hi guys! by now, im sure you all heard what happened with sarah drew being fired from greys and april's arc being done after season 14. i'm not sure where this leaves us as a fandom, but i will definitely stop watching/keeping up after the finale of 14. as of right now, i will 100% finish this story. i had another one in the back of my mind, but depending on the vibe of the fandom, im not sure if ill write that one. i just dont know yet. im heartbroken over what happened, but i hope i can continue to bring a sliver of happiness with this story. please stick with me. :) i love you guys.
APRIL
I stand up quickly and send more cat food flying, then rip my notebook from his hands. I tuck it into the pocket of my skirt and turn my head away, eyes on the concrete floor instead of his face.
"Thanks," I murmur.
"Uh-huh," he says, a certain lilt to his voice.
I grit my teeth, still unable to meet his eyes. I cover the outline of the pocketed book with one hand, spreading out my fingers to reassure myself it's there.
"I'm not gonna grab it from you," he says. "You left it in the shed last night."
"Okay."
He snorts, laughing a bit. "I didn't have anything else to do. So, I kinda read some of it."
My face bursts into flames. That's not what I wanted to hear.
"I liked your bullet-points," he says. "But, come on. You don't wanna be my friend? That's kinda mean, kitty cat."
I can't force a response. I'm too humiliated.
"I liked your poems, too," he says. "When are you gonna write one about me?"
I cross my arms over my chest as my cheeks heat up further. I'm not sure how my blush could worsen, but I feel it happening. He thinks he's funny. Everyone always thinks they're so funny when I'm the butt of the jokes.
"Guess I won't get one if you're not allowed to have a crush on me, though, right?" he says, laughing as he tips his head to try and find my eyes. "Come on. I'm just fucking around. Take a joke."
I spin around and clear my throat, willing myself not to cry. I don't want to look stupider than I already do.
"Let me show you how… how to… where the hay is, and um, how to feed the horses," I say. "Um, the stalls need to be cleaned tomorrow. Not today. Um, every two days."
I hear him following, but I don't turn around and check.
"Who's Matthew?" Jackson chimes in.
"No one," I answer, too quickly.
"I couldn't quite tell how you felt about him. You seemed kinda wishy-washy. Is he your future husband, or something? Is it like an arranged marriage sort of deal? Or did you just make him up?"
"Why would I make him up?" I snap, eyebrows deeply furrowed.
He shrugs. "Bored, I guess. I'd be bored as hell out here."
"I have plenty to do," I say.
"The wind through my hair / should make me feel free / when he looks in my eyes / is it me that he sees?" Jackson recites, voice high and airy.
That's my poem.
"Please," I whimper, faced away, eyes burning.
"What was that?" another voice asks - Kimmie's. She scurries behind us with Libby beside her, Alice following at their heels while struggling to keep pace.
Jackson looks over; I catch a glimpse of their sparkling eyes as they study him. Libby and Kimmie, that is. Alice is looking at me, most likely having noticed my less-than-ideal emotional state.
"Just a poem April wrote," Jackson says.
"Aw, one of Duckie's sappy little love poems," Libby taunts, then comes closer to me. I back up, but hit the wall before I can get far, and she yanks my notebook out of the skirt pocket where she knows it always stays. "Should we read another one?"
"Libby, stop," I say, and reach for the notebook only to have her hold it out of my reach.
"Hold up," Jackson says. "Wait, come on. Give it back."
Libby pays him no mind. She clears her throat and opens to a random page, eyebrows raised dramatically as she finds something to read. I want to run as fast as I can out of this situation, but my feet are rooted to the ground.
"Wait, wait, wait, this is even better. A journal entry! Okay. Dear diary, today we went to youth group and I saw Matthew. I like spending time with him, but I think I need more time to warm up to what will eventually become a relationship between us. In all honesty, I'm not sure how to act around him. It seems like we-"
Before she can finish, Jackson snatches the book and silently hands it to me, lips pursed, eyes downcast.
I don't say a word. I take it from him, hold it against my chest, and sprint out of the barn back into the house where I plan on staying for the rest of the day.
I mope in my room until it's time for lessons, which I'm not allowed to miss. I clean up, get dressed, and head downstairs to the dining room table. Right now, Alice is the only one sitting there - no one else has arrived yet.
"Sissy," she says, standing halfway up. "Are you okay? I was gonna stop by your room, but I heard you crying and I didn't want to bother you."
My eyes ache because of how much sobbing I did, but I force a smile anyway. "Yeah. I'm okay now," I say. "Don't worry."
"I'm gonna tell on Libby," she says, determined and indignant.
"No," I say. "Don't do that, Allie."
"Why?" Alice presses. "Her and Kim are so mean to you, and it's not fair. Mom and Dad don't even know. But maybe those two would get in trouble if they did. Why don't you ever tell?"
"You saw what happened in the barn," I say. "They embarrassed me. If I told on them, or if you do, it'll get ten times worse. They'll make my life awful, and yours too. So, do us both a favor and keep quiet, okay? I can handle whatever they do, it doesn't bother me."
"But yeah, it does," Alice says. "They made you cry. They always make you cry."
"Well, maybe I'm just too sensitive then," I say, sitting and arranging my skirt around my legs.
"No, you're not," she responds quietly, getting comfortable next to me. "You're just the right amount. Daddy always says you're soft and have your heart right here."
She points to her sleeve, and a weak smile appears on my lips. Dad does always say that.
"That's a good thing, sissy," she continues. "I don't want them to make you mean."
"They won't," I say.
"I'm lucky," she says. "I'm lucky I have one really good sister. If I had a million bad ones, it wouldn't matter 'cause I'd still have you. And you make everything good, because you're good."
I hug her shoulders and squeeze tight, closing my eyes. She knows I'm lucky to have her, too.
"Jackson was mad after you ran away," Alice says. "I think he wanted to yell at them. But he didn't."
I open my eyes and blink ahead. "What do you mean? How could you tell?"
She shrugs, still wrapped up in my arms. "His face got all pinched and scary-looking," she says. "I was worried he was gonna hit them, or something. But he just got the hay down and fed the horses. Also, he helped me collect eggs. Both the ducks and the chickens."
"That was nice," I say, wholly surprised. "Was he kind to you?"
"He was telling me jokes," she says. "I already heard them all before, but I pretended I didn't. He smiled when I laughed."
I grin, too. "That was good of you."
Interrupting our moment, Libby and Kimmie find their way into the dining room with Mom close behind. They're talking about something in hushed tones, the two of them, and their eyes flash to me once they sit down.
"Write any more sonnets while you were locked away in your tower?" Kimmie chides, under her breath so Mom doesn't hear.
I grit my teeth and look away, avoiding her by opening my textbook to begin my work. I try to stay diligent and complete the assignment, but it's more difficult than it seems, given the information Alice told me.
Jackson seemed mad when I left, even though he was the one that started the ridicule in the first place. What does that mean? I don't understand. It's too confusing. If he didn't like how Libby and Kimmie made fun of me, why would he do it himself?
But then, he took the time to help my little sister and make her laugh. That's the mark of a good person, which contradicts everything I've been told and that he's shown me.
I've never been more confused by a person in my entire life.
…
After lessons are over, I debate going outside and talking to Jackson but decide against it. I stand at the door for a handful of minutes, staring at the shed, but I never get past the porch.
So, I go inside and do a couple chores for Mom, lost in the work until Alice calls and says someone is at the door for me. Expecting Jackson, I snap up from where I'd been bent over mopping the floor and straighten my clothes, brushing my hair out of my face to greet him.
When I get closer, though, I see through the window that it's not Jackson at all. It's Matthew.
I put on my best smile and open the door, stepping out to join him instead of inviting him inside. He smells like pine and outdoors.
"Hi, Matthew," I say, folding my hands at my waist and looking up at him. The most obvious thing I noticed about him when we met as teens was his height. He towers over me, sort of like a tree.
"Hi, April," he says.
His face is clear and blanched, with small drops of sweat at his temples. He must have walked here from his house a few miles away. He's probably expecting to stay, but that's not what I want. I pray for my mother or sisters not to see him, because they'll insist he come inside for a glass of water or even worse, dinner.
It's not that I don't like Matthew, I do. He's very pleasant and kind to me. But today of all days, I don't have the mental clarity to host him.
"How are you?" I ask, politely.
"I'm well," he says. "And you?"
"Fine. I'm just fine."
"Good," he says, then pulls a small bundle from a bag I hadn't noticed. "I brought you some cheese from Hadley."
Hadley is his sister's goat. I'm not crazy about the cheese, but Alice likes it and so does my father, so I always request it specifically. Anything that makes them smile, even something small, I enjoy doing.
"Thanks," I say, then take it from him. It's a good size, it'll last a while.
"I thought you'd like it."
"We do, thank you," I say, repeating the sentiment and desperately searching for some way to fill the gaps in this conversation.
This is how it usually goes between us - we quickly run out of things to talk about. I'm not sure if he ignores this fact or simply doesn't notice, because he always waits for me to bring around the next subject, blinking dumbly at my face.
"So, um, the summer has been nice so far," I say. "The weather's held out. Daddy's crops are doing well."
"That's great news."
"What about your father's?"
"We're doing fine, too," he says. "Thank you for asking."
I nod curtly, a small smile on my lips. "Tell your mother I said hello, and I'll be around the house sometime soon."
He smiles now. "I will," he says. "Maybe after youth group on Sunday. Would you like to come for dinner then?"
"I'm not sure yet," I say, which isn't exactly the truth. "I'll ask."
I'm positive I don't have plans, but the thought of leaving the comfort of my home to be stuck at his for hours on end isn't exactly tempting. Especially with Jackson on my mind, who really shouldn't be there at all.
"I can let you know," I say.
He makes an affirmative sound. "My parents told me your family is hosting a guest," he says.
"Yes, we are," I say, unwilling to open up much further.
"Who?"
I swipe a finger along my cheekbone, scratching a nonexistent itch. "His name is Jackson Avery. He's staying with us for the summer to learn about farm living."
"I heard he's here to get back on the straight and narrow."
I pause a moment before answering. It doesn't feel right to air out Jackson's business to Matthew, though I have no loyalties to him. He's still a person who deserves privacy, even if I don't understand him at all. What matters is that he's human.
"It's really not my place to discuss," I say.
Matthew nods, getting the picture that I don't plan on spilling any more information. "Okay," he says. "Well, enjoy the cheese. And give me a call if you'd like to come over on Sunday. I can have my mother make your favorite."
I smile transparently, unsure if he or his mother even know what my favorite thing to eat is. I don't think I've ever told either of them.
"Thank you again," I say, and wave him off as he begins down the path away from my house.
Mine and Matthew's family have been close for a long time, and we apparently played together as kids, but I can't remember. There was a time when we drifted apart because they went to a different church, but came back to ours when Matthew and I were sixteen. Ever since then, it's been a known fact that he and I, perfectly paired, will end up married someday.
I don't have the wherewithal to refute it. There's no one else in this town for me, and he's a good man. He's kind, thoughtful, and respectful, which should be enough. It's a sin to admit it's not, and I'm no sinner.
It's unspoken, the fact that once we're ready, we'll be husband and wife, but it's well-known. Everyone at church is aware, our parents more than anyone. We don't sit around and talk about it, but it's assumed that one day there will be children running around this farm that are half me and half him.
In complete honesty, that thought repulses me more than any other, making babies with him. First of all, I'm not too sure how that process works. My old youth group leader once lent me a book on female growth and sexuality before she was let go, but I've never opened it. I'm too scared. And my parents have taught us nothing in regards to that subject.
I might not be sure about what goes into making a baby, but I don't think I want to do whatever it takes with Matthew. Just like my poem said, embarrassingly, when he looks at me - I'm not sure what he sees. But I don't think it's my heart.
But I'm a good daughter, a good woman of God. And because of that, I'll accept my future fate with strong shoulders and a smile.
Almost as if on cue, my mother appears behind me. "Who was that?" she asks.
I jump, frightened by her sudden presence. I hold my heart with one hand and the cheese with the other, turning around to respond. "Oh, just Matthew," I say, and before she has a chance to berate me for being rude, I add, "He had business to attend to back home. He just wanted to stop by to drop off some cheese for us."
The first lie to my mother. It won't be the last.
She takes it, looking pleased. "Your father and Alice will like this," she says.
I nod.
We spend a moment looking at each other before she jerks her head in the direction of the shed. "Go get the boy for dinner. And don't take no for an answer this time."
"Yes, mom," I say, voice growing weak as she turns to go back inside.
Then, I'm left on the porch presented with a duty that I have no choice but to carry out. I'd rather disappear inside and skip dinner entirely than face Jackson after what happened this morning, but that's not an option.
I start down the stairs and count the steps to the shed, stomach sinking with each one. I'm already picturing the snide look on his face, the glint in his eyes from knowing my innermost secrets. All day today I could barely look at the red notebook, because I was tempted to open it and see what he'd seen. But all the while I wanted to do that, I couldn't imagine anything worse.
Much too soon, I arrive at the door and raise my fist to knock. But before I can, it opens and Jackson appears in the entryway, luckily fully clothed, wearing a strange expression I haven't yet seen.
"Hey," he says.
"Hi," I say. "It's suppertime. Mom wants you to join us."
He presses his lips together and nods slightly, but makes no move to leave. There's something he wants to say - I see it swimming behind his ocean eyes.
"Sure," he says, sounding a bit choked.
"So, should I tell her you're coming?" I say, thankful I won't be scolded for allowing him to turn me down.
"Yeah," he says, then rubs the back of his neck. I turn around to leave, assuming he'll catch up when he's ready, but he stops me with a hand on my elbow.
My skin burns, singes, smolders with his touch. When I look to where his fingers hold me, I'm surprised steam doesn't rise up in their wake.
"Wait a second," he says.
I have no choice. I can't move. His hand still hasn't left me.
"I just wanna say I'm sorry," he says. "It was fucked up, what I did this morning. I didn't mean for your sisters to get in on it. I was just trying to yank your chain, not make you cry."
His hand retreats to his side, but that doesn't make the stinging stop. We lock eyes and my breath hitches in my throat, completely flummoxed by this offering. I had not expected it. I'm not used to apologies, and one from him seems unprecedented.
I continue to stare, unresponsive. I'm not sure what to say, and this seems to bother him.
"So, what, you just gonna stand there blinking at me?" he says, on edge. "I said I'm sorry. What more do you want?"
I gasp softly, adjusting my feet in the grass. "N-nothing," I say, then look down before raising my eyes again. "Thank you. I accept your apology."
His energy cools. "Alright," he says, then cracks his knuckles. "For the record, I liked the poem. It was pretty good. Not that I know anything about poetry, but I don't know. It read nice."
I blush hard, for a much different reason than I did while he was reading it. "Thanks," I say.
"Yeah."
There's a long pause, but not like the ones Matthew and I share. This one's different - it's charged and alive. There are a thousand words, thoughts, and sentiments vibrating below the surface, begging to burst through. The silence is the only way to quell them, to keep them down.
"I'm fuckin' starved. We should go eat," he says, breaking it.
"Of course," I say, then start off on the path. "Come this way."
When I lead Jackson into the house, dinner is already on the table and my mother looks pleased, which makes me proud. I did something right, and I'm rewarded by her warmth.
"Welcome, Jackson," she says. "Why don't you sit here?"
The extra chair is next to mine, with Kimmie on the other side of it. I'm thankful and relieved we have a buffer, because I usually have to suffer through meals with her elbowing me every chance she gets.
"Thanks for making all this, Mrs. Kepner," Jackson says, sitting down.
My father appears and introduces himself, then sits at his usual spot at the head of the table. When Alice sees who's next to me, she stares with wide eyes and says nothing. Libby and Kimmie are the opposite, though.
"Jackson! So, you decided to join us tonight," Kimmie says. "And yay, you get to sit right next to me."
"With the poet on his other side," Libby jeers. "Maybe she'll write a little something about this and share it with the class tomorrow."
I stare at my plate, jaw clenched. Alice takes my hand in preparation for the prayer, squeezing it in solidarity. I squeeze hers back three times, which is our secret code for: I - love - you.
As the rest of us bow our heads, Jackson digs in without noticing the pre-supper tradition. He eats voraciously, clearly he's hungry, but I stop him with a gentle hand to his forearm. His skin is warm and soft, and I notice my fingers have overlapped a subtle tattoo of an ocean wave.
"We pray before we eat," I murmur, catching his eye.
"Aw, look! Duckie's touching a boy for the very first time," Kimmie sings.
"Jackson and Duckie, sittin' in a tree. K-I-..."
"Kimberly!" Dad bellows, which quiets everyone at the table. "Elizabeth! I've heard enough. Stop bothering your sister, and bow your heads. If I hear your voices one more time during this dinner your mother made, you'll spend tomorrow in your rooms. Do you hear me?"
"Yes, daddy."
"Yes, daddy."
"That's what I thought," he says, then bows his head again. "April, would you start the prayer, please?"
Everyone's eyes are closed, so I smile softly when I bow my head. I take Jackson's hand and can't help but notice how thick his palm is, how strong his fingers, how sturdy his knuckles. The feeling alone makes me weak in the knees, stomach jumping, and I can barely concentrate on what to thank God for besides the boy beside me.
I lose my words in the air; they don't reach my ears. All I'm thinking about is Jackson, and how he makes me feel.
…
Once supper is over, I start clearing the table but my father silently stops me and hands the job over to Libby and Kimmie. Due to the looks they shoot me, I know I won't be happy about it tomorrow morning, but in the moment, I'm glad. I'm told to take Jackson back to the shed instead.
The air is cooler after sunset, and we walk slow. There's no rush, no time limit, no jobs to be done. It's just us and the night, the three of us together.
"Your sisters are bitches," Jackson says, breaking the tranquility.
I'm not at liberty to agree with such harsh language; I can't. It's a sin. But again, so is lying, and I did that earlier. Minorly, to my mother. But still, a lie all the same.
"They can be unkind," I say, amending his statement.
"Nah, it's more than that."
I don't have another response, I just let that one sit in the air and steam.
"All sorts of bitches like them in high school," he says. "Not like you'd know. But I'm saying, I've seen it before. Girls like you get bullied a lot. It's fuckin' wrong."
"Girls like me?" I repeat.
He looks at me quickly before darting his eyes away. "Yeah," he says, then scoffs. "Fuckin' lame-ass nerds."
I frown, eyebrows coming together. Tears prick the backs of my eyes and I wring my hands. I thought we'd been having a nice time.
"Kitty cat," he says, voice much gentler. "A joke. It's a joke."
"Oh," I say.
"I guess you're not really used to humor like that," he says.
"No," I say, shaking my head.
"You're used to like, fuckin'... horses, telling you jokes, or some shit?"
I roll my eyes slightly and suppress a smile, eyes still downcast.
"You know, you can smile around me. I'm not gonna smite you or report you to God."
"I know," I say.
"But do you, though?" he says, and nudges my shoulder.
After he speaks, he thrusts a hand into his pocket and comes out holding a cigarette. It perches between his lips while he digs for a lighter, and when the end burns with embers, the smoke assaults my nose and I turn away coughing.
"Sorry," he says, blowing smoke from the corner of his mouth.
"That's a very unbecoming habit," I say.
"Well, we all got our vices, right?"
I cross my arms and stare at him hard.
"Guess you don't," he finishes.
"You're killing yourself," I say. "Your lungs are already suffering, and the longer you do it, the shorter your life becomes. I don't know why you'd want to do that to yourself. Don't you have people to stick around for?"
"No," he says quickly, bluntly, taking a long drag. "I don't."
"Well, I do," I say, and snatch it from him. With the toe of my boot, I stomp it out in the gravel and make sure it's dead.
"Christ on a fuckin' cracker," he says. "You do have some fire, don't you?"
"Secondhand smoke is a killer, too," I say.
He chuckles a bit; his shoulders bounce once. He's looking at me in yet another way I haven't seen. He nods a bit when he says, "Point taken."
We continue to walk and he pipes up again.
"I only started that shit to piss off my mom," he says. "Not kidding. Then, well, it's addictive, I guess. Routine. Habit."
"You should stop," I say.
"Got it," he says, amused. "You made that pretty damn clear."
We continue to walk in silence then, passing the shed and making the route longer. He doesn't say anything when we go by it, and neither do I. It's an unspoken fact that we're not yet finished with each other tonight.
"There's a fuck-ton of stars here," he says, out of the blue.
I shove my hands into my skirt pockets, shoulders hunched by my ears. It's gotten chilly.
"What do you mean?" I ask, neck craned towards the sky.
"I mean, just look," he says, pointing up. "It's crazy."
I snort. "It's the sky."
He looks at me, then back up. "Nah, you don't get it. You don't have an appreciation for it, Miss I've-never-left-Michigan." He shakes his head. "You don't see stars like this in the city, you just don't. The sky's all cloudy and smoggy, too many lights. You're lucky, seeing this every night. Don't take it for granted like a little asshole."
"I don't," I say. "I do love it here."
He looks over again, noticing my posture. "You cold?" he asks.
I shake my head, mostly because I'm not ready for this to end. This is the most engaged I've been in a long time; I like talking to him and being in his presence because I'm never sure what will come next. My life is entirely predictable - but he is not.
"I'm fine," I say.
"'Cause I can leave you alone. Let go you back in."
"No, I'm okay," I answer, quickly.
"You don't want me to leave you alone?" he asks, smirking.
I shake my head mutely.
He smiles, showing no teeth. But his eyes sparkle and light up his whole face, brighter than the stars.
We continue to walk, exchanging light conversation about his life back home. I learn he's an only child to a single mother, who had no idea how to keep him on the straight and narrow anymore. She was tired of finding him out of his room at night, worried that he was going to become involved in gang activity around the city. He promised he wasn't, that he was just being a normal teenager, but she didn't believe him. So, she sent him here with the promise of money when he got back, if he stuck it out.
"A gang's stupid shit," he says. "I'm not trying to get killed. I'm too smart for that."
"You are?" I ask, benignly.
"What, you think I'm stupid?" he snaps, eyebrows lowering.
"No," I say. "I don't, not at all."
"I'm not stupid."
"I know," I say, and notice we've made it back to the shed.
Without saying anything, he opens the door and we walk inside like it's the most natural thing in the world. He slips off his shoes and I keep mine on, but follow him to the fireplace and sit in front of it, right next to him.
The hair on my arms stands up, and I'm sure he can see. I'm wearing short sleeves.
"I knew you were cold," he says, referencing the blatant goosebumps. "But I've gotten pretty good at making this fire."
I smile and look at him, not sure what to say. I've never been this alone with a boy, no less a boy who makes me feel like this.
We spend a couple moments in comfortable silence while he stokes the flames, and when they reach a good height, he scoots back next to me.
"I saw you talking to some guy earlier," he says, knees bent. "Was that Matthew?"
"Were you spying on me?" I ask, smirking.
"Look who's got jokes now," Jackson says, eyes shining. "Kitty cat's over here trying to make me laugh. I see you."
"You pulled that nickname out of nowhere," I say, messing with a thread on my skirt.
"No, I didn't," he says. "You were with those damn cats this morning. It came naturally. Plus, you're small and kinda quiet, like a cat."
"I'm not always quiet," I say.
"Oh, really," he quips.
"Yeah," I say, looking at my knees.
"You get chatty with your man, Matthew?"
"He's not my man," I say, speaking before giving myself a chance to think about what I'm saying.
"Sure sounded like he was, from that journal," Jackson says.
Instinctively, I reach for my pocket and flatten my hand over the notebook that sits inside it.
"Chill," he says, reading my mind. "So he's your man, whatever. But just from an outsider's perspective, it didn't look like you guys were all that crazy about each other. He didn't even touch you."
"He doesn't have to touch me," I say.
"God does enough of that for him?" he says.
I purse my lips and roll my eyes lightly. "Enough," I say.
He laughs softly and doesn't add anything else. I notice his eyes on my arm though, the left one that's closest to him. He smiles at it, though I can't be sure why.
"What?" I say, a bit defensive.
"Look," he says, then does something unexpected. He picks my arm up and holds it easily between two fingers, then uses his other hand to trace a section of skin. "This group of freckles right here is shaped like a 'J.' Did you make that for me?"
Now that he points it out, I notice, too. It isn't obvious, which tells me he must have been looking pretty hard to see it. It's a lowercase J, complete with a dot.
"Of course I didn't," I say.
"Let's see," he says, and tries to rub it off playfully. "Nope. Looks like it's legit."
A moment passes where my arm rests on his lap, and he uses his thumb to trace the shape of the letter dotted in freckles on my forearm. If I had chills before, now my entire body is a prickling mess. My head feels light, like it might fall off any second, and my stomach jumps like a thousand butterflies are trapped inside.
But the most confusing feeling of all is the one tucked between my thighs, in a place I've never thought about. It's pulsing, like my heart has found its way there, and the muscles seem tighter, desperate, wanting.
My breath comes quicker. Jackson has zoned out, now staring at the fire while still touching me. I can't control the sensations I'm experiencing, so I do the next best thing: run away from them.
"I-I should go," I say, pulling my arm away. "It's getting late. They'll wonder where I am."
He watches me stand, his eyes don't break away. "Do you want me to walk you back?" he asks.
I do. More than anything, I do. But I can't let myself have that. I need to figure out these feelings first.
"I'll be okay," I say.
"Alright," he says. "Night, kitty cat."
"Goodnight," I say, back already turned as I head out of the shed.
Once I'm outside, I break into a run until I make it to the house. I take my shoes off in the mudroom and slink inside, up to my room without being noticed. Once I'm there, I change into my nightgown, weave my hair into two French braids, and kneel to reach under my mattress.
My fingers come into contact with the book instantly, and when I pull it out, I read the cover.
The All-Encompassing Guide To Puberty and the Female Body.
I'm not really sure what puberty means, but I know I don't like the word. I look at the table of contents, using one finger to trace the words, until I find what I think I'm looking for.
Sexual arousal? Is that right? Is that why, when Jackson was stroking my arm, I was thinking about what he looked like shirtless this morning?
"Lord give me strength," I mutter to myself, then flip open to the chapter.
Sexual arousal can feel like sexual activation or even excitement. At its best, it's a full body experience. It most commonly occurs first in our minds with thoughts of sexual desire and then is felt in our bodies. In a state of sexual arousal most of us actually go through several different physiological changes as our body and mind begin to awaken.
Awaken? What is that supposed to mean? My cheeks blush red even though no one is in the room to witness me learning this. Even so, I'm mortified. One, at these words and two, that I've never been taught this.
Sexual arousal is the pilot light that has several stages and may not lead to any actual sexual activity, beyond a mental arousal and the physiological changes that accompany it. Many women simply describe that feeling as radiating heat.
Heat, now that's something that makes sense. Ever since leaving the shed, it's been incredibly hot down there. Wet, too, and I have no idea what that means. I keep flipping pages in hopes to find out.
Getting wet is the way a woman's body responds to sexual excitement and desire. When a woman is sexually excited, blood flow increases to the genitals so that the vulva and clitoris swell and the vagina lubricates itself, which is called "getting wet."
I close the book swiftly and shove it back where it came from. I don't know what any of those body parts are, but I do know what I'm feeling between my legs right now.
I flip my bedside lamp on, make sure the curtain is closed, then take a deep breath. I pull up the skirt of my nightgown and hitch it around my waist, then slide down my underwear just slightly. In the dim yellow light, I see a very blatant patch of wetness.
That came from me.
From being aroused.
For the first time in my life.
Because of Jackson Avery.