APRIL

Just like every morning, I wake up a few moments before the sun.

I lie in bed for only a moment, watching the sky beyond my window turn dusty pink around the edges, indigo disappearing until tonight. I blink slowly, close my eyes to say a morning prayer, then gently push the covers back.

The floor is cold when my bare feet touch it, so I waste no time in finding thick, wool socks. It's the beginning of summer, but the early morning hours haven't yet caught up with the temperature change of midday. I wrap my arms around myself and rub my skin through the long sleeves of my nightgown in hopes of warming up.

When I take my nightgown off to change into a pair of barn jeans, my whole body erupts in goosebumps. I tie my naturally curly hair into a low ponytail and open the door to my bedroom, padding to the mudroom where my galoshes are. My sisters will join me shortly, but it's no surprise they're late.

"Good morning, sweetheart," my mother says, from where she stands at the kitchen sink. She's wearing an apron, already cooking something. "Where are your sisters?"

"Probably still sleeping," I say, then let her kiss my cheek.

"Why don't you get a head start on chores?" she asks. "Then, when you finish, you can come inside and help me tidy up."

"Yes, mom," I say, giving her a soft smile as I put on another layer before heading outside.

The gravel driveway crunches beneath my feet as I head to the main barn, the one that houses our horses - with the cows and pigs in pens around back. We live on 50 acres, and the animals stay on 10 or so. The other 40 is woods, most of which I've never explored. We weren't allowed to as young girls, and now I have no desire. Getting lost in the wilderness doesn't sound like fun; I'd rather stay close to home.

I yank open the heavy door of the barn to find the horses awake and restless, and smile at their big heads sticking out from the stalls.

"Hi, guys," I say, greeting them. "Who's hungry?"

Every morning, it's my job to feed and water the horses, and clean out their stalls every two days or so. I also collect eggs from the chicken coop and feed the cats - the tasks aren't too cumbersome, and we all have different assignments that we've kept for years. Alice tends to the cows and ducks, Kimmie the pigs, and Libby the sheep. With all of us on hand and Dad doing the heavy lifting, our farm is a well-oiled machine.

I'm on my way to the chicken coop when I hear a ruckus coming from the direction of the house, and I look to see that my sisters are finally awake.

"Hey, goody-goody," Libby says, leading the way.

Kimmie is right behind her, looking sour. The expression is not at all unusual. Alice brings up the rear, rubbing her eyes. She still looks half-asleep.

"Hi," I say, pausing to wave.

"Making us look bad yet again," Kimmie grumbles.

I frown a bit. "What do you mean?"

"Every single morning, you're out here before us. What's the rush? Mom and Dad won't disown you if you're not first, you know."

"But then she'd stop being their favorite," Libby adds.

"Leave her alone," Alice says, pushing her way through her older sisters to get to me. She wraps her arms around my middle and I hug her close, pressing my cheek to the top of her 10-year-old head. "Just shut up."

"You shut up," Kimmie says, rolling her eyes. "You're a suck-up just like Duckie. Quack quack."

"Stop it," Alice grumbles.

"Come on, Allie," I say, one arm around her shoulders. "It's fine. Let's go get our eggs."

She looks up at me, eyes shimmering for validation, and follows. We grab her basket for duck eggs and go to the coop together, making light conversation along the way.

"I heard Mom and Dad talking last night, after you went to bed," she says. "Through the vents."

"Allie," I say, kneeling to grab a couple eggs from under the hens. "You shouldn't be eavesdropping."

"I couldn't sleep," she says. "Their voices were keeping me up."

I crane my neck to look at her where she stands, and we trade a silent moment where she knows I'll either scold her or encourage her to continue. My expression tells her what she needs to know - that she should keep talking.

"There's someone coming to stay with us," she says. "A boy."

I frown and place a steadying hand over the group of eggs I've collected inside my basket. "A boy?" I repeat. "What do you mean?"

She shrugs. "I couldn't hear everything, but I think he's coming today."

I stand up slowly and brush my jeans off. "What do you mean, today? And where will he sleep?"

She shrugs again, then reaches to tickle my ribs. "Your room!" she shrieks, then runs away in her hand-me-down boots that still don't fit right.

"Hey! Come back here!" I giggle, chasing after her while trying to keep my basket steady. She sprints through the middle aisle of the barn and disappears out back, and I follow her trail. When I burst through the back doors, though, I happen to run right into Kimmie at full force, which sends us both flying backwards.

I open my eyes while lying on my back, sprawled out on the cool grass. There's liquid dripping from my cheek, the basket handle has fallen from my arms, and my lungs struggle for breath. I think the wind got knocked out of me.

"April!" Alice shouts, and I feel her footsteps more than I hear her come closer.

"You idiot!" Kimmie jeers. "Look where you're going once in a while. You dropped all your stupid eggs, ugly duckling."

I try and regain my bearings as I sit up and blink hard. She's standing over me and glowering, her form hulking in comparison to mine.

"Sissy, you're bleeding," Alice says to me, sounding worried. "Your cheek. There's blood."

Still dazed, I wipe the cut with my hand and try to ignore how it stings. I'm too worried about Kimmie nearing me looking as angry as she does - I'm afraid she's going to kick me in the stomach or beat me up in general. It wouldn't be the first time.

"You're such a waste of space," she says, then lifts her knees and stomps on all the eggs I dropped so they turn into globs of goop in the grass.

I gasp and force the imminent tears away.

"Kim!" Alice says, scrambling to her feet. "Why did you do that?"

"Just go away, Allie," she says, and shoves Alice's shoulders before looking back at me. "See how Mom likes her little goody-two-shoes now."

She walks away, and I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. Alice crouches next to me again, fussing over my wellbeing, and two tears drip from my eyes.

"I'm fine," I say, finally standing. "Don't worry, Allie. I'm fine. I promise."

"But you're still bleeding," she says.

I finish my chores while the blood dries on my face, and go inside without bothering to wash it off. Instead of being the first like my mother expected, I'm last - with Alice on my heels.

"April!" Mom says, once she sees me. "What happened to you?" From my face, she looks down to the empty basket in my grungy hand. "And where are the eggs?"

Kimmie and Libby are already sitting at the table, fresh and clean, while I stand in the kitchen doorway covered in dirt, yolk, and blood.

"I dropped them," I murmur. "I fell."

Kimmie adjusts her shoulders and turns to Libby for validation, and like usual, she gets it. They smile at each other, ever-so-subtle, while Mom's face transforms into a dramatic frown.

"I expect better from you," she tells me. "You put more than a dozen good eggs to waste. You need to be more careful, April. I'm disappointed."

"I'm sorry, mom," I say, head hung low. "It won't happen again."

"It better not," she says, sternly. "That was our breakfast you dropped all over the yard. I'm going to make oatmeal for your sisters, but I want you to go wash up and think about what you've done. Don't come back down 'til it's time for lessons."

"Yes, mom," I say, and slip out of my muddy galoshes to put them back in the mudroom.

Instead of anger, guilt sinks in my gut and floats near the top. We're taught to take punishment and accept what we've been given, no matter what. There is no talking back, no attitude, and definitely no arguing. It's not in my nature to tell on my sisters, because I'm fully aware that if I did, I would be punished by them much worse than by my parents.

I look in the bathroom mirror with a washcloth in hand and wipe the dirt off to see the cut clearer. It's not deep, but it's insistent, so I put a conspicuous Band-Aid over it and stare some more.

I blink into my own eyes before looking away self-consciously. My face is covered in freckles, my eyes are a muddled green, and I'm not allowed to use makeup. My sisters have called me ugly my entire life, and I've always believed them. I'm the furthest thing from pretty, and this sore thumb of a Band-Aid doesn't help.

I turn my back on the mirror, disheartened by what was blinking back at me, and turn the faucet on. We don't take showers often because my parents say they're wasteful, so I wait until the tub is filled just enough before stripping my filthy clothes and climbing in.

We're not allowed to use very much water, so I'm not exactly warm while I sit with my arms wrapped around my legs. I take a few moments for myself, though, playing a silent game of connect the dots with the freckles on my kneecaps and watching the dirt from my body filter into the water surrounding.

I let out a long sigh and promise to do better. I won't let my sisters get under my skin, and I won't find my way into situations where I can get into trouble. I need to get better at keeping my head down, which is something I always tell myself.

I don't rush in the bath. I scrub my skin slowly with a white washcloth and watch the water trickle slowly down the slopes of my shins and back into the tub once I wring it out. I lather shampoo in my hair and rinse it out with a well-worn cup that sits in the corner, and hurry to my room wrapped in a towel once I'm done.

"April Olivia!" my mother calls up the stairs. "Lessons are starting. Get down here, please."

"Yes, mom," I say, and rush to put on a school skirt and button-up blouse. I pull my hair half back even though it's still wet and slip into a pair of dark gray socks, hurrying down the steps to join my sisters at the oak wood table to learn.

Our mother homeschools us, and always has. We've never stepped foot inside a public school, because the teachers will blatantly ignore our beliefs and ignore the word of God and the Bible. We don't know many people our age because of this - only the ones we see in youth group every Sunday night.

"Sorry," I breathe, sliding in next to Alice.

Mom takes a good look at me. "Much better," she says, referencing my clean state in comparison to how dirty I was earlier.

I nod and gather my books, placing them on top of the table. Even though I'm younger than Libby, I'm ahead of her in school. At this point, she should already have graduated, but hasn't. I have only a small amount left before I'm done.

I'm not sure what comes after, so I've been putting it off. Going slow when I don't need to be, and pretending I don't understand lessons I could do in my sleep. The future is too scary to contemplate, so I simply choose not to.

"Girls," Mom says, spine straight and chin held high. "I have some news I'd like to share with you, so please listen up. Close your books."

We all obey, our eyes trained on the woman who raised us.

"We have a guest arriving today," she begins.

Alice nudges my socked foot with hers under the table, her silent way of saying: I was right.

"He'll be staying with us this summer, in the shed."

The shed is more like a little barn; it's constructed well with good insulation and comfort, if necessary. It's been empty for a while because our number of horses overwhelmed its size, but apparently it won't be vacant for much longer.

"Wait," Libby says. "A boy?"

"Yes, a boy," Mom continues. "He's the son of an old family friend, and his mother thinks he could stand to learn a few lessons that only farm life can teach him. So, we're going to be welcoming hostesses and make him feel at home, all the while showing him what kind of hard work, dedication and responsibility goes into caring for lives other than your own. Am I clear?"

We all nod.

"April," she says, singling me out. "You'll be in charge of him."

I frown slightly. "How old is he?"

"Eighteen," Mom says. "But I need you to take some agency, young lady, and this is a perfect way for you to do so. For the duration of the summer, this young man will be your responsibilty. And if something goes wrong, the blame will come down on you. Am I clear?"

"Yes, mom," I answer.

Questions fly through my mind at a million miles per hour, all fighting to get to the front. What am I supposed to do with him? Will he want to talk to me? What could he have done to deserve banishment from his home and family?

"They're driving here today, from Chicago," Mom says. "They should arrive a little after lunch."

She looks at me pointedly, and I tuck a small piece of hair behind my ear.

"April," she says. "His name is Jackson Avery. And you'll be taking care of him this summer."

…

I'm determined to do a good job with the task I've been given, but I have no clue where to begin. I have no male friends, and I rarely interact with the boys in our youth group. All I know is that they're loud and tell jokes I don't understand most of the time, but I'm pretty sure they're sexual. They're short, pimply and gross, and they always talk over the girls. Except for Matthew, of course, but I've been told time and time again that he's different.

And now, for the duration of the summer, I have to be very close to a boy. One staying on our property, no less. I spend a good amount of time jotting down notes before his arrival in my special red notebook that I got for my last birthday, bullet points on what I think will help me get through the next three months.

Be kind and understanding, but firm

Mean business

Make conversation but don't be weird

Smile and make him feel at home

Don't let him get too comfortable, if he's here for punishment?

Don't make friends

Do NOT get a crush

I stare at the list for a long time, eyes following the loops of my curly handwriting. When I deem it good enough and can't think of anything else to add, I close the notebook and tuck it into the pocket of my skirt where it always goes.

A few hours later when we're all downstairs again, the Averys' car pulls up in the driveway and my sisters and I gather around the front window to watch.

"Don't just stand there and gawk," Mom says. "Go outside and welcome them."

Libby opens the front door and steps out first, suddenly quiet. Kimmie follows suit, as she always does with Libby, and I take Alice's hand to lead her.

A smartly-dressed black woman steps out of the driver's seat and brushes herself off, then smiles towards the group of us.

"What a dashing bunch of young ladies," she says. "My god, I haven't seen you since you were in diapers. And I don't think I've met you at all, little miss," she says, gearing the last part towards Alice.

Moments later, our mother steps out and smiles at the woman. "Catherine," she says. "It's nice to see you again."

The woman, Catherine, smiles and says, "You, too Karen. I just wish it were under different circumstances."

"Where is he?" Alice pipes up, which earns her a swift kick in the calf from Kimmie. "Ow!"

"My son," Catherine says. "Is still sulking." She bangs on the window with a flat hand. "Jackson Avery! If you don't get your spoiled behind out of this car right now, I will come in there and drag you out in front of these fine, upstanding women."

My stomach churns and jumps, and I wring my hands together. I'm about to look the rest of my summer in the face, and I'm not sure what to expect.

Whatever image that was in my head was totally wrong. The boy - more like a man, actually - who steps out of the car is nothing like the ones at youth group. He's tall, with caramel-colored skin and piercing blue eyes. He's wearing a frown with slightly parted lips, a white t-shirt that grips his body in all the right places, and jeans that sag around the waist. There are subtle gold chains around his neck, tattoos on his arms, and he has a closely-shaven head.

I've never seen someone that looks like he does. I find it hard to believe he's my same age, because he seems much older and more experienced.

"Say hello," Catherine prompts. "This is your host family, the Kepners."

"Hey," he grunts, then leans against the car to dig something out of his pocket. He pulls out a cigarette and a lighter, then proceeds to start smoking.

I can't believe what I'm seeing.

"For God's sake, show a little respect!" Catherine says, then snatches it from his mouth and knocks it to the ground, stamping it with one foot. "You better not act this way once you're finished here."

He rolls his eyes. I can't image ever rolling my eyes at either of my parents.

"Jackson," my mother says, and her tone means business. I've been at the receiving end of that tone for much less than what he's already done. "Welcome to Otsego."

He scoffs. "What's an 'Otsego,'" he says.

"It's where we live," Alice says, indignant, suddenly defensive.

Jackson glances around at the tall trees and wildlife that surrounds our farmhouse. He looks far from impressed. Suddenly, I feel self-conscious.

He makes a judgmental sound and I swallow hard and lick my lips. I do everything to avoid looking up, and wish I could sink into the ground when my mother says my name.

"April," she says. "Say hello."

I lift my head. Jackson stares at me; his blue eyes are lasers boring into my skin.

I take a few steps forward and extend my hand, arm rigid and straight. "Hi," I say. "I'm April."

He shakes my hand, then wipes his palm on his jeans. I want to die from embarrassment. Was my grip really that sweaty?

"April will be with you all summer," my mom says, filling in the verbal blanks.

"So, you're basically my parole officer," Jackson says.

I blink at him, wide-eyed. That's a term I've never heard.

"My, uh…" he says, searching for another word. "My guard, I guess."

"Not a guard," I say, quickly. "Like a…"

"A friend," my mother finishes. "I think you two will get along. I'm sure there's plenty you could learn from her, Jackson."

I'll die if she doesn't stop.

"Why don't you show him around, April, honey?" Catherine says. "I should be going, anyway. Jackson, please behave."

He shoots her a look, but she ignores it. She nears her son and holds his face, patting his cheek a few times with one hand.

"I want you back to the good boy I used to know," she says.

"Mom," he says, and jolts his head away. "Honestly."

She sighs and crosses to give my mother a hug. "Thank you again, Karen."

"It's our pleasure," Mom says. "April has quite a bit of learning to do, as well. I'm in the same boat right now with her, so I'm willing to help in any way I can."

"Duckie-Duck the delinquent…" Kimmie jeers.

"Kimberly," Mom warns.

Kimmie doesn't speak again.

"Be good, baby boy," Catherine says, opening the driver's side door to get back inside. "I'll call a few times a week, and I'll see you in September."

He gives her a curt nod after grabbing his suitcase from the trunk, and we all watch the shiny black car pull out of the gravel driveway and disappear. We stand there in silence for a moment, the six of us, before my mother speaks again.

"April," she says. "Why don't you show Jackson where he'll be staying?"

"Oh, right," I say, eyes downcast. "Um… it's this way. I'll… I'll show you. Just follow me. It's this way."

"You said that."

"Yeah." I clear my throat. "Well, it is this way."

He looks at me, those blue eyes wide and expectant. Expectant for what, though, I'm not sure.

"So…" he trails off. "You gonna start walking, or should I lead the way to this outhouse where I've never been?"

"Oh," I say, and blush madly. "Um, yeah. It's this way."

He snorts. "Your face is really damn red right now, you should know," he says, as we start to walk.

I cover my cheeks with my hands. "Yeah, I know," I grumble.

"Do I make you blush, little ginger?" he asks, taunting me.

"Please, stop." I try and make my voice sound firm, but even I'm aware it doesn't work.

"No need to freak," he says, matching pace with me instead of falling behind. "Nice Band-Aid, by the way, Shawshank. What kind of prison camp is this, anyway?"

I touch my cheek and cover it with one hand, eyebrows low. I had forgotten about my cut already.

"It's not a prison camp, it's a farm," I answer.

"Well, it smells like shit," he comments.

"That's the manure," I say, conversationally.

He shoots me a look. "Gross as fuck."

I resist the urge to recoil at his choice of language. "It's fertilizer," I say. "It helps things grow."

"The only thing it's doing is grossing me out," he says. "Can we get away from these cows? Damn. I'm suffocating."

I keep my laughter to myself and try to keep the back-and-forth going, straying from the subject of excrement, though.

"So, you're from Chicago," I say, trying to think of the advice I gave myself in the red notebook: Make conversation but don't be weird.

"Yeah."

There's a pocket of dead silence that I expect him to fill, but he doesn't.

"Where?" I ask.

"Uh, I was born on the south side, but we moved to Wicker Park when I was like, ten. Around the Bucktown border, but I stay near north a lot."

Now, I'm the one who's silent.

"You don't know what the fuck I'm talking about, do you," he says, and I shake my head. "Yeah, it's whatever. I'm from Chicago, that's my answer. Yes."

"Do you like it there?" I ask.

"Yeah. It's cool," he says. "You ever been?"

"No," I say. "I've never left Michigan."

We make it to the door to the shed and I swing it open, but after I walk inside, I look over my shoulder to see he's still frozen in the entryway.

"Come in," I say. "This is where you'll sleep."

"Hold up, hold up, hold the fuck up," he says. "You've never been outside Michigan? The state that literally smells like a pile of shit anywhere you go?"

"Hey," I say.

"You gotta get out," he says. "Holy shit, you gotta get out of this place."

"I'm fine here," I say. "Can I take your bag?"

He narrows his eyes and wheels the suitcase in by himself, dumping it in the middle of the floor without any care at all.

"You've lived on this farm your whole goddamn life and you don't want to leave?" he says, shocked. "Is there something in the water? Are they poisoning you?"

"Of course not," I say, and start to feel the effects of being in a confined space with a boy who intimidates me. My hands are sweaty again and my skin tingles. To give my fingers something to do, I take out my red notebook and trace the spine neurotically while looking everywhere but Jackson's face.

I don't know what's wrong with me, but I need to leave.

He sighs and flops down on the bed, arms and legs strewn every which way. "I would've been long gone by now," he lets me know.

"But you're here," I say back.

He looks at me with his eyes only. "Got me there," he says, then directs his eyes upward. "Hey, look. I can stargaze through the damn hole in the ceiling. Lucky me. I knew this place was five stars."

Even though I try and quell it, a smile sneaks onto my face. I cover my mouth with my hand, but Jackson sees anyway.

"Ah, the porcelain doll does smile," he says, sounding pleased with himself.

I blush again, even worse than before. Before he can say anything, though, I turn my back and hunch my shoulders forward, then take a few steps towards the door.

"Make yourself comfortable," I say, the words falling against each other as they escape my lips. "Uh… I… welcome to your… welcome… welcome home."

…

I go in the house and finish my schoolwork at the table, where we're made to sit until every last problem is finished. By the time I'm done, the sun hangs low in the sky and the back door opens as my father walks in.

I look up, being the only one still here because I've been working on extra credit.

"Hi, daddy," I say, smiling softly.

"Hi, honey," he says, then comes to kiss the top of my head. "Where's your mother?"

"Kitchen."

"Did the Avery boy make it here today?"

I nod and close my textbook. "Yes, daddy. He's in the shed now. Mom told me I'm to look after him this summer."

"Did she, now," he says, capping one hand over my shoulder. "That should be fun."

I hold my tongue without grumbling a response.

"April Olivia," Mom calls, as if her ears were ringing from being talked about. "Go get that boy and invite him to supper. He has to be hungry by now."

I stand from the table and push my chair in dutifully. My father watches with a knowing glint in his eye and says, "Better go."

"Yes, mom," I say, and slip into my lace-up boots to head outside.

The air isn't necessarily balmy, but it's pleasant. There's a gentle breeze that blows tendrils of my hair around my face, the ones that aren't tucked into the French braid woven down my back. I turn my face to the wind and close my eyes, enjoying the smell of nature that Jackson had been so averse to a few hours ago.

When I make it to the shed, the nervous feeling comes back. My mouth goes dry and I prepare my words before I knock, though I know my brain will probably fail once I see his face.

It's not easy to keep myself under control around that kind of face.

But I close my hand into a fist and knock anyway, bolstering my confidence. When Jackson answers, he's wearing one earbud and an expectant expression in his eyes.

"Yeah?"

"Um…" I say, clasping my hands together at my waist. "It's suppertime."

"And?"

I twitch slightly. "Uh, you… you… my mother wanted me to come invite you to eat with us."

"Do you do everything Mommy says?" he asks.

I flinch and bite my top lip, unsure of how to respond. He must sense my discomfort, because he continues.

"I'm fucking with you, little ginger. I'm not hungry. I'm just gonna stay here."

If I let him decline my invitation, I'll get in trouble for it at the house. Mom will tell me I wasn't persistent enough, that I should've pushed harder, that I should've made him come.

"You have to eat," I say, but my voice comes out meek and mild.

One of his eyebrows quirks slightly. "Yeah?" he says, then slowly looks my body up and down. My whole being burns, and I'm left in a pile of embers once his eyes meet mine again. "We could have a five-course meal out here, if you want."

I'm not completely sure what he means, but the tone of his words alone makes me take two stutter steps back. My cheeks light on fire, and he's beyond satisfied with himself.

"I-I…" I stammer, sweating profusely. "I'll… I'll tell her…that you…"

"Go ahead," he says. "Pass along the message. Don't worry about me, I'll figure something out when I need food."

He studies me again, pausing on certain body parts that I tend to forget I possess.

"Oh - okay," I stutter, swallowing thickly. "Um. Goodnight, then. Goodnight, Jackson."

His eyes flash as he chuckles softly. "Goodnight, little ginger."

…

I get reprimanded lightly for not bringing Jackson inside, but my father reins my mother in by telling her that Jackson probably isn't comfortable enough to join us yet, so his absence isn't my fault. Dinner is the most enjoyable meal of the day because Dad is present, and he's always on my side.

When I go to bed later that night I plan on journaling, but when I pat down my skirt, my notebook is gone. I make a frustrated sound, annoyed that I let it fall out. It happens all the time, and one of my sisters probably has it.

I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, body buzzing with energy. I toss and turn to try and get comfortable, but nothing works. Finally, I get out of bed in my long-sleeved nightgown and walk to the window, where I have a perfect view of the shed.

All the lights are on, which means Jackson must still be awake. He's not moving, I don't see a shadow, but I wonder what he's doing. Is he laying down, missing home? Is he thinking about his friends? Is he thinking about me?

I roll my eyes at myself and retreat back to bed. Why in the world would he be thinking about me?

I close my eyes, determined to get rest, and pray hard. I talk to God until my thoughts come slower and more disjointedly, and eventually fall into a light, fitful sleep.

When I wake the next morning, I don't feel rested. My eyes ache with tiredness and my body protests when I sit up, but I force myself to stand. There are chores to be done, and I have to be outside first.

My mother is awake, as usual, when I find my way to the kitchen.

"Take Jackson this morning," she says. "Show him your routine. Give him a few jobs."

I'm riddled with nerves just by hearing her words. I can't imagine telling him to do anything, let alone giving him work. But, being the diligent daughter I am, I agree.

"Yes, mom."

"Good girl."

I head outside with my coat zipped up tight and my galoshes making a sloshing sound as I walk through the dewy grass. When I get to the shed, I shiver with emotion and coldness, then knock on the door. I don't expect an answer because I assume he's still asleep, so I'm surprised when I hear his voice.

"S'open."

I turn the knob and push on the door slowly, peering inside as it swings wider. I don't see him at first, but it only takes a moment before I do. When I catch sight of him, he's standing by the bed with his back facing me, getting changed, currently shirtless.

I've never seen so many muscles before. His body is tight and sturdy, covered in expertly-placed tattoos. I can't stop staring, and my heart speeds up tenfold. When he turns around, the broad expanse of his chest sends me into a tizzy and I step backwards so fast I run into the wall.

"Morning," he says.

I can't find the words to respond. Suddenly, my tongue has grown ten sizes, along with my heart. It's thumping in my chest so powerfully that I'm surprised it doesn't burst through like a cartoon character's.

I've never wanted to touch someone so badly before, and that desire is deeply rooted. Deeply rooted, and deeply terrifying.

"I - uh - I… I'll meet you… your… body - your body, and you.. Meet you in the barn," I say, words coming out all jumbled together as I quickly turn around and break into a sprint.

I take deep breaths once I'm alone and crouch to put food in the cats' dishes. I place my elbows my knees and my face in my open hands, scolding myself for acting like such a fool. If I'm going to make it through the next few months, I have to do better at holding myself together. I shouldn't feel this way, anyway. I've basically already promised my hand in marriage to Matthew. I don't have eyes for anyone else.

A few moments later, Jackson sneaks up on me and interrupts my thoughts. I jump at the sound of his voice and drop the cat food in my hand, scattering it all over the ground.

"Hey, kitty cat," he says, and I look over my shoulder to see he's holding my little red notebook and extending it to me. "I think this is yours."

My breath catches in my throat. This is going to be the longest summer of my life.