My heart was hammering too fast. “I have no idea.”
That wasn’t normal, was it? Not to have goals and dreams.
“Start small. Name one thing.”
I took a deep breath. “Okay. Maybe be brave enough to eat sushi that isn’t made with imitation crab salad.”
She patted my hand in a move so simultaneously sweet and condescending that it closed my throat with emotion. “That’s a good start. I think you should keep thinking about it. Make the list. Life’s too short for bad boyfriends and bad food.”
By the time I left for Entomology 101 on Friday, I had five items on my bucket list.
Eat sashimi
Fly in an airplane
Hold Cressida in my hand
Ride the subway
Lose my virginity
I’d had to force myself not to add Travis-specific items. I was taking this bucket list thing seriously, so I didn’t want to add an item that might be out of the realm of possibility come June.
I beat Travis to class, and, out of some newfound spontaneity, decided to do the second question on the board rather than the first. I normally completed the first question while Travis did the second, so I could copy his answer onto my paper. But today, I wanted to force him to switch it up.
I was really getting wild.
A laugh swelled through me, and I covered it with a cough as Travis fell into his seat. It was cold out today and he was wearing a peacoat, scarf, and a slouchy beanie. That look did it for me.
Travis did it for me.
“What are you laughing about?” he asked.
“I wasn’t.”
He ripped his coat and scarf off and grumbled about the overactive heater in the building. “Were so. I heard you.”
“I did the second discussion question today. You have to do the first.”
He glanced at me sharply. “Why’d you do that?”
“Trying new things.”
“Whoa, Connor. Check you out, getting all impulsive and shit. Next thing I know, you’ll be using green highlighters instead of yellow.”
I couldn’t imagine using green. Yellow was practical without being flashy, and the green was almost too dark to see the ink underneath.
“Never,” I said dryly. He laughed, which made me oddly proud.
He scribbled out an answer to the first discussion question and copied my answer onto his paper. His messy handwriting—a mix of print and cursive, as if he couldn’t choose one and stick to it—made my eyes cross.
Dr. Greer started the lecture, and I got lost in the rhythm of class and taking notes. When Travis nudged me with his elbow halfway through class, I was so surprised I fumbled my pen. It went flying off the table and rolled under the seats in the row in front of us.
I slowly turned toward Travis, and he was trying to suppress his laughter. I glared at him. Good thing I always had extras.
He whispered, “Sorry,” and I nodded.
He went to nudge me again and this time I caught his elbow in my palm. He sucked in a breath and grinned.
“What?” I mouthed. We never talked in class.
He leaned close and whispered in my ear. “My next class is cancelled. The professor is sick. Just got the email.”
“Okay.”
What exactly was he trying to say here?
He huffed and jerked his arm out of my grasp. Then he started taking notes, which he normally only did sporadically. I was so distracted by that exchange that I missed two whole slides on the PowerPoint presentation Dr. Greer was using to highlight insects and arachnids in folklore.
By the time class ended, I’d decided I was never going to be spontaneous with the partner discussion questions again. As people bundled back into their coats, I marched down from our row to the one in front of us to retrieve my pen. Travis grinned.
I wanted to kiss that smile off his face.
He seemed onboard with that because he took the stairs quickly and strode down the fourth-floor hallway like he was on a mission. I caught up with him as he reached the storage closet.
The door was cracked, but that didn’t stop him from throwing it open and taking a step over the threshold.
“Whoops.” Travis backed out of the doorway and bumped into me. “Sorry,” he said. “Wrong room.”
He grabbed my hand and tugged me away from the closet, but not before I caught a one-second peek of a professor stocking up on printer paper and binder clips.
Travis dragged me down the stairs and through the front doors of the building. When we burst out into the dreary cold, I started to laugh. I pulled him to a stop and bent over. My backpack slid off my shoulder onto the ground.
“Holy shit.” My voice was weak. “That was Dr. Markmann. I had him for Agribusiness Accounting and Taxation last semester.”
What if he had walked in on us, rather than us on him? In all the weeks we’d been doing this, the fourth floor had been virtually deserted.
Travis’s cold hand found the back of my neck. “You okay?”
I nodded and stood back up.
His eyes were wary. “I guess that’s the end of that.”
The end of what? Kissing him in the closet?
It’d better not be.
“Why?”
His eyebrows furrowed, and he straightened his beanie. “That was a firsthand preview of the hazard of fooling around there. I figured that’d be enough for you to want to stop.”
“Is kissing technically ‘fooling around’?” He rolled his eyes, and I soldiered on. “I’ll kiss you wherever you’d be willing to kiss me.”
“Yeah, sure.”
His fingers picked at the lapel of his coat. He was fidgeting.
“Are you all right?” I stepped closer to him. He was shaking, but I couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or adrenaline.
He shot me a wry smile. “My heart is beating so hard. That scared the shit out of me.” I touched his shoulder, gripped it and held on, until he relaxed into me in increments. Eventually, he chuckled. “I’ve never heard you laugh like that. It was freaky.”
“Oh, screw you.”
His smile bloomed. “If you’re lucky, maybe. One day.” My mouth dropped open, and he winked. “I’m going to head home.”
“Okay. See you later.”
He turned and started to walk away without another word. Angry discontentment filled my chest.
“Wait,” I called.
He pivoted toward me but kept walking backward. “What?”
Something was vibrating inside me today, making me reckless and impulsive. “Want to get lunch?” I asked, and it felt like I’d ripped open my chest cavity so he could peer inside.
He stopped walking and stared at me across a swath of dead grass. “Umm, I don’t know. I’m kind of busy today.”
He wasn’t busy now, though, and he’d just said he was going home. His class had been canceled, so he had more free time than usual. If it weren’t for Dr. Markmann, we’d have been kissing on the fourth floor. He was letting me down easy.
I picked up my backpack and shouldered it. “Sure. Maybe some other time.”
He nodded, sent me a lazy wave, and walked off.
I needed to add Stop asking Travis on dates, you pathetic puppy, to my to-do list.
Since I had a few spare hours, I decided to drive out and see if Dad needed any help on the farm before my class at four. He was doing paperwork, and I immediately regretted my decision because he used it as a teaching opportunity.
For when I was in charge.
Rather than listening to him drone on about financials and tax information on our mineral rights, I daydreamed about Travis. I wanted him to want me back.
I mentally added Spank someone with a paddle to my bucket list, which was cheating. I knew he wanted to do that with me. He’d mentioned it.
“Connor.”
I jerked my head up. “Yes?”
“What’s in your brain, son? You seem lost today.”
Shit.
“I�
��m sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“About what?”
“School,” I lied.
“You always were the smarty-pants of the family,” Dad said with a smile. “You enjoy the school stuff.” He scratched the back of his balding head. “You’re like Cliff that way.”
“Really?” Though both Mom and Dad frequently told me stories about Cliff, I gobbled up the information like it was food that was about to be taken away.
“Yep. He was analytical. He enjoyed order and organization. It was why he was so good at running the business before he passed. Like you will be.”
A chill ran through me at the prospect. I was capable of keeping everything in exactly the correct box, organizing it until it was flat and boring and unremarkable. But the reason the family’s businesses had thrived was not because they’d been kept orderly. No, it was because of Mom and Dad’s creativity and the chances they’d taken to diversify.
All I’d bring to the table was a penchant for alphabetizing and a college degree to make it official.
It wasn’t the work involved in managing the family businesses that made me feel like the walls were closing in. I actually loved the prospect of working in agriculture. It was important to me. I had strong feelings about community food security and sustainability and innovative conservation.
No, my problem was being here, in Elkville, for the rest of my life. It was the thought of being locked into this one thing, this one career path. Forever. How many twenty-two-year-olds stuck with the same job for their whole lives? How many knew exactly what their paths would be and never strayed? Never made mistakes? If I made a mistake, it reflected on and affected my family’s legacy. It was a lot of pressure.
Mostly, I worried I wouldn’t ever be happy here, but it wasn’t like I could just turn in a resignation letter.
This was the life my parents had built for themselves. They wanted Lena and I to be a part of it. How did you turn your back on that?
You didn’t.
I couldn’t.
Chapter Ten
TRAVIS
Sometimes I could go hours without checking my cell phone, and sometimes it felt like the most important possession I owned. I’d opened my text messages a hundred times since I’d rejected Connor a couple of hours ago, hoping to see his name flash on my screen.
Pathetic.
I’d started to write him an apology for bailing earlier, but it’d ended up being obnoxiously long and uncomfortably truthful, so I’d deleted it.
Since I couldn’t text him, I stalked him on social media. I had to re-download the Facebook app onto my phone, only to find his account hadn’t been active for a year. I couldn’t find him on Twitter or Snapchat.
I hit pay dirt on Instagram. Most of his Instagram photos were of fields, cows, or horses. His family’s farm, I assumed. There were also a few pictures of a young woman who had to be his sister—the family resemblance was hella strong—including a recent picture of her eating sushi.
He wasn’t in any of his own photos. I tapped over to posts that he’d been tagged in by other people. Bingo. Desi Thomas was my new best friend—she’d tagged him in a ton of photos.
I spent way too long examining them, reading the comments, and staring at his grumpy face. After a few heart-pounding seconds of deliberation, I said, “Fuck it,” and followed him. Then I turned on post notification so I’d get an alert each time he posted. I drew the line at doing the same for Desi’s.
After that messy, messy business was out of the way, I tried to refocus on what I was supposed to be doing, which was apartment hunting for law school. SAFE Asylum provided hostel-style housing for its interns over the summer, so I was all set on that front. But I needed to figure out my shit for August in Oklahoma City.
Ten minutes later, my phone lit up with a notification that Connor Blume was following me on Instagram.
An odd mix of embarrassment and excitement pummeled me. It was like I was in middle school again, getting all overwhelmed about social media and heavy petting in a closet. This was ridiculous.
I grabbed my phone and whipped out a message to him before I could second-guess myself.
What are you doing right now?
Small dots appeared at the bottom of the screen to show that Connor was responding. Was there anything worse than the three dots from hell?
Finishing up a paper for my Meat Science class. You?
Anytime he brought up his Meat Science class, I snickered like a little kid.
I’m researching apartments. It’s going swell.
It was not going swell. There were so many different options and things to consider. I’d tried to keep notes about each apartment complex, but they were all starting to bleed together.
Connor responded, In Oklahoma City for grad school?
Yeah. I’m not methodical enough for this shit.
The whole process was depressing me, which was probably why I was procrastinating by texting Connor and stalking him on Instagram.
I wanted to ask my parents’ opinions on stuff, but I knew that if I did, that would lead to them essentially picking my apartment for me. I wanted to do this myself with a budget and a balanced checkbook. I wanted to prove I could.
I was driving out to Oklahoma City on Saturday to see some of the apartments in person, so I needed to narrow it down, stat.
What’s the problem? I’m the best at organization, Connor texted back.
I laughed. He was normally so understated, so his brag was endearing.
I can’t get my notes organized about the different apartments. I keep getting them mixed up.
I didn’t want to admit that I didn’t know what I should be focusing on in an apartment search. Amenities? Price? Proximity to Mexican food? How pretty it is in the pics on the Internet?
Use a spreadsheet.
I responded, Yuck.
He didn’t answer immediately, so I went back to perusing an apartment complex’s website. There were no pictures of the one-bedroom apartments on their site, which was aggravating.
My phone lit up with another message from Connor.
I emailed you an Excel spreadsheet. All you have to do is type in the info. The formatting should be correct and make it easy to read.
I opened the attachment he’d sent me, and it almost brought tears to my eyes. It was so staid and boring and fucking perfect. There were columns where I could input all the important information from rental price to location to washer/dryer hookups to utilities included, and much more. It had literally taken him less than five minutes to make this for me with all the important variables spelled out clearly. He’d be such a good farmer boss.
If you were here, I’d blow you.
He messaged back, No sexting. I’m doing homework.
This is awesome. Thank you.
Anytime. I can be your Excel spreadsheet guy.
I drummed my fingers against my desk. I wanted to see him but needed to get this shit done tonight. If he came over, I’d be too distracted. He was too distracting.
What are you doing in two hours? I asked. Hopefully by then he’d be done studying up on meat.
Nothing.
I messaged, Want to come over? We could play videogames?
My pulse went haywire, and I stared at my own message in shock, as if it had betrayed me. Videogames were a friend thing, or a date thing, in my book. We never hung out like that. I never accepted his offers of dates.
Fuck, had I just asked him on one?
On your NES? Connor asked.
Yep, it’s the only console I own.
Can we make wagers?
My heartbeat picked up for a different reason.
For what?
Whatever you want. Pieces of clothing. Sexual favors. Excel spreadsheet favors.
Absolutely, I replied.
Relief rushed through me. Maybe this would be no different than any other time we’d fooled around. Only tonight, a classic Nintendo game would be foreplay.
I wa
sn’t a strong enough man to turn that down.
I’d gotten swept up in a book of bell hooks’s poems for my Women in Literature class, so when someone knocked on my door, I wasn’t exactly dressed. I fucking hated wearing clothes at home, especially winter clothes that were all thick and stifling.
I called out, “Connor?” to double-check that it was him.
“Yes?” he replied through the door.
I glanced up to see the door was unlocked, which was stupid, but oh well. “Come in!”
He opened the door. Before I could get up off the living room floor where I’d been lounging, he was straddling me.
“Why the hell aren’t you wearing clothes, Travis?” he growled.
“Half dressed is more comfortable.”
He was wearing a flannel shirt, Wranglers, and cowboy boots. Different clothes than he’d had on in class. Normally, he wore work boots or tennis shoes. His sudden devolution into the stereotypical cowboy was jarring.
And sexy.
Was it inappropriate to lick his boots?
Probably.
The first time I’d seen Connor last year at the Yard, he’d been wearing this same flannel shirt. I touched the sleeve. It was lined with fleece, which must have been how he could get away with not wearing a coat in this weather. The chilly air from when he’d opened the door made me shiver.
“It’s cold outside,” I said. He pressed his ice cube hands to my sides, and I bucked him off me so quickly he landed flat on his back, his laughter ringing through the living room.
God, his laugh.
“Well, it’s roasting in here. What do you have your heat set on? No wonder you’re naked.”
“I’m not naked,” I said as primly as possible.
“If we’re playing strip Donkey Kong, I think I’m going to win.”
I glared at him, then stalked out of the room with dignity. When I returned, fully clothed, I said, “We’re playing Super Mario Brothers 3.”
“Even better.”
I handed him a controller and set up the game. I’d bought the NES at a public library fundraiser and wasn’t very good at playing it. My first gaming system as a kid had been the PlayStation, so playing the regular Nintendo was a throwback.
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