
I make an angry, gagging sound. “No way. Somebody forced his hand. I’d bet you any amount of money that the story was just about to break anyway. In fact—” I grab Kieran’s phone again and unlock it. Then I hastily google Brian Aimsley and watch the screen fill with news stories. I scroll for a second, and then, boom. “Look. It was a gossip rag.” I shove the phone in Kieran’s hand, so he can see the story. “Somebody had pictures.”
At least they aren’t of me.
Shit. They aren’t, are they?
“Oh my God.” Kieran takes a sharp breath.
I go cold inside. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s my dad.”
“What?” For a moment, my mind serves up a strange image of Brian Aimsley making out with Kieran’s dad. But then I realize Kieran is staring at his texts. I lean over to read whatever it is that’s turning his face a gray color.
Kyle: You have to come to the hospital in Montpelier. Dad had an accident. It’s bad. He might not make it.
He drops the phone in his lap and grips the steering wheel. “Shit,” he whispers. “I have to go to Montpelier.”
“Okay,” I say, taking a breath, and trying to think through my whiplash. “Breathe. And how about you let me drive? That way you can talk to him while we’re on the way.”
“Yeah. Okay.” He unbuckles his seatbelt. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” I dash around the front of the truck, past the store that we didn’t make it into. Then I climb into the driver’s seat and adjust the seat a few inches forward, because Kieran has the long legs of a giant. “Buckle up. Let’s go.”
During the twenty-minute ride, Kieran speaks with both his mother and his brother. From the one-sided conversation, and snatches of Kyle’s voice, I can piece together most of the crucial information.
Kieran’s dad was alone in one of their outbuildings, trying to fix some piece of equipment. But he isn’t very mobile these days, and some kind of spinning tool caught the loop on the end of a wrench he was holding.
The wrench became a spinning, high-speed weapon, and it slashed Mr. Shipley several times before he got free of it.
“He lost a lot of blood,” I hear Kyle say. “It’s bad. It’s so bad.”
“You keep saying that,” Kieran grinds out. “Why was he screwing around with the PTO shaft?”
“Because he does whatever the fuck he wants!” Kyle shouts. “He doesn’t listen to me. This isn’t my fault. Mom and I were out at the feed store.”
“I didn’t say it was your fault,” Kieran says quickly. “Who found him? Mom?”
“Rexie,” Kyle says. “Rexie saved his life. The minute I got out of the truck, there’s Rexie barking his head off. I knew something was wrong. I dropped everything and ran after him.”
Kieran hangs up the phone before we reach the hospital. He drops it like it’s burning him, and then he leans back in the seat and closes his eyes. “I can’t believe this is happening,” he mumbles. “This might kill him.”
“I’m sorry, babe,” I whisper.
“And I feel—” There’s a long pause before he speaks again. “Freaked. I guess that’s the right word. We never got along. Never. He doesn’t even like me. But I don’t want him to die in a farming accident.”
“Hey.” I reach out and grab his hand. “Your relationship is complicated. I get it.”
“Complicated is not the half of it,” he says.
“Don’t think about that right now,” I try. “Just get through this. Get your mother through this. Who else shall we call?” I pull into the hospital parking lot and start looking for a parking space. It has to be big, because I don’t know how to park a pickup truck.
“We should call my aunt Ruth,” he says. “She’ll know what to do.”
“And Father Peters,” I add. Now that I spend time every week with a Catholic priest, I finally understand what they’re for.
“Yeah. Him too. Thanks.”
We find Kieran’s family quickly, but then we all sit for hours in the waiting room, with no news.
Mr. Shipley is in surgery. Kyle looks red-eyed and sad. Kieran’s mom looks white with fear. There’s blood on her clothes, at least until Ruth Shipley arrives with fresh clothes to put on.
When I summoned Ruth Shipley, I apparently summoned the entire Shipley clan. Griffin and Audrey are here. Strangers keep glancing at Audrey, wondering if she’s here to have her baby, I think. That’s how round she is. Dylan is here, too, along with Grandpa Shipley.
Zara dropped off sandwiches that nobody is eating.
Kieran sits hunched in a chair. When I bring him a soda, he drinks it without noticing. Griffin and his other cousins stop by to speak to him in hushed tones, and Kieran nods at their kind words. But he seems to have retreated into himself.
Father Peters sits beside Kyle, an arm around his shoulder, while Kyle tries to hold it together.
Finally—seventy-two years after we arrive—a nurse manager comes out to brief the family. “He’s still in surgery, but that will be over soon,” she says. “He lost a lot of blood, but his vitals seem to be stabilizing.”
“That’s good, right?” Kieran’s mom asks.
“It’s a positive sign,” the nurse says gently. “It will still be a while before the surgeon can come out to explain the procedure.”
“Okay,” Kieran’s mother says shakily. “He has a rare blood type.”
“Yes, he does,” the nurse agrees. “We had to ask the Red Cross to transfer some more units. It’s coming, just in case he needs it.”
“I’m B negative,” Kyle says, raising a hand. “Can I donate? My mother is B positive, so she can’t. But maybe my brother can.”
Kieran stiffens beside me, and I feel a chill roll down my spine, because I have a bad feeling about the turn of this conversation. Whether he knows it or not, Kieran is now an “MSM,” or a man who’s had sex with men. It makes you ineligible to donate blood.
Oh shit.
“Well, you can absolutely donate, if you feel like you want to make that contribution,” the nurse says. “We can take both of you right now. And if you’re not the right blood type, another patient will benefit.”
Kyle shoots out of his chair. “Nah, I’m a good match. I wrote a paper about this in bio class. I swear it was my only good grade that year because I thought testing blood was cool.”
Oh Kyle, I think wistfully. Don’t ever change. It’s a shame we’re never going to be in-laws.
“Let’s go, Kieran,” he says.
Everyone watches Kieran give his head a slow shake. “I can’t.”
“Sure you can,” Kyle says. “At least try.”
“I’m O neg!” Audrey says, rising out of her chair, her big pregnant belly leading the way. “I’m a hundred percent match for anyone, so I’ll go.”
“I’m sorry,” the Nurse says, shaking her head. “There are rules against pregnant women giving blood.”
“Oh, geez.” Audrey says. “I’m not allowed to do anything.”
“Thank God,” Griffin says.
“Let’s go, Kieran,” Kyle says. “You’re probably a match.”
He shakes his head, and my heart drops. This could be the most awkward coming out in the history of ever. Don’t do it, I beg, even though I’ve wanted him to do this very thing for months.
“What? Why?” Kyle thunders. “Dad would do it for you.”
“I’m not a match,” Kieran says quietly.
His mother gasps. Her eyes are round and worried.
And now I’m really confused.
Kieran looks up at his mom, seeming to snap out of his trance. “You want me to walk in there and pretend? My blood type is AB. I already know.”
“You can’t be AB,” Kyle argues. “Mom and Dad are both B. That’s impossible.”
And that’s when it finally dawns on me. Kieran isn’t talking about the homophobic regulations at all. One of his parents is not his bio parent. He knows this. But Kyle has no idea.
“Kieran,” his mother sobs. “Wait. How did you…”
“I took that class, too.” At that, he stands up and walks out of the room, while more than a dozen pairs of eyes follow him.
Meanwhile, the nurse has turned as white as her shoes. “My goodness,” is all she says.
“Hey, try me,” Griffin says, rising. “I’m the patient’s nephew.” He puts an arm around a stunned Kyle. “If you want to donate blood, I’ll go with you.”