The Sowing

10. cowgirls don't cry

I could feel his presence before I could see him. 

The rocking chair was near-silent as I maintained my sway, Butter stirring at my feet before he let out one of those precious dog sighs. 

My eyes stayed trained on the black night before me. The crickets and bullfrogs were loud in their symphonic musings tonight. The porch was my  orchestral perch. 

Sebastian spoke softly from behind the screen door, “Are you that worried?” 

I cradled Old Faithful in my lap, one hand resting on the pistol grip and the other on the shotgun’s forearm. 

Sebastian only compounded my feelings of fear and anxiety. He was a nuisance. I couldn’t sort through my thoughts with him near. His questions, his vulnerabilities, his seeming lack of tactical awareness, his aloof disposition were all incredibly unnerving. 

And the kiss had only intensified the panic I was trying to keep at bay.

People were messy. Tethers were messy. Feelings were messy. 

Feelings were painfully messy. 

“You can't keep doing this to us, M. I won't keep doing this. It'll destroy us.”

One part angry, one part terrified, the scowling man stood in front of the door.

With methodical calm, I pressed a folded sweater into the duffel bag, “Don't make this harder than it has to be.”

He watched me with pleading eyes, “Us or them. Choice is yours.”

I rolled my eyes, “Don’t be ridiculous, August.” 

“I’m begging you. I – I can’t – I won’t give you another chance.”

My teeth ground, tensing my jaw, “I’ll be back in a week tops. I love you.”

“Just tell them no, M. Just say no! For once in your damned career.”

I could feel my blood pressure rising, “What do you want me to do, August? What am I supposed to do? It’s my job. I don’t ask you to stop fighting fires.”

He scoffed, shaking his head.

I barreled forward, “Should I have demanded you quit your job after the Twin Towers? Would that have been fair of me to ask of you, August? Would it have been fair to ask you to trade your life's work to crunch numbers somewhere in Manhattan?” 

The steam in my emotional engine gave way as I watched his eyes widen, aghast. 

My bag felt heavy on my shoulder as I backpedaled; my voice was soft, “It’s chain of command. You know that.”

“If you walk through that door, you are not welcome back.”

My heart thundered in my chest as I gingerly approached his rigid frame. I pulled on the front pockets of his Levis, knowing he’d give in, “Kiss me and tell me you love me.”

August's mouth was set in a firm, angry line.

I brushed my nose against his, pecking his unyielding, frowning mouth. 

I whispered, “Tell me you love me.”

In the stillness, I knew he hated me – I knew he hated that he loved me. He hated my choices – felt powerless to quell his fear and panic. I could feel it.