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The Farmer didn’t want Harvey. In fact, she was avoiding him.
He thought it was paranoia at first. His endless, nagging anxiety. The first few days he could discount it. But then, those days turned into weeks, and she stayed gone. It was no longer a worry, it was the truth.
The thought haunted Harvey’s mornings. Seeped through him like cream swirling into coffee. It percolated as he got ready for work; crept up behind him as he peered into the bathroom mirror, watched rapt as he shaved.
He was tired. He hadn’t slept well. Nothing new. The last good sleep he’d had was a month prior. (Hospital bed, cold room, a warm face shoved in his neck.) He’d tossed and turned and eventually gave up. For a while he sat at his desk, a vinyl of Sinatra crooning low on his record player. He took melatonin. He scrounged through old files, piles of receipts, any scrap of paper he could find, read them like books.
From his desk drawer, he pulled out an envelope. Thick, sage green paper. Pretty script, addressed to him. It had been ripped haphazardly, opened in a hurry.
He didn’t have the strength to read it again.
Instead, he got on his radio and spun through signals. He spent half the night calling over the empty airways, “Dr. H to pilot. Do you read? Anyone home?”
His only response was static.
There was a headache brewing behind his left eyebrow, indigestion blazing to his ankles. A pimple, of all things, blaring bright red from his hairline. He was turning forty in a few months. He hadn’t had a pimple in 20 years.
He stared into his own eyes (deep-set, bloodshot, wrinkle-rimmed, murky brown) and as he ran his razor down the slope of his Adam’s apple, the thought struck again, just as violently as the first time he had it:
The Farmer didn’t want to see him. Matter of fact, she was going out of her way to not.
And he couldn’t blame her. Not really.
He nicked himself, hissed through his teeth. Grabbed some toilet paper and dabbed at his cut. His heart roared in his ear. His face was burning.
(He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her in two full weeks. Not at Pierre’s to buy or sell, not at the river casting a line, not in the Saloon cutting up with Pam and Shane. He hadn’t seen her breezing through the square to deliver Evelyn a bouquet of wildflowers, her favorite weekly chore. He’d waved at the old woman, standing alone in the community garden, and she’d waved back, oblivious to his plight.)
He buttoned his shirt. Looped his tie around his neck. His hands were shaking, a tear pricked at his eye. He batted at his face, willed it away; he had too much to do. (And crying had never changed much for him, anyways.)
The appointment for her fifth and final vaccination was that day. She’d be there. Things would straighten out, unbend. Return to normal.
(Return to him.)
Or, at least, he hoped they would.
He tied his shoes, put on his coat, walked out the door.
***
The morning was busy. Robin came, complaining of a persistent cough.
“Do you wear a mask when sanding?” he asked. Her lungs sounded strained under his stethoscope, alveoli struggling to expand.
She grinned at him sheepishly, looking shockingly like Maru in the fluorescent light. Same dimple, same arch of the eyebrow. “When I remember to, I do.”
Blatant disregard for personal health and safety was contagious among the women of Pelican Town. Must have been prerequisite for living there. He gave her a stern raise of his eyebrow, shook his head.
“Every time. Or the cough will be the least of your concern.”
She gave him a nod, still smiling. “Of course, Doc.”
He felt along her lymph nodes, tested her reflexes.
“Do you stretch before climbing ladders? Are you taking collagen for your joints? Do you lift with your back or your legs?”
She blinked at his deluge of questions, gave him a look of wide-eyed feigned innocence. That expression didn’t look like Maru, but someone else. Someone just out of reach. He felt it like a punch to the gut.
A fault line cracked across his sinuses; his eyes burned. He sighed, picked up his prescription pad, and started scribbling.
***
Robin and Maru chatted in the lobby while he did his charting. He’d prescribed her an inhaler and some supplements for her joints. Gave her spiel about herniated discs and the looming threat of osteoporosis that he knew she only half-listened to. Like someone else he knew, she didn’t like being lectured, so he kept it brief. He drank coffee from the office pot while he typed. It wasn’t quality, he hadn’t had good coffee in weeks. The beans tasted burnt.
The Farmer had spoiled him.
He gritted his teeth. Kept moving.
“Alrighty, kiddo,” Robin said to Maru, rolling her shoulders as she straightened. “I’ve gotta go. The Farmer wants me to upgrade her chicken coop and I need to go get my stuff together.”
“Okay, Mo—”
“What did you say about The Farmer?” He whipped around in his desk chair, ears perked like a dog. Eyes cracked wide. His heart had climbed up his throat, he wondered if they could see it there, sitting in his mouth.
The women turned their heads and stared at him in unison. Identical expressions of bemusement on their faces. Maru really did take after her mother, down to the copper cast in her hair. His palms started sweating, his ears burned red.
Maru looked him up and down, trying to calculate exactly what he was doing. Honestly, even he wasn’t sure. A knowing smile spread across Robin’s face like butter on toast. “Oh, I was just telling Maru I needed to get going. The Farmer in the Dell has got a job for me and I’m starting on it tomorrow.”
He felt immensely small. Insanely stupid. His insides curled and burned like a salted snail. But he schooled his face and gave her a nod. “Ah, I see. She’s got an appointment today, I didn’t know if she’d mentioned it—” He stopped himself. Why the hell would she? He was fumbling, blathering. A fool. He added, then, quickly, “Make sure to wear your respirator!”
“Will do,” her smile was radiant. Her eyes bright. “Have a good one!”
He didn’t say it back, just gave her a half-assed smile. He turned in his chair and pretended to work.
If Yoba existed, Harvey needed Him to strike him dead. He filled out one line of information, then another. The door shut behind Robin in a whisper. The fluorescents hummed. He hacked away at his keyboard, like chipping away at a stone. Looking for gold, coming up empty.
He was always coming up empty—
“Soooo,” Maru’s voice, clear and streamline, cut through the quiet. “What was that?”
He didn’t look away from his computer screen; just pecked harder at the keys. He was typing gibberish. “What was what?”
“That.” She said, monotone, unimpressed with his poor acting.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re being weird.” She thought for moment, added. “Well, weirder than usual.”
“Thanks.”
She didn’t linger, Maru wasn’t much of one for bullshit. He heard her sip from her own mug, and then sigh, “What’s wrong?”
Maru always said she wasn’t good with people. He’d heard her joke about it a million times, how she’d rather spend an afternoon hidden away in her lab than out among the masses. How she just couldn’t read them. But he disagreed. She was damn good at people. At least, damn good at him. Of course, he wasn’t exactly master of subtlety.
He sighed, turned to look at her. Her face sympathetic, her gaze even.
“I haven’t seen her. She hasn’t been in since her fourth shot. I stood around Pierre’s until 7 yesterday thinking she’d come to sell him something. Nothing. She’s disappeared.”
Maru frowned, cocked her head to the side. “Weird, I saw her this morning.”
He didn’t even try to hide the surprise on his face. He wheeled a little closer to her. “Really?”
“Yeah, she brought me a battery pack. Asked Mom about expanding her chicken coop. Then she went downstairs to talk to Seb for a little bit. She left same time I did.”
His eye twitched. Downstairs. With Seb.
Maru let out an audible, “Wow.”
He scrubbed a hand down his face, looked away from her, embarrassed. He felt like an exposed nerve; the world was prodding, prodding, prodding. She’d go visit Sebastian and not him? Yoba. He swallowed the tendril of jealousy twisting its way up his esophagus. Met Maru’s gaze again.
“Did she seem okay?”
Maru frowned, as if that was an odd thing to ask. “Yeah, she was herself. Telling jokes, bearing gifts…” She trailed off, then added. “She was, I don’t know, maybe a little disheveled? Her clothes were kind of dirty. Her hair could use a wash.”
“Was she wearing her splint?” He was afraid of the answer.
Maru smiled, “She was.”
A warmth shot through him. He coughed, to cover his joy. “I’m proud of her.” He’d meant to say it sarcastically, but he couldn’t muster the salt. He was proud.
He was always proud of her.
They sat in silence for a moment. The lights buzzed. She tapped her toe against the floor, three beats. It was a habit of hers. It’s how he knew she was about to speak. “Did something happen?”
His instinct was to play dumb. He didn’t really know why. Maru, of all people, knew how he felt about The Farmer. How he thought The Farmer felt about him. Hell, she’d seen them, huddled together in that bed. If anyone knew there was something between them, it was her. Still, it frightened him to acknowledge it. As if speaking it would make it crumble.
As if it hadn’t already.
“No,” he lied. “Nothing else happened.”
She studied him. Astute, analytical Maru, who could cobble together any gadget out of spare parts. The genius who studied physics, and astronomy, and did calculus for fun. She looked at him and Harvey wondered what exactly she saw. Did she respect him? Or did she think he was as pathetic as he felt? He wouldn’t blame her.
Whatever she was thinking, her face didn’t betray it. “She’s still set for this afternoon at 2, right?”
He nodded. It was 11 in the morning; there was still time.
“She’ll be here,” Maru reassured him. He saw himself reflected in her glasses, miniscule and warped. It was vindicating, in a way, to see himself how he felt. “Then you can talk to her.”
He considered her for a moment, then nodded. “You’re right. Thank you.”
She smiled at him, turned back to her computer. “Anytime, Doctor.”
He followed her lead; twisted back to his desktop. He spared one last glance to the clock. 11:07. Only 2 hours and 53 minutes until her appointment. He could do that. He could wait.
He bowed his head, and he worked.
***
At her 4th appointment, The Farmer brought him a gift basket. It contained 3 jars of pickles (asparagus, radish, and traditional cucumber), a few ounces of truffle oil, several Tupperware containers of a homemade Bok Choy and cranberry salad, and a new bottle of wine. All his favorite things. How she knew, he had no idea. There was an envelope tucked in among the quarts and containers, sage green with pretty script on the front, addressed to him.
Not to the Doctor. To Harvey.
He reached for it, hand trembling slightly.
“No! Please!” she said, throwing her arms hands out to stop him, violently shaking her head. She was wearing her splint. He wondered if she put it on just for the occasion or if she’d been wearing it as instructed. “I hate when people read my cards in front of me!”
He had laughed, louder than he meant to. Warmth radiated from the crown of head to his feet. His chest was glowing. He figured they could see him from space. He held up a hand in surrender, put the card back in the basket. “Okay, okay, I’ll open it later.”
“Thank, Yoba,” she sighed, clutching her metaphorical pearls. Her throat was bare, exposed by the open collar of her button-up shirt. “I don’t know if I could have survived that.”
He made mental note of it, that little strip of bare skin. Tried not to stare.
“Incriminating stuff, huh?” He asked, mostly teasing.
Her face was flushed. She paused for a moment, licked her lips. “A little.”
The air felt different, suddenly. He held her gaze for a beat longer than normal. He noted how well she had healed: the bruises had all but vanished, no more swelling around her nose. Her eyes (usually so brave, usually so bright) were soft—were maybe a little afraid.
He felt that in his bones.
“Are you ready?” He asked. She nodded.
They were in an exam room. It was right before closing. She’d finagled a later appointment time so she could spend the morning working; she had a big order to fill, a hundred melons before season’s end. He hadn’t minded, she’d done her end of the bargain: She’d finished her antibiotics and diligently iced her face before bed. Reported three full meals a day and 6 hours of sleep each night. (He’d petitioned for more; but given her time constraint, she refused. Eventually, he stopped nagging.) As promised, she arrived at his practice on days 3, 7, and 14 of her immunization schedule; received each shot with no complaints. She wasn’t foaming at the mouth or cowering away from glasses of water. Encephalitis hadn’t crept in.
He was proud of her. She was doing exactly what she was supposed to do.
He cleared his throat, tried to focus. He turned to pick up his stethoscope, brought it slowly to her chest. The whole time, her eyes were on his face.
Her heart in his ear was frantic as a rabbit’s run. Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump. Like it was trying to escape her ribs. He felt his own heartrate spike at that. He breathed in slow, considered his words before he spoke. “Your pulse is high.”
She looked at him from under her lashes, as if eye contact was difficult. He’d never seen her that sheepish. She shrugged, no stiffness in her shoulder. “I must be working too hard.”
She bit her lip. His eyes bounced down to her mouth, traced along her toothmarks. Memorized them.
His voice was just a murmur, “You’ll need to rest more, then. Doctor’s orders.”
Her lip was swollen, pink. Two perfect indents from her front teeth. He felt that in his groin. He swallowed. Said, without much thought, “We have beds.”
(He thought of her hair pressed against his mouth. How soft she felt, laid on top of him.)
Their eyes caught then. Hers were cracked wide, pupils blown out so big he couldn’t see the iris. Their faces leaned into each other, breath mingling with breath. She searched his face; he wondered what she was looking for. If she found it.
“I know,” she said. Her eyes dropped to his lips. Back again, to his gaze. She repeated it then, as if to herself, “I know.”
The clocked ticked, the fluorescents hummed. Somewhere outside the door, he heard Maru shuffling paperwork. He swore, in that deafening quiet, he could hear her heart without his stethoscope, pounding through her chest. (Or, maybe, it was just his own.)
She was the first to break the stare. She dropped her eyes, turned her face. He felt himself draw a sharp breath. “Alright,” he said. It was the only word he could articulate. His throat was tight. His fly rubbed him; the growing warmth in his lower stomach made him grit his teeth. He spun on his heel, started preparing the Imovax. Hands shaking, shaking, shaking.
He pulled on his gloves, then measured out his dosage. He pressed the air bubble from the tip. He willed himself soft and steady. He breathed.
When he turned back, she was unbuttoning her blouse. She wore no undershirt, just a plain black bra. Typically, she wore T-shirts and rolled up the sleeve. That day, she had to undress. Unbuttoned to her navel, let the fabric droop down to her elbow.
(Harvey was a professional. The human body was his bread and butter; there was a mundanity to nudity when you dealt in anatomy. In his life, both in his practice and out in the wild, he’d seen many shoulders. Many stretches of soft skin. Many black bras. But there in that office, that cold, humming room, her eyes soft on his face, it felt like the very first time.)
He did not look at the swell of her right breast, spilling ever-so-slightly over her cup. Did not look at soft fold of her stomach, warm and inviting to the touch. Did not notice the sprinkle of freckles cascading down her arm, across her shoulder. He willed his eyes up, he looked at her. Her face unreadable. Eyes glowing like embers, burning low.
He brought the syringe up, and she offered her shoulder. He swabbed it with alcohol. Readied himself. Said the line he always said before giving a shot: “Just a stick.”
Administered it. Intramuscular, to the right deltoid. Minimal bleed. No patient complaint.
The Farmer didn’t even flinch. Never turned her head. She was the type of person who had to look.
He stuck a band-aid on it, gentle. Tapped it once, light as a feather, with his forefinger. He didn’t really know why. There was something pent up in his hands when he was around her. Like he couldn’t help but touch her again.
The bite caught his eye, then. He hadn’t forgotten it, just hadn’t registered it. It had healed well, all scabs eroded away into a smooth pink oval on her shoulder. It would scar. She might always have it. Thoughtless, he reached out and touched it.
“That looks better,” he said, voice strangely quiet.
He thought of that night; how pale she’d looked, how angry that mark had been just a few weeks ago, oozing and throbbing and hot to the touch. How afraid he’d been.
She hummed an affirmative, “I took care of it like you said. Left it alone.”
All that pain, all that fear, and the only thing left to show for it was a little mark on her arm. (Funny, how life worked.)
“Good girl,” he muttered, his fingers still tracing it.
Then, he did something:
It happened in fragments. At least, that’s how he remembered it. He was leaning, his brain barely registering the movement. He pressed across that space between their bodies, just an arm’s length apart, one hand cradling her shoulder, the other coming up to touch her neck. He didn’t stop until he reached her. He looked at that bite mark up close; he studied the angle of every tooth that pierced that beautiful, glowing flesh, that warm soft skin. That skin that smelled so sweet, and good, and like her.
And then he kissed it.
Oh, yes, he kissed it. Pressed his lips to it with reverence. Her scent in his nose, her skin like velvet. He was drunk and dizzy, his every atom alive and buzzing. He lifted his face, just a fraction, so he could breathe her in.
Then, he dipped his head once more, to do it again.
“Harvey!” It wasn’t a sigh; it wasn’t a whisper. It wasn’t her coming undone, so sweetly under his mouth. It was yelp, pure unmistakable panic.
He leapt back from her like she was a hot kettle. Her eyes perfect circles, she was frozen like deer. He clapped a hand over his mouth, as if he could swallow it all back. Her name, her real name, was a strangled lump in his throat. A stream came tumbling out of him, “I’m sorry. Oh, Yoba, I’m so, so sorry.”
His skin was turning inside out. His bones were melting.
He was a monster.
“No, no, it’s fine.” She was off the exam table, creeping to him. One hand extended out as if to pet a frightened dog, but she didn’t touch him. Her shirt was still open, both her breasts visible. He looked away, feeling suddenly sick at the sight of her so flustered. “Harvey, it’s fine.”
He swiped his glasses off his face. He couldn’t look at her with clarity. He couldn’t bear the detail, the focus, of the worry line creased across her forehead. Of that wide, anxious look on her face.
The only thing he could muster was an “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“You didn’t—Oh, Yoba, Harvey. You didn’t hurt me. It’s okay.” Her voice like gentling a horse. He couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t stand there a moment longer. “Harvey, I liked i—”
“I’ll step out to let you redress,” he said, trying to affix a voice with some dignity, some professionalism. Some fucking couth. He sounded like he’d been coughing for a very long time. “I’ll be in the lobby. Your insurance should cover the copay. Don’t worry if it doesn’t.”
“Harvey.”
He turned and looked at her again, standing aghast in that room. She was half-a-head shorter he was, more than a decade younger, half-dressed. She was his patient; he was her doctor. Nothing more. Shame roiled in his gut. Her eyes pleading, face burning. Mouth open to speak. But she didn’t.
He’d just ruined the best thing that had ever happened to him.
His hands flexed and unflexed at his side. Tears pricked at his eyes. He swiped at his face, gave her one curt nod, and left.
He trusted Maru would check her out. He went to his office, shut the door.
***
(Later, long after she’d left, and Maru had clocked out, when it was just him and that buzzing quiet that permeated every inch of his practice, every inch of his head, he went back into that exam room. He found his gift basket, sitting untouched on the counter. Found the envelope tucked securely with his pickles and his wine and he plucked it out. Ripped it open. Read:
Harvey,
Thank you so much for being my friend, and for taking care of me.
You keep me warm, always.
Next to her name, she’d drawn a little heart. The words felt like bees stinging through his skin. He sat on his stool, covered his face with his hands, and cried.)
***
2 o’clock came and 2 o’clock went. The Farmer didn’t show.
Maru turned to him once the clock hit 3 and their workday officially ended, and asked, softly, “Do you want me to call her?” Her voice sounded very far away.
Harvey did not turn away from his computer screen. The Farmer’s chart was up and waiting for new information. There was none to write.
(His every nerve was lit up and screaming, as if he were on fire. He could feel every hair follicle on his body, every drop of sweat exuding from every pore. He could feel his cells being born and dying and being born and dying in an endless cycle that would only stop when he finally, mercifully perished. She needed 5 complete shots to be 100% safe from a rabies infection. An infection, which left improperly treated by a quack dipshit failure of a doctor who had already let a patient die, would be completely fatal. A near zero percent chance of survival, with only one known case of a person living through it. A certified, religion-shattering miracle. 4 of 5 shots was not acceptable. She was only 80% safe. She would rather die of encephalitic insanity than see him again. If he could, he would pull his own heart from his chest, and eat it.)
He wondered, for a moment, if his face betrayed even an ounce of what he was feeling.
Maru looked at him expectantly. Her warm, dark eyes gentle on his face. If she saw the desolation flooding through him, she didn’t mention it.
He gave her a pathetic smile, one that didn’t pretend to touch his eyes.
“That won’t be necessary, Maru,” his voice was eerily calm. “You can go home; I’ll take care of it.”
She stayed in her chair for a moment longer. Studied his face, breaking his micro expressions down into smaller components to try and solve exactly what he was feeling. He watched her do it. She contrasted the stillness of his features with the manic, glazed look in his eye. She squinted, just a little, from behind her frames.
To his surprise, she didn’t fight him. She gathered her things, tossed them in her pack. On her way out, she paused by his desk and gave him a pat on his shoulder. She’d never touched him before. Her hand was small and warm.
“Goodnight, Doc.” It sounded more like a warning than a goodbye. “See you tomorrow.”
“Goodnight,” he said, softly. The door shut behind her so quietly he almost didn’t hear it.
He waited a full minute, until he knew she was gone. Then he got up and dug through his shelves until he found his gladstone bag. He set his jaw, quieted his shaking hands. Then, he started packing.
***
He’d been to the farm once before; ironically, to set the date for her first checkup. He stood at the foot of the driveway with his bag in hand, tried to remember what it looked like on his first visit. Back then, it was tangle of knee-high grass and weeds, with a dilapidated greenhouse growing nothing but ghosts and sparse little patch of parsnips directly out her front door.
Now, it was a veritable oasis. Lush clutches of near-black grapes trellised next to fat tomato plants, tall stalks of corn swaying under the weight of their own ears. There was an apiary next to a bed of shocking pink Summer Spangle, bees lazing among the blooms.
There were chickens pecking bugs from between the rows of vegetables, clucking contently amongst themselves, like old women deep in conversation. A lone pig snuffling near a peach tree, branches heavy with velvety fruits. Somewhere in the distance, a cow lowed, long and baleful.
The greenhouse was up, lights on and hanging low above what looked to be starfruit, windows fogged. Operational.
All that glory, all that beauty, and she was no where to be found.
He gripped his bag, started moving.
Near the back of the property, he found acres and acres of melons. Sun-dappled, rinds full to bursting, near-implosion on the vine. There had to be hundreds. Some had already overripened in the heat, turning to mush where they lay.
There, in the pastoral silence, among the flies and rotten fruit, he heard it.
The voice he hadn’t heard in two solid weeks, letting out one venomous “Fuck!” followed by a wet thud.
Harvey whipped on his heel so fast he got dizzy.
The Farmer was only yards from him, a few rows over to the left. She’d just dropped a melon, a big one by the looks of it; the entire sticky, red mess of it spattered across her jeans like blood. Dumbfounded, he watched as she reared her leg back, let out a frustrated cry, and kicked it.
“Damn it!” She stomped at the remains, the gore splashing up once more to paint her clothes. “Fifth fucking one this week!”
(It occurred to him then that he’d never seen her angry. Not once in the entirety of her time in the Valley. She was even-tempered, affable. Quick to laugh, even quicker to smile. The sight of her, swearing and stomping felt alien. Unsettling. Strangely exciting.)
She stood there a moment, stared down at the ground, her ruined pants, her gore-coated boots, and covered her face with her hands. Her shoulders shot to her ears; he heard a muffled sniff. A pain shot through his chest at that.
“Farmer,” he said.
She jumped, like she’d been shocked, and spun to see him.
There were tears streaking her sunburnt face. A fine sheen of sweat on her forehead. Her hair was a nest haloed around her head. There were grass stains and splotches of mud covering every inch of her shirt, melon coating her jeans.
Her eyes (bright, perfect eyes) rimmed in dark circles and welling still.
He felt it all like cyanide in his gut. Yoba, how he’d missed her—
“Oh,” she swiped at her eyes, rubbed the tears and sweat onto her jeans. Her chin tucked; gaze dropped low. Embarrassed. “Hey, Doc.”
(She was an angry crier, too.)
They stood for a moment in stupefied silence. Her, peeking up from under her brow, him standing stick straight, spine never more rigid. Free hand flexing and unflexing at his side. Her t-shirt was wide-necked, slouching off her shoulder. A perfect pink oval peering out from under her bra strap. His entire body was a hive, hornets in his skin. His bag felt like a boulder hanging from his hand.
“You missed your appointment.”
She blinked at him; cocked her to the side, like he was speaking in tongues. “What?”
His chest was so tight it was difficult to talk, but he repeated himself. “You missed your appointment. For your last shot. It was today.”
She glanced around, as if looking for a calendar. Found nothing but rows and rows of fruit. She looked back at him, her brow knit. “Oh.”
Just oh. Nothing more. No fuck you. No get off my property. Just oh.
There was a tremor in his jaw. He was blinking, hard and fast. Against every ounce of willpower in his body, his lower lip trembled. He prayed she didn’t see it. He turned his head, stared into the mash of melon at her feet.
“Listen, I understand if you don’t want to see me. I promise, I do. But it’s crucial you finish out this series of shots. Rabies is 100 percent fatal, and I don’t want you contracting it because I made a mista—”
“What are you talking about, Harvey?” Her eyebrows were up against her hairline, her mouth slightly agape.
He felt the first tear hit his cheek. “Are you gonna make me say it?”
She stepped over one row of melons, then another, until she was standing within arm’s reach. She smelled like sweat, rotten fruit, her. It was dizzying. “Yes, because I have no idea what the hell you even mean.”
He was floundering; he made a move to reach out, to put his hand on her shoulder, but stopped halfway to her skin. Pulled his arms back into himself, gave her a pleading look.
“I’m sorry I kissed you. Really, I am. If I had known that it would ruin our friendship, I would have never done it. But, Yoba—” he said her name, her real name, and his voice broke— “you must take this shot. Please. Just let me do it, and you never have to see me again.”
“Oh, Harvey.” She gave him this look, this soft-eyed, sympathetic, sweet look that made his knees go weak. A tear slid down her cheek; he reached out, swift, but gentle, and swiped it away with his thumb. He couldn’t stand to see her cry. (Especially not because of him.) She looked just as adrift as he felt. “You didn’t ruin anything.”
Her hand caught his free hand. Held it. Her thumb brushed over his knuckles. Her palms sweaty, fingers swollen from working in the heat. Sticky with juice. But he didn’t care.
Oh, Yoba. It was good touch her.
He squeezed her fingers, shook her arm, just a little. Disbelieving. “I didn’t?”
“No, jeez—” she let out a bewildered little laugh. “I was little overwhelmed, yeah. But that’s because it was so sudden. It surprised me is all. I wasn’t upset by it. I liked it.”
He tried, then, to replay the moment. Tried to recall the sound of her voice. He’d been so sure that she was disgusted, any other interpretation was hard to accept. “You don’t have to placate me.”
She laughed, then, a real belly laugh. Doubled over at the waist, as if he was being utterly ridiculous. The indignity of it flared in his stomach. “You don’t have to laugh at me either.”
The next few moments happened in fragments. At least, that’s how he remembered them: she stopped laughing, straightened to her full height. She looked at him, really looked at him. As if it was the very first time. She took in his red-rimmed eyes, his ruffled hair, him sweating through his shirt sleeves, and she stepped closer. Her arms raised, then looped around his neck. She rose on her tiptoes, tilted her head, closed her eyes (her bright, perfect eyes).
And she kissed him.
Oh, yes, she kissed him.
(In college, Harvey used to smoke cigarettes. It always surprised the people he met, the incongruity of it. Him: stuffy, bespectacled, anxious, outside lighting smoke after smoke. It was nasty habit. But it had soothed him. Got him through long nights in the library. Kept him thin. He’d quit in medical school, when his professor presented a cadaver who had been a lifelong smoker. Her lungs were tiny, shriveled, and black, like two prunes. He threw away his last pack that day; never picked them up again. But, sometimes, even all those years later, he missed the tingling in his lips. Missed the smoke curling through his nose. Missed the buzz. Having something to crave.)
Kissing her was more intoxicating than any glass of wine. Gave him more of a headrush than any smoke. With just one soft press of her mouth to his, and he knew it was the only thing he would ever crave again.
He dropped his gladstone bag. One hand found her lower back and pressed her to him. The other came up to cradle the back of her neck. He chased her mouth, to prolong it. To keep her right there, on his lips, in his arms. Her lips parted, just a little, and he followed. Her tongue on his, the taste of her; the fruit, the sweat, and something deeper, something sweeter still.
Her. Oh, the taste of her. Nothing better. Nothing he wanted more than her.
Her hands in his hair, his running the strong, smooth curve of her back, cupping her chin to tilt her up and drink in more, more, more of her.
They only parted when she turned her wrist to fist more deeply in his hair, and she broke away to huff out a little “Ow!”
Reality struck like a freight train.
He whipped his head back in dismay, took her his wrist in his hand, wild-eyed and incredulous. If he’d known her middle name, he would have spit it at her, “You’re not wearing your splint!”
Her lips were swollen, her eyes half-lidded. She brought her free hand to his face, brushed a stray tuft of hair from his forehead. Then, she gave him a defiant little smile. “I was wondering when you’d notice that.”
(Sometimes, he wondered if Yoba had sent her to the Valley to kill him. From the first time she’d limped into his clinic, she’d been there: just below his ribcage, clutching his heart in her pretty hand.)
He felt along her wrist for any additional tissue damage. It was swollen, tender to the touch; she flinched, and he stopped, just held it in his trembling hand, shook his head.
“Do you want surgery?” he asked, exasperated.
She gave a noncommittal shrug, still smiling up at him. “It’d be an excuse to see my favorite doctor.” Her voice was light, breathy, a little song.
If he wasn’t so beside himself, he would savor it.
Instead, the practical part of him spoke: “You already had one. That’s why I came here in the first place. Your appointment was today and you didn’t come.”
She blinked at him, transfixed him with that look: wide-eyed, feigned innocence.
“I forgot.”
He let out a delirious laugh. The looming threat of insanity, of dying deranged, dangerous, and endlessly thirsty, and she forgot?
“Where the hell have you been?” He asked, his voice was cracked. His hands were on her waist, holding her there; like if he’d let go, she’d disappear again. “I haven’t seen you in two weeks. I thought you hated me.”
“Oh, Harvey,” she sighed. Her hands on his chest, rubbing soothing circles on his hammering heart. “I’m sorry. I haven’t seen anyone in two weeks. Today’s the first day I even left the property.” She gestured around at the fields. “I’ve got a contract with Lewis to ship a hundred melons to Zuzu City before season’s end. It’s been a nightmare. The deer ravaged my seedlings at the beginning of the season; then the damn heatwave killed a couple dozen on the vine. I keep fumbling them. My deadlines almost here and I’m not even close to done…”
Her voice trailed off. She leaned forward, rested her head on his chest. His hand came to rest on the back of her head, to stroke the nest of tangles at her crown. To keep her there. The other rubbed her back. Her arms wrapped around his middle, and she clung to him.
(If he died right then, on his feet, in that field, he’d be okay with it.)
He pressed a kiss to her hair. Then another. That time, he was sure she felt it.
Her voice was small, muffled against his shirt. “I’m so tired.”
The sun was low, but not quite ready to set. Their shadows were long, cast in orange and red across the field. Her body like a furnace against him. Sweating through her shirt, her hair encrusted in salt.
He put his mouth to her hair, murmured, “Come inside. Rest.”
She peeled her head back from his chest, looked at him through her eyelashes. “But I’m not done yet.”
He looked around, at row after row of work. There was too much for one healthy person, much less one as exhausted as her. He gave her a thin smile. “It’ll be there tomorrow.”
He expected her to fight him. Expected her to give him a firm shake of the head, slip from his arms, and start snipping vines. It was her nature; she wasn’t one for listening. At least, not to every request.
She considered him—took in his eyes, the concerned twist of his mouth. She pressed forward on her toes. Kissed him once more, gently.
His head whirled sweetly, his lips tingling all the way down his jaw.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s go inside.”
***
After the injection, taken without fuss in her kitchen, he drew her a bath. He’d taken off his white button-up, removed his tie, and crouched by the tub in his undershirt. It was humid in the bathroom, too stuffy for all his layers. He tested the water with his wrist: it was hot, but not scalding. Good for sore muscles, achy limbs.
She watched him from the doorway, eating. He’d insisted she have something, anything, on her stomach. Yoba knew the last time she’d had a real meal. She was munching through a bowl of cereal, some sugary nightmare concocted for children. Cartoon mascot, flavored with chocolate and peanut butter. He bit his tongue on it; just proud she was eating at all.
He’d wrap her wrist again, after her bath. Make sure she iced it, to reduce the swell. He’d already given her ibuprofen, 400 milligrams, and watched as she took her vitamins.
(He imagined her tendons tying themselves back together, her bones spackled smooth. He wanted to give her that. Just wanted her to get better. If he could, he’d make taking care of her his life’s work. It’s all he wanted to do.)
She would nourish the earth, and he would nourish her. It felt like a fair trade.
“What are you thinking about?” She asked. He’d been staring into the water, not moving. The tub was almost full.
He responded truthfully: “You.”
There was a pause. An inscrutable look on her face.
“Do you do that that a lot?”
He let out a laugh at that, just a huff. Looked at her. “I never stop.”
For a half-second, something spasmed across her face. A tremor of something. It looked like she might cry. Her features rearranged, smoothed flat over. But her eyes were still wide and vulnerable. He felt it all in his sternum. He rose from where he was crouched, groaning as he did. His back was stiff, as were his knees. The bathroom was small, he crossed it in two steps.
“It’s ready for you, sweetheart. I’ll be in the living room.”
She had a TV, some bookshelves. He could entertain himself.
He made a move to shuffle past her. She threw her arm out to stop him. He looked down at her, frowned slightly. She was shaking her head, eyes still so wide.
“Don’t go.” Her voice was small.
Harvey froze. He must have heard her wrong. “What?”
Her face was in full plea. She ran her open palm over his chest, right on his heart. “Don’t leave. Please—” she licked her lips. Added then, “I need help.”
His brows knit in confusion. He felt his mouth open, but no words came out.
She held up her injured hand as explanation: “It hurts my wrist.”
(Days later, when Harvey was alone in his practice, shuffling through notes and organizing the medicine cabinet, he would realize that his Farmer was probably exaggerating that injury. That a woman who could harvest watermelon with no splint could probably wash her hair alone with relative ease, no matter the sprain. She’d managed it before. But there, pinned to the doorframe by that wide, sweet look, he had no choice but to believe her.)
His voice was husky, low. “Okay.”
He started to step out, so she could undress in private. But again, that hand was on his chest.
“You don’t have to leave.” She said, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Her cheeky little grin. But, different somehow. Harder to read.
He watched, incredulous, as she reached down, grabbed the hem, and pulled her T-shirt over her head. She wore the same bra from her fourth appointment, the same slight spill at the top, her cup running over. Before he had time to process it, she was unbuttoning her jeans, sliding them down her hips, leaving them in a puddle on the floor.
His mouth was dry, he was holding his breath.
She turned her back to him them. She had moles on her shoulders, tan lines from hours in the sun. Her underwear were plain gray, boy short cut; the swell of her ass hanging out the bottom. She looked over her shoulder at him, shyly. She gestured toward her bra.
“Help me with the clasp.”
It had been a long time since he’d taken off a bra. A year or two. Maybe longer. He wasn’t exactly a womanizer; he wasn’t an expert on the subject. But who was he to deny her?
He reached out, hands shaking, and unclasped it. Her skin decadent beneath his fingers.
“Thank you.” Her breathing was becoming more erratic, he could hear it. She let the bra fall and it slid down her shoulders quiet as snow. Hit the floor with whisper.
She brushed her fingers along the cotton of her underwear, soft and sensual. Like she was feeling fine silk. His whole body was attuned to her every movement. He felt like a dog under a dinner table, hungry, so, so hungry, but too afraid to beg. Too afraid to move.
She hooked her fingers in the waistband, and slow as a drip of rain down a windowpane, she drug them down. Bent slightly, there in front of him. They pooled her feet, and she stepped out of them, like shedding old skin. Turned to him.
His farmer, naked in front of him; so close he could feel the warmth.
(He wondered, feverishly, if he was dreaming. If somehow, he’d finally slipped into sleep, and soon his alarm would scream him awake. If this beautiful vision would dissolve and he’d be left alone in his bed, clammy and hard, clutching the covers.)
Her hands met his chest again, anchored him to the earth. To the moment. To her.
Nothing more to add, no asides to be had. All he could think about, all that mattered, was her.
His farmer, soft-eyed, pink cheeked. Lovely. She reached for the hem of his undershirt, a request on her tongue. “Get in with me. Please.”
He put his hand on top of hers. Brought it to his mouth, kissed it. Her eyes rapt on his face, lips slightly parted. Waiting.
Oh, how could he say no? She’d already stripped him bare. All other layers were superfluous. He reached behind himself, grabbed the back of his collar, and pulled.
***
His fingers were wrinkling, but her breathing was even, slow. He peered over her shoulder, looked down at her face. Her eyes were shut, her features lax. Asleep.
The water was still warm, though, not near as hot as it was when they’d stepped in. She was nestled between his legs, her back to his chest. Her hair, clean and wet, was splayed over his shoulder like it was his own. His hands rested on her stomach; fingers woven together. His knees were up (he was a little tall for the tub), but he wasn’t uncomfortable. The water kept his joints loose, and her easy breathing kept his mind quiet. He’d sit there until she was ready to get out.
They hadn’t had sex. For a breathless moment, he thought they might; they kissed, naked, her mouth open and wanting, tongue on tongue, hands all over. She was wet and he could smell it. But he’d pulled back, both hands firm on her shoulders, and shook his head. He wanted to wait until he could take her somewhere nice. Wanted to make it special. She’d laughed at first, when he said that, and then went strangely quiet.
Instead, he washed from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet. He spent ten minutes combing conditioner through her hair. Ten more rubbing her shoulders. With each stroke, each passing second, he felt the tension loosen from her muscles. Watched the worry line smooth from her brow. The Farmer, finally at ease.
That was plenty. It didn’t matter if they never had sex.
She was enough for him.
“Harvey?” Her voice was small, a surprise. He thought was she was asleep. He looked down at her. Her eyes were still closed, but her hand came to rest on his. Squeezed lightly.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“I bought you a bouquet, the other day. It was gonna go with your gift basket.”
His heart seized in his chest, he held her, just a little more snuggly, like squeezing a stress ball. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” her voice was a sleepy mumble. She was almost out. “I was too chicken to give it to you, though. I threw it out.”
You keep me warm, always.
“Why?” He felt like a hypnotist, dragging the truth out of someone half-asleep.
“Because I wouldn’t be a good girlfriend,” she said. Her head shook, minutely for emphasis.
(His first instinct was to laugh. As if good was even a parameter, as if that was a task she could ever fail. She was only woman for the job, the only person he’d give the title. It didn’t matter if she was good; he didn’t care.)
But he didn’t laugh. He squeezed her fingers back. “Why?”
“Because I’d just make you worry.”
He stared at that bite on her shoulder. Perfect, pink, shining. Each individual tooth a reminder that she was not a girl who sit at home and wait for him with dinner. That she wouldn’t be satisfied with twiddling her thumbs and tending her garden while he worked. No, she was the type to wander into a cave with a torch and knife. The type to break her nose, and sprain her wrist, and risk rabies, and just keep working. Yes, undeniably she would worry him. Did worry him.
In fact, she scared the hell out of him.
But he’d already made peace with that.
Two weeks apart was enough. He just wanted her. Girlfriend. Patient. Wife. Friend. It didn’t really matter.
He’d take her however he could get her.
He nestled his face against her neck, watched her cheek. Her eyes still closed, but face turned toward him, listening.
He pressed one kiss to her jaw, then another. Put his mouth against her ear, breathed her name like a prayer. “You’re worth the worry.”
She never opened her eyes, didn’t move. But a smile spread, sweet and slow, across her face. That was his answer.
And that was enough for Harvey.