My lips press into a thin line. “I’m not being sloppy.”
Of course, he ignores me.
“You’ve gotta watch your drift,” he continues, his gravelly voice low and assertive. “Wind’s picking up from the west. You’re probably coating the grass instead of the trees.”
At my sides, my fists clench. I inhale a steady breath, trying to extinguish the anger raging inside my chest.
“I’ll make sure to adjust next time.” I know it’s the only response he’ll accept.
He starts to say something else, then thinks better of it and turns away. His boots crunch across the gravel as he heads for his truck, the sound fading with each step. I watch him haul the door open and climb inside, shoulders hunched.
These surprise visits from him are starting to feel more like inspections than acts of concern.
For a second, I think about calling after him—sayingI’ve got it handledoryou don’t have to watch me every damn second—but the words stick in my throat. It wouldn’t matter anyway. He’d just find something else I did wrong.
After he drives away, I grab my jacket from the peg by the door and step outside. Cool spring air wraps around me as I climb into my truck, threading through my shaggy blond hair and whipping it across my eyes. Inside, the cab smells of artificial pine, courtesy of the air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror.
The drive home is short, the gravel road winding past the orchard. The sun hangs low over the hills, drenching the trees in anamber glow. It’s the kind of view that used to make me feel proud. Lately, it just reminds me how much work there’s still to do.
My house sits on a small rise at the end of the road—a three-bedroom ranch with blue siding, built on a stretch of land my parents sectioned off for me on the far west end of the orchard. It’s a good fifty acres from their place, far enough to feel like my own space, but close enough that getting to work is still just a quick drive.
The place itself is a work in progress. I’ve taken on most of the interior myself to keep costs down, which means there’s always something half-finished—trim waiting to be nailed in, tiles awaiting placement, curtains needing to be hung. I’ve been slowly chipping away at it, one weekend project at a time.
When I push open the door, I’m met with the faint smell of sawdust and paint—reminders of projects I haven’t quite finished. The thrifted furniture is mismatched and worn, the leather couch in the living room peeling with slouched cushions.
In the laundry room, I strip off my clothes, the fabric stiff from spray residue and dried sweat. I toss everything into the washing machine with a generous pour of detergent. The machine hums to life, churning loudly as I walk into the bathroom.
When I step past the shower curtain and turn the knob, the water sputters for a few seconds before turning hot enough to sting. I tilt my head back and let it rush over me, rinsing away the grime and dust clinging to my skin. For a while, I stand with my palms pressed to the cool tile, eyes closed, waiting for the pounding in my chest to ease.
When I finally reach for the washcloth, the woodsy scent of soap cuts through the steam. I lather it and drag it across my chest, slow and methodical, watching the suds slide down my stomach and swirl toward the drain. I don’t work out at the gym like Luke, but the long days on the farm have carved their own kind of strength into me—lean muscle, calloused hands, a body shaped by hard work. Tan lines mark my arms and shoulders, souvenirs from summers spent under the sun.
After rinsing my hair, I shut off the water and step out, steam curling around my ankles. I grab a clean towel and drag it over my skin, then through my damp hair, watching in the mirror as blond strands stick up in every direction. The mirror’s half-fogged, distorting my reflection. I barely recognize the guy staring back—dark shadows beneath his green eyes, scruff darkening his jaw, shoulders a little more tense than they used to be.
I rub the fog away with my hand, leaving streaks across the glass.
My phone buzzes on the counter, the sound vibrating through the small bathroom. When I pick it up, there’s a new message waiting from Phoebe.
Phoebe:on my way <3
I stare at the screen, water dripping from my hair onto the floor. A small pulse of desire flickers through me, chased quickly by something else—something heavier and harder to name.
After running into Phoebe at the bar a few weeks ago, I realized how much I’d missed her company. Dad’s been on my case more than usual, and truthfully, I could use someone to talk to about it who isn’t one of my siblings. She’s a great listener and always understands, having grown up on a farm herself.
So when she suggested meeting up tonight, I agreed. I know how it’ll go. We’ll talk, we’ll laugh, and sooner or later, we’ll probably end up in bed.
I should be looking forward to that—and part of me is. Phoebe’s beautiful, smart, funny, and I like being around her. But the truth is, I usually enjoy the talking more than anything that comes after.
When I was younger, I figured my hesitation around sex was just nerves. I told myself it was normal to overthink and get in my own head. I was a dumb teenager, so of course I was anxious. That explained why things didn’t always… work the way they should.
But now, at twenty-four, I’m running out of excuses. I like sex—or at least the orgasming part. But every time, I have to psych myself up for it. Focus hard on what I’m doing, on making sureit feels good for her, on putting on a good performance. Based on drunken conversations I’ve had with my friends about sex, that’s not the way it’s supposed to be.
Maybe I’m just wired wrong. Or maybe something in me’s broken, and I haven’t figured out how to fix it.
Taking a deep breath, I stare myself down in the mirror.
“Get it together,” I mutter under my breath.
In my bedroom, I change into a pair of gray sweatpants. Before I can put on a shirt, a knock rattles the front door. Three short taps, firm and confident.
