Rounding Third by Michelle Lynn

Author:Michelle Lynn [Lynn, Michelle]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-08-05T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Ella

We reach my parents’ farm fifteen minutes later. My mom pulls up the driveway, and I spot my dad working in the cow barn, shuffling in and out with hay.

“I’m going to go see Dad,” I say, opening the door and leaving before she can stop me.

“Our conversation isn’t over, Ella,” she calls out.

I ignore her, calling for Holland to follow me.

My dad’s already gotten the soil ready for winter, but there’s more that needs to be done around the farm. Farming is an everyday life. An everyday life that has slowly aged him over the years. Sure, he keeps a healthy body, but I swear, every time I visit, he’s limping or icing his elbow. The daily chores wear on a body. It killed my grandfather early and my father’s grandfather, too. It only brings me worry that it will have the same effect on my father.

He looks up from milking Cassandra when I step through the barn doors.

“Sweet Ella.” A wide smile crosses his lips, but he continues squeezing those nipples at a rapid pace.

I used to find the nickname Sweet Ella annoying when I was younger. It embarrassed me, but over the years, it brings a warmth to my heart. The reference will probably stop with my uncle and my dad.

“Hi, Dad,” I say, grabbing a bucket and moving over to Violet, Cassandra’s sister.

The one thing about farm life is, you don’t stand around and chitchat. Talking is done during baling hay, milking cows, feeding the chickens, or running the plow.

I use the method my dad taught me at age six, and I start milking Violet.

“What brings you home?” he asks.

“Just needed a break.”

Swish, swish.

“How’s Liam?” He peers past Cassandra’s ass. “When you brought him down, I know I was hard, but your mama says he’s a good guy.”

“We broke up.”

Swish, swish.

“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie.” His head ducks under Cassandra again to get a glimpse of me.

“It’s fine.”

“Do you want to tell me why?”

Swish, swish.

Rip the Band-Aid off, Ella. Tell him. He always loved Crosby. His love for him is probably lying under the surface, like mine.

“I wasn’t his only girlfriend.”

“Bastard.” He stands abruptly, grabbing the hoses to hook up to Cassandra. My dad swears that a little foreplay is good, so he makes us hand squeeze the cows first before hooking them up to the machine. “I’m half-tempted to drive up to Ridgemont and beat that snotty kid’s ass. I told your mother he was turning his nose down to us. Saying your mother’s cooking was nice down-home cooking.”

“In truth, he comes from a small farming town, too. He meant no offense.”

“Don’t stick up for him, Ella. You always did that with…” He allows his words to trail off because God forbid we mention Crosby’s name.

For two years, we’ve dodged any subject on the matter while my fragmented heart sat, lodged in my chest.

Did they ever once think that talking would have helped? That a hug from my mother on the long nights of crying would have helped?

Ignoring the topic was their method.

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