The First Law of Love

by Abbie Williams

  “What about Case?” I asked Sean, who was elbowed up to his plate on my left, sopping another bite of cornbread through gravy. At my question I felt Marshall’s eyes upon me, from across the table.

  “He’s probably on the way right now,” Quinn answered, snatching a third pork chop from the platter in the middle of the table before adding, “He joined us shingling on the Hellers’ barn today, for the afternoon. Said he had to go home and clean up quick.”

  I smiled at this news, wide, unable to help myself. I happened to be looking at Wy, whose eyebrows lifted as he inadvertently smiled back at me. I grew flustered then, rising and finding an excuse for my restless movement by helping clear the table; I had insisted upon loading the dishwasher each of the nights that Clark had invited me, feeling as though it was a small way to repay him for his kindness, for making me a part of the family this summer.

  “Shit,” I muttered, as gravy splashed on my t-shirt on my second trip, right between my breasts. I had been carrying too many dishes for one armload. I rinsed them in the sink and made the mess on my shirt worse by scrubbing at it with a damp towel. It was then that I heard the dogs barking outside, in a friendly, excited way. In a greeting.

  He’s riding up!

  He’s here, he’s here!

  I darted down the back hallway to the little half-bath I knew was there and clicked on the light, shutting the door and regarding myself in the mirror. Again my cheeks were as hot as though I’d downed a couple of bottles of wine on my own, rather than the single beer I’d actually sipped with dinner. Heat had absolutely overtaken my face. I ran my fingers frantically through my hair, which was extra wavy and tangled in the humidity. It appeared that maybe I hadn’t even brushed it today, and here I was in a stained shirt.

  There was a small window in this bathroom, open a few inches, and even though I was on the opposite side of the house, I distinctly heard Case, joking about something. Then he told Sean to grab Garth’s old guitar.

  “It’s still here, isn’t it?” Case asked, his deep voice carrying through the night, right to me. I fantasized that he was going to ask if I was here; but of course he would have seen my car. My heart was on a roller coaster, currently at the peak of a steep hill, poised to race downward into open space.

  “Yeah, I’ll grab it,” Sean said.

  “Guys, help me with this wood!” Wy called plaintively, from farther away, probably around the barn.

  “Buddy, you gotta help yourself with your own wood,” Marshall teased his youngest brother. “Ain’t nobody gonna help you with it, unless maybe you get a sweet little girlfriend.”

  They were all laughing then; I couldn’t help but giggle too, feeling a little like I was back in high school. But it wasn’t an unwelcome feeling.

  Wy fired back, “At least I have wood,” and then there was more laughter, and the sounds of scuffling, and I realized I couldn’t keep hiding out in here, gravy stains on my shirt or no.

  As I came back into the kitchen, Clark called through the screen door, “Tish, honey, can you bring that six-pack on the counter?”

  “Sure thing!” I called back, hooking my fingers around the cardboard handle.

  The first thing I saw upon stepping outside, my senses on high alert, was Cider nosed up to the corral fence. I nearly burst apart with happiness at this sight, my eyes already roving the yard for a glimpse of Case. Marshall and Quinn had constructed a kindling tepee out in the stone pit beyond the wooden barn, which was already blazing away as Clark prepared to position larger sticks, and then I saw Case, in a lawn chair, plunking along on the old guitar.

  I smiled joyously, pausing at the corral to pat Cider’s warm jaw; because no one was looking, I pressed a quick kiss to the white spot on her nose, in the exact place that I had observed Case press his lips to her yesterday. When I approached the fire with the six-pack held in one hand, he looked right up at me and actually grinned, wide and warm. I felt about as hot as the center of the growing bonfire. Case nodded at the seat beside his and my heart executed a complete backflip, in pure joy.

  “Hey,” I said, tamping down the urge to reach my free hand and stroke his red-gold hair, which was freshly washed, I could tell, so soft-looking in the firelight, the orange flames playing over the angles of his face, his firm chin and strong nose, his beautiful cinnamon-spice eyes. I settled into the chair and angled my knees towards him, setting the beers on the ground.

  “Hey there,” he said softly. He began picking out the tune of the song with which he’d ended his show at The Spoke just two nights ago; I recognized it even though he was using a guitar rather than the fiddle this time. He strummed almost unconsciously and then asked me, “You have any requests?”

  I do, oh God, I do.

  But I can’t request any of those things of you.

  I continued to study his eyes, so close to him, when he usually kept a subtle distance between us. I could not for the life of me figure him out. Last night he’d been aloof, except for when we talked about the horses. Tonight he seemed relaxed, approachable. So much so that I was seriously considering displacing the guitar and climbing right onto his lap.

  I was so dangerously close to saying, I drove by your place last night, Case. And something was happening out there.

  I had to find a way to tell him.

  He raised his eyebrows at me then, certainly wondering at my silence. I said, “What you were just playing was really pretty. I liked it the other night too.”

  Was that satisfaction on his face? I thought so, watching him intently. He said quietly, “Thank you.”

  “Did you write it?” I pressed, even though I knew he had.

  He strummed a G-chord, his eyes now in the fire, and nodded.

  “That’s so impressive,” I told him, truly wanting him to know I felt that way, that he impressed me greatly. I wished we were alone out here; I was so greedy of my time with him, wanting to hoard it. I wanted to ask him a thousand questions. I wanted him to look back at me.

  “Casey, we’re on for Wednesday at the fairgrounds, right?” Marshall asked, flopping down on my other side, and I longed to kick him for interrupting.

  Case nodded. He said, “Lee asked me to fill in on the stage The Spoke sets up, on Tuesday, but I told her not until after the meeting.”

  “I can join you Tuesday,” Marsh said, then bumped his shoulder against mine, the way Clint might, back home. He teased, “Lots of hot girls come to the fair.”

  “Lots of hot girls like musicians,” I agreed, bumping my own shoulder back against Marshall, with maybe a hair more force than required. “Lucky you.”

  Marshall got me in playful headlock then and knuckled my scalp, totally fucking up my hair. God, he was just like Clint. I yelped and elbowed his ribs and then Case reached behind me and slapped the back of Marsh’s head, hard.

  “Ouch!” Marshall complained, releasing me. “Fine, I give up. I’m no match for the two of you.”

  “Dammit, Marsh,” I grumbled. “Now my hair is all tangled.”

  “It already was,” he said right back, all defensive. “I didn’t do anything that wasn’t already done.”

  I had to giggle at this logic.

  Case was back to strumming the guitar, seemingly unconcerned. His arm had touched my back, just briefly. I wanted to beg him to put his arm around me, this time on purpose, and for much longer than a second. Marsh saw Wy coming with a tray of s’mores supplies, and jumped up to snatch a chocolate bar.

  “He’s such a child,” Case said in mock exasperation. I giggled. And then he added, quietly, “And your hair is beautiful, all down like that.”

  I drew in a breath at these wholly unexpected words, my cheeks erupting with heat now. He studied me silently for the space of one more breath, before he looked back at the fire, still gently plucking the strings.

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  Wy abruptly claimed the spot that Marsh had abandoned.

  “Here, Tish, can you take this?” Wy asked, passing me
the tray. “Will you be in charge of making the s’mores?”

  “Sure,” I said, settling it over my lap. “I’ll make a little assembly line here.”

  Sean passed around roasting sticks.

  “I can roast you one,” Wy offered, as my hands were full as I unwrapped the Hershey bars and broke graham crackers in half.

  “I got it, buddy,” Case said easily, setting aside the old guitar and reaching to take two marshmallows from the tray on my lap. I held completely still for just a second before resuming what I’d been doing. Case said to me, “I roast a pretty good marshmallow, just so you know.”

  I peeked at him, so completely happy to be close to him like this, that he was joking with me, relaxed. He had complimented me. I said, “I’m holding you to that. I can never get the right balance. Either too burned or too raw.”

  Case said, “Once Garth had a marshmallow catch on fire out here, so he starts waving it around, freaking out, and it flew off the stick and landed on his nose.” I giggled at this, and Case went on, “We were only about twelve or so.”

  “It sounds like you guys have a lot of good memories,” I said, as Case aligned the marshmallows on the stick, mesmerized watching his hands perform this little task. He nodded acknowledgment of my words. Everyone was joking around, laughing and involved in their own conversations, allowing us our own little private world. I wanted to lock Case and myself inside and then incinerate the key.

  I studied the side of his face as he leaned forward to put the marshmallows into the flames; his right elbow was close to my left thigh, the fire playing over his hair and his right ear, the skin of his neck exposed by his t-shirt, the solid line of muscle over the top of his shoulder. Before I could stop myself, I touched his back with the fingertips of my left hand. He was so warm, so solid and firm beneath his t-shirt, and he stiffened at my touch, looking back over his shoulder instantly.

  Jesus Christ, Tish.

  I withdrew my hand at once and lied inanely, “There was a mosquito on you…”

  “Oh,” he said, looking back at the fire. “Thanks.”

  “No problem,” I replied, a catch in my throat.

  Everyone crowded around the fire, circling more tightly in order to get the marshmallows in the flames. I scooted closer too, the tray of s’mores supplies ready to go, gazing around the fire at my surrogate family. The Rawley boys all looked so much alike, with their dark hair and teasing eyes, their noses that were just a little too long. Wy especially had yet to grow into his, and I hid a smile at the sight of him, thinking of how he’d been kind enough to worry that I would be alone at the table on Thursday night, if he went to dance.

  “First kiss,” Sean said then, and everyone started laughing while I stared at him, mystified by these words in this context.

  “Oh yeah,” Marsh agreed, and Case shook his head, smiling, as he turned the roaster stick with our marshmallows in a slow, continuous circle.

  I looked at Clark for an explanation; he was sitting with one ankle caught on the opposite knee, regarding all of his boys with fondness. He said, “It’s an old rule. New people around the bonfire have to tell the story of their first kiss.”

  And then they all looked expectantly at me, with varying degrees of speculation and teasing. Case was the only one who kept his eyes on the flames; our chairs were so close together, my (I hoped subtle) doing, that I was chicken to look over at him.

  I stalled for time, protesting, “But I don’t know any of your stories.”

  “Ladies first,” Marsh insisted. “Then we’ll tell ours.”

  “What girl has ever kissed you?” Wy asked.

  Everyone laughed heartily at this, me included; Marsh was the scapegoat of his family, but he totally asked for it. Marsh retorted, “Katie Nelson, seventh grade, just behind the bleachers after school.”

  “Tongue?” Wy asked, adding to the general hysteria. He concluded, “I bet no tongue.”

  “The real question is, has there been anyone since then?” Case added, giving Marshall a wicked grin across the fire. Marsh flashed a lazy, raised middle finger at Case.

  “Clark, what about you?” I asked, fascinated.

  Clark tipped back his head as he laughed. He said gamely, “My first love was also my first kiss, my Faye, mother of five of my boys. Junior year of high school, October, her mama’s front stoop.”

  “That’s so sweet,” I said, softly and sincerely. “That’s so romantic.”

  If my sisters could hear me, they wouldn’t believe it; I never said things like that. Romance was simply not in my vocabulary. And here I was with eyes that were close to growing wet with tears.

  “Way better than bleacher-kissing with Katie Nelson,” Quinn agreed, everyone still taking pot-shots at Marsh. “Katie with her braces that had two different colors of rubber bands.”

  “Did your braces get tangled with hers?” Sean asked, almost laughing too hard to ask.

  “Y’all can screw off,” Marsh said.

  At that moment Case finished our marshmallows, leaning back. I was ready with a graham cracker/chocolate bar sandwich. He plucked them, perfectly roasted, from the stick and presented them to me with his half-grin.

  He said, “See there?” with such an air of teasing confidence that my heart ka-thumped all over the place. I dared to meet his eyes and my heart slammed even more fiercely. We were no more than a foot and a half apart and I was all shivery and could hardly hold his gaze; then I couldn’t manage to look away. I realized he was politely waiting for me to take the marshmallows, so I did, our fingertips briefly meeting. We both got all sticky and I had the distinct notion that if we were alone he would have taken my hand into his big, strong, sexy one and licked every last bit of melted sugar from my fingertips.

  Somehow I also had the sense that he was either reading my mind loudly and clearly, or thinking something very similar. I could hardly breathe, imagining that.

  “Thanks,” I whispered, but then Wy and Sean were both crowding close with their own toasty marshmallows, and I was forced to turn to the task of passing out chocolate and graham crackers.

  I finally bit into mine and it was perfect. And so it was that I had a large and gooey mouthful when Wy said, “Ok, Tish you’re up!”

  Shit.

  I shook my head, indicating my full mouth with my free hand.

  “No getting out of it,” Wy insisted. He peered a little more closely at me and added, “You’ve got marshmallow on your lip, like a mustache.”

  Lovely. That was me, super sexy at all times. I swiped at my top lip and probably made it worse.

  “Eighth grade, Charlotte Lott, her parents’ basement,” Case said, still sitting forward, with his forearms on his thighs. He was saving me, I realized. He laughed a little and added, “We were watching some horror movie, I can’t remember exactly, but it was scary enough that I took advantage, I admit it. You know, like, ‘It’s all right, you can come closer’ kind of thing.”

  “Tongue?” Wy asked, sounding truly curious, and then we were all dying with laughter.

  “What has gotten into you, buddy?” Quinn demanded, roughing up Wy’s hair.

  Case nodded affirmation of Wy’s question, still smiling.

  “Eighth grade, Marni Parsons, in her garage,” Sean said. “Dang, I almost got to second base that same day.” To Wy he added salaciously, “Lots of tongue.”

  “Boys,” Clark reprimanded, but he was laughing too. I loved their easy camaraderie.

  Quinn said, “I was old. Ninth grade, Emily Inman, my bedroom after school. We were working on algebra but I couldn’t think of anything else after she put her hand on my knee.”

  I had finished chewing and I knew I had to be a good sport. Probably I still had marshmallow on my lip. God, and gravy on my shirt. I sighed and said to Quinn, “No, I was older than that. Summer between junior and senior year.” They all looked at me with what I supposed I should consider rather flattering disbelief. Self-conscious as hell, I finished, “My cousin’s friend Je
ff Worden, baseball field in Landon after their game.” Before he could ask, I said to Wy, “Yes, a little tongue.” And then I was laughing again, shaking my head and wanting to cover my face with both hands.

  “You were almost a senior?” Marsh asked. “What’s wrong with the boys in your town? Are they nuts?”

  “I didn’t want a boyfriend,” I said. “Not then. I was too much of a tomboy.”

  Case was watching me with warmth in his gaze, amusement. He said, “I can see that.”

  I was full-body flushed and my clothes felt too tight, so I redirected everyone and put Wy on the spot with, “Ok, Tongue Man, you haven’t told us yours.”

  There was too much laughter for anyone to say anything. Wy shook his head until his hair flopped, and finally managed to say, “I tried…I tried to kiss Hannah Jasper, last summer, at a party, but I…”

  His brothers were almost crying with laughter.

  Wy finished, almost gleefully, “But I missed and kissed her ear. She turned her head at the last second, I swear! I got a mouthful of ear.”

  “Oh, buddy,” I laughed. “Did you try again?”

  “No,” he admitted. “I see her all the time, and all I can think is that I tasted her earring!”

  “So there was tongue involved,” Case said.

  By the time the fire had died down a half hour later, my stomach hurt from laughing. The air had grown steadily colder, but I hadn’t noticed at all until Case got up to duck inside. I realized too late I was watching him walk towards the house, staring after him really, and snapped my attention back to the fire, only to observe that Clark had been watching me watch Case. I pretended to be preoccupied with finishing the last of a Hershey bar, probably my third or fourth of the evening. Probably I had a chocolate ring around my mouth, along with the marshmallow.

  “You have plans for tomorrow?” Clark asked me.

  I shook my head, saying, “Just working on my argument for Tuesday. I spent the week researching what happened to families displaced by Capital Overland buyouts. And it’s not good.”

  All of the guys were somber now, the boisterous mood having fizzled out a little, echoing the dying fire. Wy was munching a marshmallow while the others quietly sipped their beers.