Page 15 of Crossroads

FOURTEEN

Today is shitty.

I slept horribly last night, tossing and turning, thinking about everything that happened in that motel room over and over again.

Then running into Coach Asher and Coach Leighton. That was unexpected, for sure. What are the odds of that happening? It’s like the universe can’t stop fucking with me.

I can’t get it off my mind, but I needed to go check on my family. So after letting Kelly know I’d get started on chores just a little later than normal and of course getting her wholehearted okay and a pie to take to them, I went to see them.

And it only served to put me in a terrible mood. My mom is clearly exhausted, and I doubt she got much sleep last night if the bags under her eyes tell me anything. My dad was in pain and quiet. Short with any answers he’d give to the few questions I asked until I finally just gave up asking.

Logan wailed when I told him I had to go and held onto my feet as I walked to the door, begging me to stay longer.

I told him I needed to work and pried him off me, promising I’d come back soon, but knowing it was probably a lie. Because I’m a selfish son of a bitch who can’t bear to see it.

When I get back to the farm and see Emerson working to repair the rusty old barbed-wire fence near the edge of the property, I’m even more pissy than normal. “You’re not allowed to take the Gator out without me,” I snap when I reach him.

He doesn’t even bother looking behind himself to find me. Just shrugs. “You weren’t here, and shit needed to get done. I wasn’t walking all the way out here. It’s hot as balls.”

“Then ask Kelly.”

He rolls his eyes at me and then goes back to working on the fence like I’m just some inconvenience. “Kelly is busy. John is busy. I can drive a goddamn Gator—” His sharp gasp has me on high alert, and I’m moving to him before he even speaks. “Fuck!”

I make it to him and look at the blood pouring from his finger, reaching for his wrist and pulling his hand up so I can inspect the wound closer. “Goddammit, Emerson. This is why city boys shouldn’t be out here unsupervised. Where the hell are your gloves?”

He jerks his hand away from me, but he’s bleeding pretty badly and holds his hand to his chest. I can see the red blood blooming on his white T-shirt as he does. “I don’t need gloves. It’s hot as fuck.”

“It’s not to protect you from the cold, dumbass. It’s to protect your hands,” I growl.

“I fucking know that.” He waves his good hand in my direction. “But wearing all those layers gets too fucking hot.” He’s clearly in pain, and I remove the flannel shirt I’m currently wearing, leaving me in just the white tank top underneath, and grab his hand.

I use the material of my flannel to wrap around his injury, then tug him toward the Gator.

“I wear layers because anyone who has any sense knows the extra layers protect you from the dangerous shit out here. Gloves. Long sleeves. Jeans. Boots. It’s not a style choice.

It’s survival,” I bite out, climbing into the Gator, and he follows, holding his wrapped hand against his chest.

“It’s not that bad of a cut,” he grumbles.

“You just cut the fuck out of your finger on a seventy-year-old, rusted, barbed-wire fence. You’re getting a tetanus shot unless you want lockjaw.”

“Fuck you,” he grits out, and I just roll my eyes at his salty self, driving us up to the main house. I tell him to get in my truck before I run in to let Kelly know where we’re going, then drive his ass into the pharmacy in Kensley.

I’d take him to urgent care, but I think he’s right about the cut not being all that bad. When we get there, I notice several familiar faces and greet them all, some wanting to stop and talk longer than most as we wait in line to get him his shot.

“I’m fine,” he grumbles for the millionth time.

“You’re not. Just shut up and wait your turn.”

It’s busy in here, but it usually is. The pharmacy has a little café and coffee shop attached to it, so it’s actually a social center in this town.

I see Mr. and Mrs. Easton standing in the holiday cards section, looking pretty determined to find just the right card for whatever occasion they have coming up. I wonder if it’s for Oakley, their son.

Oakley is several years older than me, but one of the greats at Kensley High. Coach talks about him fondly. And I don’t know why they’re here today at the same time because thinking about Oakley makes me think about another gay couple from this town.

Oakley and Travis were teammates who fell in love and are now married.

They don’t live here. They have a landscaping business in Hayes, I think, but Mr. and Mrs. Easton are pillars of this community too and are loud and proud about their son.

They even have a Pride flag on their front porch that no one—not even the most bigoted fuckers in town—mess with.

“What?” Emerson says, when he catches me staring at them for way too long.

“Mr. and Mrs. Easton,” I say absently, looking away and straight ahead of me now.

“Who are they?”

I shrug. “Just a nice couple from town.”

There’s no way in hell I’m going to tell him about Oakley. I don’t know why my mind is running to him anyway. There are lots of couples here today, with sons and daughters I know who aren’t gay. Why am I so focused on them?

I think I need to get some more sleep or something. My thoughts are getting ridiculous.

When we finally get to the front of the line, Emerson pays for his shot and then gets a jab. The nice pharmacist cleaning and bandaging his wound agrees he doesn’t need stitches.

We’re on our way out when Lucy walks into the pharmacy, her pretty blond hair pulled up into a ponytail. She’s wearing sunglasses, but it doesn’t mean I can’t picture her beautiful, soulful eyes even before she removes the sunglasses and looks at me. “Jasper.”

My name on her lips is a soft caress and a painful gut punch at the same time. I freeze, and I can feel Emerson’s irritation coming off him in waves as he stands by my side. “Lucy.”

Her eyes assess us both quickly, zeroing in on Emerson’s now-bandaged hand. “What happened?”

Her concern for him wriggles through my entire body, making me itch, but I grunt out my answer anyway. “He wasn’t wearing gloves and found out barbed wire isn’t his friend.”

“Asshole,” Emerson grumbles, and my lips twitch with a grin. “I was trying to get some work done while you were off screwing around.”

“I was checking on my family, asshole.” I turn to him, the words coming through gritted teeth, and the fucker actually smiles at me. A proud smirk because he loves to hit a nerve and clearly did it on purpose.

We’re staring at each other, glaring, and my entire body is on high alert, wanting to pounce. To do what? I’m not sure. But when Lucy clears her throat, I jolt and turn to her, having forgotten she was standing there. “I’m glad I ran into you, Jasper. I’ve been meaning to call you or stop by . . .”

She shifts nervously from foot to foot, holding one of her wrists with her hand and looking down at the floor.

“I’m so sorry I hit you.” Her eyes lift, and I can see them shining with tears. “I didn’t mean to do that. I shouldn’t have done that. It was so . . .”

I step into her and take her hand in mine, something so natural to me. Touching her. But I also notice somewhere in the back of my mind that it’s not out of the need to touch her, but to comfort her. “Hey, I deserved it.”

“No one deserves violence.” And I know she’s been wrestling with her guilt.

“Some people do,” Emerson jokes oh, so helpfully.

I glare at him over my shoulder, but my lips again twitch with a grin I’m not totally proud of. “It’s okay, Lucy. I’m sorry for the shit I said. I was being a dick.”

“You were,” she agrees, a small smile coming over her pretty face again, and as I look at her, I see the girl I’ve always known. It’s familiar, but I also notice it’s different now.

I thought I couldn’t live without her, but . . . I don’t know. It feels strange now, holding her hand like this. Being this close to her.

Emerson gets my attention by clearing his throat loudly. “We should get back. We have work to do.”

Lucy looks a little startled by his sharp tone, but I’m used to it and nod. Releasing her hand, I give her what I hope is a reassuring smile. “I’ll see you around, Luce.”

“Bye, Jasper. Take care.” She looks at Emerson, her eyes semi-wary. “You too.”

He just grunts his reply and then tugs me outside to the truck. He hops in, all pissy, and I’m not sure what the hell his problem is, but I don’t really care.

I drive us back out to the farm, but instead of going back out to work, I drag his ass inside for Kelly to baby him—because I know she’s been dying to since I told her he was hurt.

She has a heaping meal prepared, and we all sit down at the table. Millie is home from class and looks at Emerson’s injured hand.

I wonder who’s going to say something first. Kelly fussed all over him but didn’t lecture him. Usually, she would. Kelly is all about safety, but so far, it’s been all doting and lovey-dovey. Feeding him, which is Kelly’s love language.

I see John eyeing the bandaged hand too, his eyes meeting his daughter’s with mirth, and I’m silently placing bets on who says something first.

“Gloves. Always gloves when you’re working with rusty metal, Emerson.” Huh. It’s Kelly who says it, and Millie, John, and I all laugh heartily.

Emerson grumbles, shoveling food into his mouth and chewing.

“Always,” Millie says all smug.

“Always,” John says with a chuckle.

Emerson looks annoyed, but I also see the embarrassment on his face. And for whatever reason, I don’t seem to like that because I pipe up, “And we all learned that the hard way.”

Kelly smiles, taking a drink of her sweet tea. “Boy, did we.” She holds her hand out, palm up to reveal a scar I already knew was there that goes across her entire left palm. “Seven stitches and a tetanus shot.”

Emerson studies the scar. “Ouch.”

Millie is next, lifting her leg up to show off her ankle. “Boots are important too. Three stitches and a tetanus shot.”

Emerson’s lips move into a smile as he realizes what’s happening.

John, who’s still wearing his flannel, rolls up the sleeve to show his scar on his forearm.

“Ten stitches. Never go outside without a jacket or flannel now.” He’s not done though.

He pulls his leg into his chair and pulls up his jean leg to show a jagged scar.

“Three stitches.” Then he shows off his hands which have several wounds and scars.

“The man never learns,” Kelly says with a fond smile, shaking her head.

Emerson’s eyes land on me, and while the previous moments were sentimental and light, I see heat in his eyes now. “What about you?”

“Don’t worry about my scars,” I say, my throat feeling thick, and it’s difficult to swallow with the way he’s looking at me now.

If anyone else notices, they don’t show it. Millie just goes on listing all the times I fucked up and got hurt out here, but I still feel the heat from Emerson’s gaze on me, though he’s not looking at me.

He’s listening to Millie with amusement.

But I’m stuck in that brief moment. The heat. Thrusting me back into that motel room with his body under mine.

I’m completely and totally screwed here.