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“Hands off,” I say, even though I lean into him.
He chuckles and holds on to me tighter as he puts it in gear and we head off. It’s clunky and bouncy, but I don’t mind it at all. Not when I’m with him, it seems.
A little rough ride never hurt anyone.
“Wanna drive it?” he asks, his mouth a little too close to my ear. It makes goose bumps break out across my skin.
“Sure.”
I take hold of the steering wheel as we inch across the field. We drive in circles before finally coming to a stop where we started.
As the tractor sputters off, I see a herd of goats lingering by the parking lot, and Jimbob huffs a laugh.
“Shoot. Look over there. Someone’s goats got out. Should call the sheriff.”
He pulls out his cell phone and calls Hayes as I hop down and stand there awkwardly. I don’t know what to do. Do I stay? Or go? The question of the ages it seems. But Jimbob reaches over and grabs on to my hand, threading his fingers through mine, making me warm all over.
“Yeah, Hayes, I’ll try and corral them. Might spook them though,” he says and then hangs up, glancing over at me.
“We gotta try and corral them,” he tells me.
“How do you corral goats?”
“Dunno. But we’re gonna try.”
Jimbob wanders over to them and sits down, just plops right onto the field and pats the spot next to him.
“No thank you.”
“Come on, Braxton. Sit that fine ass down next to me.”
“But if I do, are they gonna nibble on me?” I ask, and Jimbob chuckles.
“Maybe, but they seem friendly. A farmer is probably looking for them right now.”
Reluctantly, I lower myself down next to him, and as soon as I do, a goat wanders up and nibbles on the sleeve of Jimbob’s jacket.
“Oh you,” he says softly and pats the little goat’s head. The goat bleats happily and lies down at his side, nibbling on the grass.
“Do goats normally escape around here?” I ask as a goat comes up and chews on my shoelaces.
“Yeah. Animals love to be adventurous. One time, our donkey got out and went to visit a neighbor. They took him in for a nice cup of tea before calling me. Said it was a real nice visit by an unexpected friend.”
I snort a laugh.
“You guys are weird.”
“Yeah, but weird is fun,” Jimbob explains.
“I guess so.”
But weird for me growing up was never fun. I was always the odd one, the strange kid who was picked on. The one with the mom who couldn’t hold down a job, who brought a new guy home more times than I could count.
I didn’t like being weird. Still don’t. I would like to be normal.
But then again, I’m not trying very hard. I stand out in this small town with my black clothes and my piercings. And my tattoos.
“You have any tattoos?” I ask Jimbob.
