Page 21 of Ginjuh

Reaching out, I twisted my hands in the front of his shirt, angry as hell that he had put his hands on me. I pulled him into me and snarled in his face as his eyes grew wide.

“Don’t fucking do that again,” I growled lowly into his face. “I said I was sorry for reading your fucking sorry ass poem, Austin. Be angry if you want, but don’t fucking touch me like that again.”

For what seemed like an eternity, but not long enough, we stared into each other’s eyes, mine squinting and angry, his curious and wide. The next thing I knew, his hands were on me again—but not in a violent way. They were on either side of my face and he was pressing his lips against mine. At first, my eyes went wide as his closed, but a second into the kiss, my eyes closed and I felt my lips melt into his. For several achingly short seconds, we held our lips together, my fingers twisted in the front of his shirt, his fingers curling through my sweat-soaked red waves of hair.

Suddenly, he pulled away, his eyes going wide again. We continued to stare at each as seconds ticked by. My fingers slowly loosened in his shirt, though I felt compelled to tighten my grip and pull him back into me again. His fingers trailed from my hair, down my face, my neck, over my collar bones, then away from me completely. Finally, his hands were off of me and I let go of the fistfuls of his shirt. I swallowed hard as Austin cleared his throat and took a small step backward.

Robotically, as though we had coordinated our efforts, we both retrieved our scythes and walked back to the corn stalks we’d been hacking at lazily. Once again, we were swinging the implements, doing anything but looking at each other.

“I’m sorry for what I said about your poem,” I said softly, hoping he might not hear me. “It wasn’t a sorry ass poem.”

“Okay.” He answered simply.

Then we hacked away at the corn.

We worked the rest of the afternoon and until dusk just like that, robotically, stoically, tense and excited, glances stolen at each other. When we glanced at each other at the same time, we’d quickly look away, unsure of what to do besides that. When the time came to quit, we put everything away together, though we didn’t speak. I gave the report to Grandpa about coming out the next day again—just like always—and that we might actually be done with this part of the project by the end of Sunday. Then Austin retrieved his envelope of cash from Grandpa with a “Thank you, Mr. Pelton.” and we got into my car.

The ride to Austin’s house was electric, both of us sitting tensely in our seats, though I knew both of us were longing to collapse in on ourselves, to give our muscles relief. I wanted to sit low in my seat, give my body a break, but my body was keenly aware of Austin’s less than a foot away from me. Austin stared straight out of the windshield the entire trip, chewing at his bottom lip in a way that didn’t make things easier on me. When I pulled my car up to the front of his house, Austin immediately reached for the door handle, though he didn’t open the door. He continued staring straight ahead.

“I’ll see you in the morning?” I asked hoarsely, not wanting to look into his eyes, just in case he said “no”.

The space of a breath went by.

“Yeah.” He said. “Okay.”

“Okay.” I nodded, but still didn’t look at him.

Then he was gone, walking up the sidewalk to his house.

Saturday was the same. I picked up Austin. Gave him an energy drink. We rode in silence out to Grandpa’s house. Talked briefly with Grandpa. Got the scythes and cooler. Hacked away at stalks of corn. Stole glances at each other. Blushed. Turned away. Took a water break. Desperately pretended that we didn’t want to shove each other. To twist our hands in each other’s hair and shirt. To feel flesh on flesh as we stood in the warm shade of corn stalks. To climb that wall of reticence built between us. But Saturday ended the same way as Friday.

I’ll see you in the morning?

Yeah. Okay.

Okay.

Sunday started the same. Austin climbing into my car outside of his house, the sky still navy and dark, the last few stars hanging on for dear life. Energy drink handed over, energy drink consumed. But when we got to Grandpa’s and saw him sitting on the porch in his rocking chair, coffee mug on the arm, his fingers holding onto the handle, Austin stopped me. He didn’t say anything, but he pulled his notebook out and folded it open to a pre-selected spot. He shoved it into my hands without another word before he climbed out of the car. I held the notebook in my hands and watched through the windshield as he approached Grandpa and started talking. Then I finally looked down: