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I stop at the foot of the porch. “What’d Gary want?”
Harrison doesn’t answer. After a moment, he leans against the banister, crosses his arms, and stares off, gnawing on his lip.
Alright, this can’t be good. “Harrison?”
“It was Gary.”
I lift an eyebrow, not following. “Gary …?”
“He’s the one who woke up early and fed the animals, did the rounds, all of it.” He’s still staring off. “He was feeling happy this morning, woke up early, and thought he’d come and do you a little favor, on account of your being out late last night.”
I gawk at him. “Really? That’s … awful kind of him.”
“Until he realized you had no intention of waking up at all. Until he realized that if he hadn’t woken up and so generously performed his random act of kindness, the animals would not have been fed. He even waited around, enjoying the morning air, and was sure he’d see you at some point or another so he could ask all about your sister’s birthday party, how your family’s doing …”
My stomach sinks further and further into the earth with his every word. “I … I fucked up.”
“No. I fucked up. I’m just as much to blame for not waking up on time.”
“Harrison, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He faces me. “I’m not mad at you, Hoyt. I’m mad at myself. There were several times last night I could’ve said no, or could’ve insisted we come back, call it a night …”
“I wouldn’t let you,” I remind him. “I pushed us to stay out.”
“I could have set a second alarm myself,” he goes on. “There are a million things I could’ve done. Look, this was just one time, one morning, but … reputation really matters to me. My duties matter to me. This farm …” He takes off his hat, wipes his brow of sweat, then pops it back on. “This farm is my life.”
“I know. I’m so fuckin’ sorry, Harrison. I really am.”
“I know you are. It’s fine.” He finally pushes away from the banister. “By the way, you had a raging case of diarrhea last night. Too much birthday cake.”
I’m about to apologize again when his words stop me. “Wait. Say what?”
“That’s what I told Gary. Why you crashed on my floor, to not wake up the others with your constant trips to the bathroom. Why you slept in. And why I forgot to set my own alarm or whatever.”
I’m sputtering. “Are you … Are you serious? Jeez, couldn’t you come up with a less graphic lie? Thought we had a story already!”
He goes to his door, then glances over a shoulder at me. “You know what’s the worst part? I never once lied to Gary.” He sighs and opens the door. “Until today.” He eyes me. “Go to lunch, Hoyt. The others will wonder where you are.”
He closes the door behind him.
I stare at it for a solid minute before returning to reality.
Lunch hour is weird as fuck. Apparently, Gary caught hold of Emmalea just before heading back to the main house, and now all of the farm knows about my nonexistent bowel dilemma last night. As I eat, it’s difficult not to interpret every concerned glance my way as someone wondering whether I’m gonna need to race to the bathroom to prevent Armageddon. Each time Emmalea looks at me especially, I see deep concern and sympathy in her eyes.
Concern and sympathy I don’t deserve.
And don’t want.
I was right about today feeling like a long one. Long doesn’t cover it.
By dinnertime, I still haven’t seen Harrison. I excuse myself from the table—which for one terrified second pauses everyone’s conversations, like they think I’m about to drop a nuclear warhead in the toilet—and head to the mudroom to get a look at the cabin across the yard. The lights are on. Harrison is probably keeping to himself tonight. I stand there at the screen door, glowering.
Do I give him space? Do I go over and demand that he talk to me? Do I just stand here and fume?
“You okay?”
I jump at the sound of Turtle’s voice. “You walk so damned quiet,” I note, “you missed your calling as an assassin.”
“Heh. Funny.” Turtle comes up to the screen door, dead-eyed and curious. “We lookin’ at somethin’ …?”
The nice thing about Turtle is that small talk is easy. Nothing surprises or bothers him. I decide to be honest. “I was wondering if Harrison’s planning on joining us for dinner or not.”
“Hmm.” He gazes across the yard, squinting. Then he faces me expressionlessly. “So are you guys a couple?”
I stare at him. Hard.
What did he just ask me …?
Turtle stands there like a statue, blank-faced and waiting. He does that alarmingly well: standing perfectly still, patient, a robot waiting for its next input, programmed to blink every five or six seconds so it seems just barely human enough.
