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“But farm work has to be hard work,” he speculates.
“It is, but I love it. I love being in the country.”
“How do your friends feel about your choices?”
“My choices?” I stop in the canned vegetables aisle and face him, wanting to know what he’s getting at.
“About liking men and women.”
“They don’t care as long as I’m happy,” I say.
“I hope that for you. I do,” he says as he wanders away.
What the hell?
Wait . . . maybe he’s right. Maybe putting myself out there was the wrong choice.
