To Be Your Only

by Rae Kennedy

  “Fine. I’ll help you.”

  I jump up and down, probably doing some sort of embarrassing fist pumping move. I don’t know, my body is celebrating of its own accord. I’m definitely not thinking when I hop up and hug Eric around the shoulders. “Thank you!”

  He pats me awkwardly on the back and I realize he’s not wearing a shirt and he’s sweaty so I pull away.

  “This is going to be fun, wingman.”

  “That’s Dr. Wingman.” He grabs his jar of lemonade and takes a sip, swallowing it carefully, like one would when drinking alcohol straight with no chaser.

  “You’re drinking the lemonade?”

  He shrugs. “It’s cold, I’m thirsty, and you made it for me, so I’m going to drink it.”

  * * *

  “Gracie is doing well, in case you were wondering. Don’t worry, I’m keeping excellent track of her. We’re texting every day and I’m having her send me pictures of herself—but not, like, random pictures—pictures that show something specific so I know that it’s her in real time. Sort of like when kidnappers take a picture of the person with today’s newspaper as proof of life, except not as morbid. She’s in Vegas right now and get this, she has not seen even one male stripper. No dongs, no thongs, nothing.”

  I wipe off the last of the shaving cream with a warm towel and nod, exaggerating my exasperation.

  “I know, Pops, I know. Also, get this. She still hasn’t hooked up with any of the hot guys in the band. Not even a make-out session.”

  Grandpa looks up at me, his eyes are milky and not quite focused, but he has a relaxed expression on his face.

  “Right? I agree. But it hasn’t quite been a week yet. We’ll give her some time to get those oats sown.”

  I lend Grandpa my arm and help him up from the chair. He holds onto me with his stronger arm as we walk slowly back to his bed. He’s hunched over, barely shuffling his feet, but we make it there eventually. I get him settled and covered with a blanket.

  “What else—oh! I made some horrible lemonade today. When I took it back to the house, Bev helped me figure out what went wrong with it. See, the recipe calls for two cups of sugar—and I totally put in two cups—but I used the half cup measure, so yeah. Anyway, we fixed it, and then it was all fine. I brought it back out to the guys with extra ice, and they said it was amazing. Well, all of them except Eric. He's so weird, Grandpa. He said that after drinking the other lemonade he got used to the tartness, and that he preferred it. He said the new lemonade was too sweet.”

  Grandpa’s thin lips quirk up a bit and he looks toward the window to the backyard. The sun is just starting to dip down to the tips of the trees. The warm sunlight casts a healthier color to his skin and brings a smile to my face. It’s moments like this when I know he’s still in there.

  I cover his hand with mine and give it a gentle squeeze.

  He jerks his head toward my hand, tugging his arm back.

  “It’s okay, Pops. I didn’t mean to—”

  He starts looking around the room frantically and trying to pull off his covers.

  “Susan!” I yell.

  He’s shaking his head and then calls out a garbled “Martha?”

  I back away from his bed as Susan comes in. Once he starts asking for Grandma, I know he’s not going to come back anytime soon.

  Susan makes soft shushing noises and gets him to lie back down. She looks at me with sympathetic eyes, but I know I need to leave now.

  After his stroke, Grandpa lost some mobility and found it difficult to speak, but he was still there. Still my Pops who insisted on listening to the mid-afternoon news every day, liked sitting in the garden watching the birds, and preferred pastrami sandwiches over all others. But after Grandma died a few years ago, he started deteriorating fast.

  The first time I saw him get disoriented was heartbreaking. It still is. To see him go from confusion to fear, then to frustration and anger so quickly is hard. It’s been happening more lately, but he still has more good days than bad.

  So I focus on that as I leave and hope that after some rest tomorrow will be a better one.

  CHAPTER 5

  Chris Evans was a disappointment last night—for the record.

  Think I’ll move Chris Hemsworth into the rotation tonight.

  This is what I’m pondering to myself while I’m—surprise—mucking the horse stalls again on Friday. Michelle Obama arms, here I come.

  “Hey, Ky.”

  I turn as Wes comes into the stable. The afternoon sunlight glows around him and highlights his blond hair, making him look like some sort of Greek god. A Greek god who is, unfortunately, wearing a shirt today.

  “Hi, Wes.” I beam at him, leaning against the shovel and hoping my face isn’t too sweaty. “Fancy meeting you here.” Smooth, Kyla. Real smooth.

  “We came to see if you could use some help.”

  We?

  Eric walks in behind him. “Yeah, we got done with our work a little early so I suggested we come give you a hand.” He winks conspiratorially.

  I physically have to hold back my shut the fuck up you’re being so obvious glare.

  “Figured it was the least we could do, seeing as I let you fall off a horse the other day,” Wes adds.

  “Oh, that wasn’t your fault at all.” I wave off his words with a little giggle as he steps toward me smiling.

  When did I start giggling? That was fucking weird.

  Behind Wes, Eric is giving me a cringe face that clearly says what the fuck was that giggle?

  I can’t contain my glare anymore. Leave us alone already, Gallagher.

  “You know what? I'm going to go get my other gloves out of my truck. Be back in a bit.” He winks again.

  I already regret this whole wingman idea.

  But Wes and I are alone now, so...maybe it will work?

  He grabs a shovel and starts working on the stall next to mine. It’s quiet for a few minutes except for the scraping of the shovels along the wood plank floor.

  “So, it’s Friday. Do you have any plans tonight?” I ask innocently.

  “Not really. I usually just hang out at home. Probably do a workout and watch some sports, depending what’s on.”

  “Oh. That sounds fun.” Kind of.

  “Do you like watching sports?”

  “Um. Yeah, sports are...fun.”

  He glances over the partition and smiles, nodding. There, we can totally connect over sports. I just need to binge-watch ESPN or something.

  “Oh, hey.” He leans his shovel on the wall and walks around to my stall. “Let me show you a little better technique.”

  He comes up behind me, his warm chest at my back and wraps his arms around to hold my shovel. Omigod. He is pressed up behind me and he smells like sunshine and soap, and just a little salty.

  “Keep this arm bent up here, and then this arm like this. Make sure to keep your back straight and your legs bent. You want to lift with your legs so you don’t hurt your back.” He guides my hands as he shows me how to lift, our arms brushing.

  It’s amazing. I’m not sure if I’ve even been breathing this whole time.

  “Thanks. You are a great teacher.”

  “Thank you,” he says, straightening.

  I turn toward him, stepping closer. “You think we could give the horse-riding lessons another try?” I smile up at him, making sure my posture emphasizes my figure. I’m wearing my tightest jeans and a white tank top with little pink and yellow flowers on it.

  He glances down to my shirt for a second. Victory!

  “Sure thing. Just as long as you’re sure you’re ready.”

  “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. You know what they say—got to get back on the horse. Of course, usually they are talking about a metaphorical horse and in this case we are talking about a literal horse—”

  Wes is nodding as I speak, but his eyes have started to glaze over as I get deeper into my rambling.

  Turn it around, Rosenbaum.

  I move cl
oser. “How about tomorrow afternoon?” I arch my back a little and lean against my shovel.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  I lean a little farther. “And maybe afterward we could—” The shovel slides out from under me and I lose my balance. I let out a yelp and topple over as my leg hits the side of the wheelbarrow, and then I fall into it. It being the wheelbarrow. The very wheelbarrow we have been shoveling piles of horse poop and wet bedding into.

  “Oh my god!” Wes says just as Eric runs in.

  “What happened, are you okay?” And then they’re both at my side, offering their hands to help me up.

  It is extremely awkward to get out of a wheelbarrow. I didn’t know that before, but now I do. I end up having to sort of wag my legs and rock side to side to shimmy out. I’m literally rubbing my butt in the poop.

  “Wow.” Is all Eric says when I stand up, clearly on the verge of laughter.

  I assess the damage. My entire ass, lower back, and the left side of my body from hip to ribs is smeared with poop and then covered in pee-soaked straw, the sprinkles on top of this shit-flavored cupcake.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up,” Eric says, moving toward the door.

  “Yeah, let’s go.” Wes backs away to let me pass.

  “No!” I say to him.

  He tilts his head in confusion.

  “I mean, I don’t need both of you to help. I'll just go with Eric.” The thought of spending any more time in Wes’s presence while covered in smelly poop is horrifying.

  “Okay,” he says amiably. “I'll just finish cleaning up here.”

  I can’t make eye contact with him as I leave, just mumble a thanks. I huff past Eric and he follows me toward the house.

  “Just—don’t say anything, okay?”

  Eric puts up his hands in innocence. “I didn’t say anything.”

  “No jokes.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He smirks a little.

  We walk up to the house along the beaten-down path in the grass from the stables to the back porch in silence. He stops me just as I get to the first step of the porch.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Where does it look like I'm going? Into the house.” Jesus.

  “Nope.” He snaps his fingers and points around the side of the house. “We need to hose you off first.”

  “Hose me off! In the yard? Like a dog?”

  “No, hose you off like a person who is covered in shit we don’t want tracked through the house.”

  This is the worst.

  I walk around the side of the house with him to an area all in shade where the grass is longer and a darker green. I can’t believe I’m standing here, arms crossed, watching Eric unroll a hose so he can spray me with it and I'm just going to let him.

  He bends over and grabs the nozzle. “You ready?”

  “Let’s get it over with.”

  “Okay.” He turns the handle.

  Water hisses as it moves through the hose. He grabs the end and aims it right at my torso. And he’s fucking smirking again.

  The first blast of freezing water hits right in my stomach and I scream.

  “Motherfucker, that’s cold!”

  “Sorry.” He laughs like someone who is not sorry at all.

  I give him my best scowl so he knows just how much I hate him right now. But he’s not even looking. He moves closer, concentrating the water on my jeans and spraying off all the filth.

  “Lift your arm.”

  I do and he moves the hose up my left side, getting even closer. The spray-back hits my face and bare arms and I start to shiver. Finally, he moves around to my back and my butt, which is where the poop is most concentrated. Therefore he spends a lot of time washing off my ass. Yay me.

  Even though it’s warm out, being here in the shade, I'm fucking freezing and my teeth start to clatter.

  “Are you about done?” I turn to see if my rear is clean yet and get a blast of frigid water right to my chest and face.

  I scream and put my hands up to block my face, which sprays the water into Eric’s face.

  “Hey!”

  Water is still splashing in both of our faces. I close my eyes and twist away, screaming. I think he's actually getting me on purpose now. But then he throws down the hose and retreats to the spigot. He kneels in the wet grass and starts turning it off. Water is still pouring out the end so I grab the hose and hold it over the back of his head and neck.

  His yelp is so high-pitched as he jumps up I can’t help but burst out laughing. He wipes his hand over his face and back through his wet hair, flinging water to the ground.

  “What the hell?” He has a wicked little foxy grin as he starts to lunge at me but then he abruptly stops, his eyes flicking down.

  I follow his gaze down to where my white tank top is now completely see-through and my bright pink bra is on full display.

  And I thought this situation couldn’t get any more embarrassing.

  Luckily, it’s only Eric and I don’t embarrass easily.

  “Um, let’s get you inside and dried off. You can go up to Gracie’s room and find something to change into,” Eric says, motioning to the house but not taking his eyes off me.

  I cross my arms over the offending pink undergarment and full-on eyeroll.

  Gracie is petite. Like, in high school, she was the cheerleader that got thrown twenty feet in the air and would routinely be lifted single-handedly by one of the male cheerleaders—that’s how little she is. I think I have a good four inches on her and at least forty pounds.

  “I don’t think I’m going to fit into any of Gracie’s clothes.”

  “Oh. Right.” He has the decency to look a little embarrassed. “Okay, let’s go to my place. I can get you some of my clothes. Might be a little big but it’ll work.”

  “Your shed?”

  “Cottage.”

  “Whatever. Lead the way.”

  I follow him down toward the barn, which is a few hundred feet away from the house. We’re in the sun again and it feels nice and warm, drying my skin. But my jeans and shirt are still soaked. Once we get past the barn, I can see Eric’s place. Damn, it does sort of look like a cottage. It’s about a hundred yards past the barn in a little sunny spot in the middle of a grove of birch trees.

  I remember it as being a little white outbuilding with peeling paint and a collapsing, moldy roof. But it looks like it’s been fixed up. It’s freshly painted a deep red with bright white trim and has a new shingle roof. There’s even a pair of rough-sawn wood shutters on the front window and a patch of colorful wild flowers near the front door.

  Fine, it’s fucking cute.

  He opens the door for me and I walk in, not sure what to expect. It’s tiny, expected that. But it looks all newly renovated. The door opens right to the living room that’s only big enough for one sofa across from the large TV on the wall, and there is a small wood-burning stove in the corner. It’s open to the kitchen at the back that’s all white except for the stainless appliances. It has a decent-sized island, but no place for a table. The floors look like old reclaimed wood that’s been recently refinished, and the walls are all a warm taupe shade.

  It’s very cozy.

  But I’m still freezing. My wet shirt is clinging too tightly and my wet jeans are starting to chafe my thighs. Got to get out of these clothes, like, right the fuck now.

  Eric steps into the room next to me after closing the door behind us and I rip the fucking tank top off. Finally, I feel like I can breathe.

  “Whoa, Rosenbaum, what the fuck?”

  “What? You could literally already see my bra through my shirt. It’s the same.”

  “No, this is not the same. And do you normally just take your shirt off in someone else’s living room?”

  I shake my head. “You’ve seen me in a bikini probably a hundred times at the lake. How is this any different?”

  “Well, for one, your swimsuit isn’t as thin as your bra. I can basically see your nipples.”


  “Are you looking at my nipples?”

  “Of course I’m looking at your nipples.”

  “That’s not very gentlemanly of you.”

  “It has nothing to do with that. I guarantee any other guy would be looking at them, too. I’m just honest about it.”

  I glance down at my pink bra. He definitely cannot see my nipples.

  He turns down a tiny hall just off the living room. There are exactly two doors off this hall, a bathroom to the right and his bedroom to the left. I follow him into his room, which is barely big enough for a queen-sized bed and one dresser shoved up under the window. His bed is unmade, but other than that it’s pretty clean in here.

  He pulls open a couple drawers. “I know it’ll be difficult for you, but please try to restrain yourself from getting naked until I get you some clothes,” he says, and even though his back is turned to me I can hear the stupid smirk in his voice.

  “Trust me, I will never get naked in front of you.”

  “Good to know.” He turns around hands me a T-shirt and an old pair of athletic shorts with a wink before leaving the room and shutting the door.

  Never thought I’d be naked in Eric’s room, but here I am. My bra and underwear are also wet, so they have to go. I put on the shirt and shorts and walk back out to the main area, where Eric is standing in the kitchen with a glass of water.

  “Want something to drink?”

  “Sure, water will be fine.” I walk to the island as he gets out another glass and fills it for me. “Thanks.”

  He slides the glass to me across the counter. “So, what happened in the stables?”

  “What do you mean, what happened? I fell in a pile of steaming horse poop, is what happened.”

  “No, I mean before that. How did it go with Wes?”

  “Oh. It was fine—I mean good, it went good. Great, even. I was dazzling him with my moves before I fell.”

  “Your moves, huh? But no date yet?”

  “Hey, this stuff takes time. I got him to agree to give me another riding lesson tomorrow.”

  “That’s a start, I guess.”

  “Are you insinuating I’m not good at flirting?”

  “I’m supposed to be helping you, right? You said all you need is more opportunities to be alone with him, but maybe you need some help with your flirting game, too.”