Preston's Honor

by Mia Sheridan

  She looked back at Hudson and remained quiet for a minute. Finally, her shoulders seemed to relax slightly and she offered me a smile. “I know. Let’s just . . . play things by ear, okay? We still have a baby. Who knows what the future holds. And we are starting over, right? That seems like jumping ahead quite a bit.”

  I returned her smile, deciding she was probably right. “Okay. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  She nodded and the mood lightened. Yes, we’d cross that bridge when we came to it.

  **********

  As I finished up for the day, the sun was going down, the mountains on fire with reds and oranges, the sky itself colored a deep indigo blue. I felt tired, but satisfied as I stood at the edge of the farmland looking out over it as I’d done so many times with my dad.

  Today, we’d accomplished a lot, not just the first half of the harvesting, but the lettuce had been wrapped in plastic and packed in boxes right in the field. Right now it was being cooled and in a couple of days it would be shipped to supermarkets and restaurants from California to Maine.

  Next week, a head of lettuce I’d picked with my own hand would be looked over by some woman in a grocery store in Bangor. She wouldn’t think of the nameless somebody who’d grown and harvested it—she’d be thinking of the salad she’d be making later, or perhaps the guests she’d be serving, maybe the kid who liked lettuce on his ham sandwich—but the idea brought me pride regardless of the fact that farming could be a thankless job. So many are, I supposed.

  Tomorrow would be another long day, but I felt good going into it, knowing we weren’t behind.

  I walked into the kitchen and washed my hands, scrubbing beneath my nails and then grabbing a paper towel as I heard Lia coming down the stairs.

  “Hey,” I greeted her.

  She smiled a tired smile. “Hey. How’d it go?”

  “Good. Really good. How’d today go with you?”

  She nodded. “He’s a little handful.” But she looked happy. “He never stops, does he?”

  I chuckled. “Not often.”

  “I gave him a bath and put him to bed. He made me read that Thomas book three times. He’s like a little dictator.”

  I laughed. “I’m tired, too. What do you say we rent a movie and just relax?”

  “Oh, I can’t. I’m going to the farmworkers’ camp right outside town with Rosa and Alejandro.”

  I frowned. “What? Why?”

  “They go every Monday to deliver food. I went with them, and they started some repairs but didn’t have enough time to finish. They’re going back tonight, and I’m going with them.”

  Anger gripped me and I pulled back from where I’d been standing in front of her. “You went to a migrant camp?”

  Her brows moved together, and she crossed her arms. “Yes. Why?”

  “A. Migrant. Camp?”

  “Yes,” she said slowly, warily, a tilt to her chin.

  I threw my arms up. “Goddamn it, Lia. Do you know how unsafe those places can be? You can’t just be traipsing around the world as if you have no responsibilities. As if you don’t have a son who’s waiting at home for you.”

  Shit. The hurt filling her eyes was almost a tangible thing. Why the hell had I said that? But even in my regret at hurting her, I couldn’t seem to let go of the picture that filled my head of her walking down the run-down pathways of a migrant camp as some man pulled her into a cabin, clamping a hand over her mouth.

  She whirled on her heel and rushed out of the kitchen, grabbing her jacket and flinging the front door open.

  I made an angry grunt and ran after her. God, why was I so irrationally furious? I wanted to stop this fight, I wanted to rewind and come in the house again and be prepared for this conversation, handle it differently, let go of the irate fear that was still racing through my veins, but I couldn’t seem to let it go. I followed her out through the front door and onto the porch.

  Lia was already in the front yard, but suddenly, she whirled around and raced back toward me. I came up short so I wouldn’t collide with her. “I’m not traipsing all over the world, Preston. I know I have responsibilities. I went to the camp to take food to the people who live there because they’re hungry. I was with a group, and I was never in danger. And moreover, they’re not dangerous. They’re just people. People who are poor and hungry and who’ve risked everything, risked hardship, and loneliness, and even death for the only reason anyone risks those things: for love. For the hope of providing their children with the basic human needs so many take for granted. They don’t ask for much—just a place to belong. And yet they don’t belong here, and they don’t belong in their own country anymore. Maybe they don’t belong anywhere, or at least that’s how it feels!”

  She was shaking and her words took my breath, making me feel confused and suddenly uncertain. She turned away and then turned back, and I saw tears in her eyes. “The drought has affected them, too, and they have nothing to fall back on. Nothing. They pick food nine hours a day and yet they can barely feed themselves let alone their children. Can you even imagine the fear of that? Have you ever even thought about it?”

  “I—”

  “If they don’t work the fields, who will?”

  I let out a breath, running my hand through my gritty-feeling hair. “Lia, I know—”

  “Who will? Is anyone else applying for those jobs?”

  “No, no one else applies for those jobs.” Every once in a while someone from town would take a job picking fruits or vegetables on our farm, but they generally didn’t last long. It was hot, hard, dirty, and dangerous work, and it was true—Americans preferred to make minimum wage working fast food than picking lettuce. “Goddammit, Lia, I appreciate every man and woman who works on my farm.” I was confused and didn’t know how the conversation had turned in this direction.

  “You appreciate them, but they’re dangerous?”

  “No, I didn’t mean that. I just meant people in general can be dangerous, and a migrant camp doesn’t provide any safety.”

  “I walked every back road and farm row in this area growing up, Preston Sawyer, and no one ever harmed me. So don’t lecture me about danger. The migrant workers I’ve met have only been kind and helpful.”

  “For fuck’s sake! You’re purposefully misrepresenting me and making me sound like some kind of bad guy here. You know me better than that.”

  She let out a sound of anger and turned again, calling from the door of her car, “I think I should go now before this goes any further.” Then she got in and drove away, leaving me feeling stunned and bewildered.

  I was still standing there when my mother drove up, getting out of her car and looking at me strangely. “Was that Annalia I just passed? She’s not driving out of town again, is she? She didn’t even look at me as she passed and the expression on her face was—”

  Stark terror raced up my spine, and I made a strangled sound of fear as I raced to my truck. “Hudson’s in bed. Will you listen for him until I get home?” I didn’t wait for my mother’s answer before I jumped inside my truck and pulled out of the driveway.

  I barely even remembered the drive to Lia’s apartment. When I got there, her car was in the parking lot. Was she inside packing a bag? Would she get in her car and drive out of town leaving me with no idea where she’d gone? I took the stairs two at a time and used my fist to pound at her apartment door. It felt like my heart was coming out of my chest as I waited for an answer. Finally, the door was pulled open and Lia stared at me in shocked silence.

  My eyes focused on the room behind her, scanning the space for any sign that she was leaving—an open suitcase, clothes on the bed—but I didn’t see anything. My gaze met hers again and I attempted to catch my breath, my chest rising and falling rapidly as we stared at each other from across the doorway.

  “Preston—”

  God, what the fuck was wrong with me? She wasn’t leaving. She’d told me she loved me. We’d danced in the Laundromat. She’d spent the da
y with Hudson and looked happy and satisfied. We were starting over and— “I’m sorry,” I choked. “For what I said. I’m sorry.” Don’t leave. It was too much. My emotions were overwhelming me, and I just needed to get my bearings. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Preston?” she called, confusion in her voice, but I walked to my truck, got inside, and drove home. My hands shook on the steering wheel the entire way.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Annalia

  Once again I drove down the dirt road toward Sawyer Farm and slowed to accommodate the bumps, my heart beating rapidly in my chest. The look on Preston’s face when he’d shown up at my door. It was . . . panicked terror. My stomach knotted with guilt and sadness. He’d looked over my shoulder, his eyes searching wildly, and I’d known he’d been looking for signs that I was leaving. He believed I was capable of disappearing again. Every ounce of anger from our argument had drained from my body leaving me weak with regret and heartache.

  Oh, Preston.

  Was that how he’d looked when he’d shown up at my mama’s apartment door the day after I really had left? Somehow I knew it was, and the knowledge was a sharp blade to my heart.

  That year . . . that terrible year—punctuated only with the joy of the first time we laid eyes on our beautiful baby boy. I’d thought Preston hadn’t seen me, but I hadn’t seen him either. I hadn’t tried. I’d allowed myself to fade into the background and in doing so, had denied us both the affection, the closeness, the comfort we might have shared. I had squandered every opportunity by my unwillingness to make a fuss. I thought it was fair to forgive that, given the exhaustion of having a newborn, but if I had really loved Preston the right way, I should have tried to look past his defensive walls. I hadn’t made a fuss. I never made a fuss.

  No more.

  He’d left and I’d stood in the doorway for several long minutes, shocked by the desperation I’d seen on his face. We’d fought and because of it, he thought I might leave. His trust in me was still shaky, so easily fractured, and I honestly couldn’t blame him for that.

  I wanted to take him in my arms and hold him. Needed to. Not tomorrow. Not the next day. Right that minute. And so this time, I would run after him. Run to him.

  I pulled into his driveway and relief swept through me to see his truck parked there, too. Twilight had fallen, but the light from the porch illuminated the path as I jumped out of my car and walked swiftly to the door, knocking twice.

  A minute later, Mrs. Sawyer pulled the door open, her face showing surprise, though none of the same displeasure she’d shown the first time I’d knocked two weeks ago. Was it only two weeks ago? It felt like a lifetime.

  “Hi, Mrs. Sawyer. I’m here to see Preston.” My breathing was still slightly erratic and I fought to control it, to appear as normal as possible.

  Her face registered confusion as she studied me, but then she glanced over my shoulder to the driveway where his truck was parked as if she hadn’t even known he was home. Perhaps he hadn’t gone inside the house. He couldn’t have been more than five or ten minutes ahead of me.

  “Did you have a fight?”

  I blinked. I wasn’t sure why she was asking, and I wasn’t sure I should be honest with her, if she might find enjoyment in the knowledge that we’d quarreled. “Yes,” I said warily.

  She nodded as if she’d expected as much, crossing her arms under her breasts. She bit at her lip for a moment. “If he’s as much his father’s son as I think, he’s probably in the barn pacing. Why don’t you go to him? I never went to his father and look where that got me.”

  Surprised, I opened my mouth and then closed it again, finally managing a soft, “Thank you.” She gave me a small nod and closed the door gently.

  Her kindness rushed over me like an unexpected summer breeze, and I headed toward the barn, hoping to see the man I loved. The door was cracked and a light shone from inside. Breathing a sigh of relief, I pulled it open and saw him there, not pacing, but sitting on a storage box with his head bent.

  Two memories flashed before me: the time we’d sat in this same barn together the day of his father’s funeral and the night of the barn party. The first time there had been so many things unsaid between us, and the second time we hadn’t said any of the right things. This time was going to be different.

  He looked up when he heard my footsteps and looked mildly surprised, but mostly just weary. I stopped in front of him.

  “I thought you were going to the camp to help out tonight,” he said softly.

  “I called Rosa and told her I couldn’t make it.”

  “Not because of me—”

  “Yes, because of you, but not because you told me not to. Because we have business to attend to that can’t wait.” I took a deep breath. “So . . . we’re going to talk about this. You’re going to talk, and then I’m going to respond. Or if you want me to talk first, I can do that, and then you’ll respond to me.”

  His lip quirked slightly, but his eyes still looked sad. “That sounds really rational and mature. Think we can handle it?”

  I bit at my lip, considering for a moment. “I don’t know. Maybe we should find out.”

  He chuckled softly and rubbed the back of his neck. I took a seat next to him on one of the storage boxes.

  “You thought I might leave after we fought.”

  He paused for so long I thought I’d have to ask him again, but finally he said quietly, “Yeah. I . . . was scared you might.”

  I put my hand on his knee, just wanting the physical contact. “I’m sorry, Preston. I’m so sorry I left instead of trying to talk to you. After that night in the rain . . . I didn’t think there was any hope that you’d feel more for me than a guilt-ridden lust, and it hurt so badly, I ran from it. From you. And that was wrong. I won’t run again. I’m learning how to confront things that hurt me rather than running away. At the time, though . . . it was the only answer I could think of. I didn’t know what else to do. I just knew I couldn’t live that way anymore. I thought . . . I thought everyone would be happier without me—maybe even Hudson—and I felt like I was dying inside.”

  He put his hand on top of mine. It was warm and rough, and it made me feel safe.

  “Tell me about that night, Lia. What happened?” His eyes were pools of despair and guilt hit me in the gut again when I realized what I’d done to him.

  I took a deep breath, allowing my mind to travel there again. “I think . . . I think I was depressed. I think that year, trying to be there for you, but not feeling like I was helping anything, being in the house all day with your mom who made it clear I wasn’t wanted, but only when you weren’t around, and then the stresses of being a new mother myself . . .” I frowned. “I don’t know exactly, but I do know there was something not right with me. I know that because I don’t feel that way anymore.”

  A cool breeze wafted into the barn, causing the door to creak, and bringing with it the smells of the farm—grass and earth.

  “We had gone so long not touching each other, and I was so desperate for that and then . . . we had sex, and I felt insecure about my body, and then what you said . . .”

  He frowned, tilting his head. “What I said?”

  “About thinking I had the devil in me.”

  His eyes washed over my features for a second, a look of confusion in his expression, as if he barely remembered saying it. “I . . . I must have been trying to lighten the moment. I knew taking you up against the wall wasn’t very romantic, and I was probably trying to tease you a little. I wanted to take you up to bed. I asked and you said no.”

  “I know. I thought that would only make the pain worse. But also . . .” I blew out another breath, gathering my strength, “what you should know is that all my life, my mother has claimed I have the devil in me. I’m . . . I’m the product of a brutal rape, and she’s never let me forget it.”

  “Christ, Lia. I’m . . . God, I’m sorry.”

  I shook my head. “You didn’t know. It’s just . .
. those words, in that moment, gutted me. And especially from you. I felt so hollow.”

  “God, I had no idea.”

  I gave him a gentle smile. “You couldn’t have because I never told you. I never told another soul. I kept it hidden.” I’d kept myself hidden—inside parameters of my own making. I tilted my head. “I found out a little bit about my mother while I was with her sister. They had another younger sister named Luciana who became very, very ill and their family couldn’t afford medical care for her—there was no work and no way to get her the help she needed. My mother was a newlywed—only eighteen—and there was no work for her husband, either, and so they risked crossing the border so they could send money back to help both their families, and especially Luciana. My mother’s husband was murdered by the man who then raped her—my father.” Despair settled in my stomach at the word, the word that had no meaning to me other than to explain how I’d come to exist.

  Preston hissed out a breath that sounded both angry and helpless. “I wish I could find him and kill him.”

  I made a humming sound of agreement.

  “What happened to Luciana?”

  “She died.”

  Preston shook his head. “That’s awful.”

  “I know.”

  I bit at my lip for a moment. “It’s part of the reason I moved in with you when you asked. The way my mother looked at me,” I shook my head at the memory of the pain in her eyes, as if she could hardly bear it, “to see me pregnant and miserable, it—”

  “It reminded her of herself.”

  I nodded. “It must have.”