Page 56 of Grouch-ish

I’m also reminded of how she wistfully adored the antique sleigh in her dad’s barn. The job was too big for me to complete in one day; the project too extensive. Guilt strikes. I didn’t want to disappoint her.

Turning back to the task at hand, I mentally gripe. Okay, Brock. You can do this. It’s like jacking off.

Only, it wasn’t. And I had to get that thought out of my head or I’d never be able to do the deed again. I’d need to be able to complete the one-handed talent in the future because Pear had given me years-worth of mental fantasies to replay on repeat.

Her body is my catnip. Her hips. Her scent. The sounds she made when my mouth was on her. I couldn’t seem to get enough. Kissing her was heaven. Touching her was out of this world.

I wanted to keep her, but I didn’t know how.

We joked a lot about Valentine’s Day. The future date feels so far away and yet my twelve-day sentence has passed too quickly. I have less than four days left at her dad’s farm. Then what? We say goodbye and go our separate ways. I didn’t like that idea. Not one bit.

“How’s it going there, Farmer Brock?” Pear’s sweet voice interrupts my rambling thoughts.

“I prefer fireman, snowflake.” The way she says such a common term makes me feel like I really am a superhero.

She giggles and I return to my mission. In the apex of my thumb and forefinger, I squeeze while tugging down, mimicking Mr. Renshaw’s instructed motions. Then I almost fall off my rickety stool when the first spurt of milk hits my pail.

“Holy shit.” As a man who prefers his milk cold and in aisle ten, this is surreal. Still, I keep up, eventually finding a steady rhythm. I am not as quick as the practiced Mr. Renshaw and his son, but I hold my own. By the time the gathered helpers are finishing up, I’ve milked eight cows on my own.

When the collective finishes, Mrs. Renshaw brings out donuts, hot and homemade, and big carafes of coffee and warm cider. Pear and I linger among the others, sipping our drinks, and sharing small talk. A sense of community I haven’t experienced before weaves around us.

Sure, I have family, friends, and the firehouse, but this is different. I am not about to become a farmer, but the moment feels important, special. I’m honored to be part of this morning’s accomplishment.

“Any time you need a favor, I’m your man,” Mr. Renshaw says, clapping me on the back.

I didn’t have any idea what I could possibly ask of him. Most likely, I wouldn’t be back to this farm. However, my eye had caught on something just inside the barn when we first entered.

Clamping my hand on his shoulder, I lead him away from Pear.

“Actually, Mr. Renshaw, I was wondering if I could ask for that favor now.”

And that’s how Pear and I end up on a horse-drawn sleigh, riding through Mr. Renshaw’s fields.

“This is incredible,” Pear whispers like she’ll disturb the two horses pulling us at a rhythmic trot.

Mr. Renshaw sits upfront while Pear and I huddle together in the back seat. A heavy quilt covers our laps. I have my arm around Pear, and she’s tucked into my side. For the first few minutes of our ride, we didn’t speak. We just enjoyed the quiet clopping of hooves crunching snow and the weak slushing of sled runners over the frozen ground. The fields slowly pass us or rather we slowly crawl over them. This is not a high-speed snowmobile. This vehicle is made for time. Not a rush, but patience.

If I thought Pear looked in her element milking a cow, she’s practically vibrating with excitement as we sit in this sleigh.

“You’re really digging this, aren’t you?”

Pear shrugs beneath my arm. “I’m a modern woman but it doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the simpler things in life. An older way of doing things.”

“Do you know how long it would take you to get from here to Chicago in one of these things?”

Pear chuckles. “You wouldn’t go from here to Chicago in a sleigh. This is for local travel. For visiting.”

Suddenly, I picture Pear in a long wool coat with a muff at her hands, like some woman from a Charles Dickens classic. She’s gone off for a secret rendezvous with some man her family disapproves of. They’d ice skate on a pond. Kiss behind evergreens. I’d be that bad boy in her life; however, there isn’t a chance I can picture myself in the same scene.

I’m a modern man, through and through.

However, Pear is refreshing.

She makes pies for breakfast and chili feasts for game days.

She builds homes for owls and loves her dad unconditionally.

She has put up with me for eight days and I’ve never been so grateful.