Rounding Third - Michelle Lynn Page 0,54
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.
“You can say his name,” I murmur.
My dad’s eyes shoot up to mine, cutting me with silence. He places the hoses on Violet and then double-checks to make sure the milk is coming out.
We only have Violet and Cassandra because the milk is used for our consumption and for the small cheese company down the street.
“Crosby,” I bait.
He backs up, his eyes glaring with a look of warning.
“Crosby Lynch.” I test him further.
Why am I being defiant today? This isn’t me. I’m the good one, the girl who never crosses her parents. The one who held a B-plus average and abided by the rules, other than sneaking Crosby in on late nights.
“Don’t say his name,” he warns and heads out of the barn.
I don’t know if it’s the fact that I want them to forgive him or the fact that I’m looking for forgiveness, but I keep pushing.
“Why not?” I challenge.
I follow him outside, not allowing him to escape this conversation. I’m determined to find out why my dad doesn’t like Crosby.
“When is this town going to get a clue and grasp the fact that it was an accident? He wasn’t drinking or on drugs. He wasn’t driving fast. It was simply an accident.”
My dad flips around, anger fuming in his eyes. “We aren’t getting into this, Ella. Go back to the house, and help your mother with dinner.” He extends his arm, pointing to the kitchen, like I’m sixteen again.
“Why not?”
“Go, Ella.” There’s a tinge of annoyance hanging in his words.
I stomp my foot on the dirt. “No.”
“What is this about?” my dad screams.
The chickens scurry into a corner of the corral.
“He’s in Ridgemont,” my mother’s judging low voice says, revealing herself from the chicken coop.
My dad looks over at her, his anger turning to shock. “When? How?”
“He’s playing for the Tigers. Third base.” I’m thankful the tone of this conversation has gone down, but I’m on defense for the next fight.
“You’ve seen him,” my dad asks. It’s not a question, more of a statement.
I nod.
He glances to my mom, who only moves her shoulders up and down in a nothing-we-can-do attitude.
“I forbid it, Ella. Don’t think the two of you are going to conjure up some romance again.” He storms off and shrugs off my mom’s hand when she reaches out.
I could scream, but I won’t because that good girl is still present in my body. I needed time to process Crosby’s reappearance, and so do my parents.
Instead, I walk directly into the house and go up to my bedroom, slamming the door in true teenage fashion.
Plopping down on my twin-size bed with the frilly pink comforter, I stare at the ceiling. My phone buzzes, and I pull it out of my pocket.
Ariel: Told you not to go home without me.
Me: I swear, Mom’s name should be Western Union.
Ariel: She’s worried.
Me: Whatever. She just wants to save face in this POS town.
Ariel: