Funny Feelings (33)

I laugh, charmed, if not a little chagrined. “No comment,” is the only acceptable response that comes to mind.

“Alright, then. You two follow me.”





“Crap. I’m drunk,” my reflection says to me in the bathroom mirror before letting out an award-winning belch.

It’s the first time I’ve seen a mirror since this morning—a mistake in more ways than one. Not only has my makeup been smeared, courtesy of sweat and laughter, but I’m only just now seeing the little red, irritated skin on my chin, my lips that still appear nettle-stung. Meyer’s kiss comes bursting to the forefront of my mind, and I reach up to touch the mild beard burn with my fingertips. It doesn’t hurt at all—just feels exposed, over sensitized.

It was born from an intrusive thought that popped into my mind, really. One that had whispered on a loop, from that part of my brain that I typically reserve for comedy; a deeply-seeded instinct that always tells me, just say it, what’s the worst that could happen? One that eventually won out again, giving me the gall to straight up suggest kissing, when I noted how defeated he looked after I needled him about the shortcomings of the date.

Sometimes I really think my mouth is an entirely separate being from my brain, or that it’s running at a different speed. Maybe in a completely different race.

The fact that he jumped to do it, though…

Was it to shut me up or calm me down? I did start verbally spiraling, but he’s never really been phased by that. It’s typically me who sends a self-conscious text about it later or makes a joke.

He’d stepped up to me, after agreeing so simply. The swallow that bobbed his throat and the determination in his eyes had heat pooling in my core. A heartbeat tugging behind my bellybutton, through my chest, at the base of my throat.

And God, his hand at my pulse—at the juncture where my neck meets my collar bone… the way he ran the tip of his thumb along my skin was so redolent of longing that the moment his lips touched mine, something broke loose inside me. He tasted so new and exciting, and yet like I somehow always knew he would. And the way he kissed me… it was as if it was just the first bite in a seven course meal. Like he was savoring it and letting the flavors coat his tongue. Like he planned to take his fucking time with it.

I was utterly lost, ready to climb him and let him take me beneath a tree, out of my mind… Clearly.

Whatever it is that broke loose in me is still in there rattling around, despite my attempts at drowning it with various apple flavored libations. There was no way I didn’t expose myself a bit with that kiss, whether by my prompting it, or by the way I lost control. It was blatantly clear that there was nothing practiced about it.

And then Abel marched us over one more hill, to a huge clearing covered in long wooden picnic tables, and about sixty confused faces.

As it turns out, it’s Abel and his wife Betty’s fiftieth anniversary. Betty’s family descends from another neighboring farm—the Starfelds—who were once the Larsen’s sworn enemies. A real Capulet and Montague situation by the sound of it.

But, Abel and Betty’s relationship lead to the eventual union of their families, along with the other local farms, all of whom have supplied this party with a mishmash of goods.

I indulged in the hospitality after Abel introduced us as “a couple of wandering orchard neckers”—a title that was greeted with acceptance, like it’s a regular occurrence or something. I was offered apple beer, and, not one to be rude, I accepted.

I suspect it’s just apple cider mixed with beer, but it’s apparently my new favorite thing. I was also given an apple rum cocktail (or two), with a cute cinnamon stick and a caramel, sugared rim. I’m a sucker for a cute themed beverage.

A knock on the door startles me, and I cringe, wondering how long I’ve been in here and how much time I lost track of. “Just a sec!” I call.

“Farley, it’s me.” Meyer says through the door.

Blood skyrockets in my veins, and I look around for an escape. I’ve avoided making too much direct eye contact with him this whole time, engaging in the history of the farm, being rapt in our tour of the giant farmhouse and everyone’s goods.

I’ve felt his eyes following me though, felt everywhere they touch me and press. I feel stupidly shy, embarrassed at the strength of my reaction to this new side of him. The rate at which I’ve been consuming drinks and conversation with anyone but him here is likely evident of that.

“Talk to me through the door?” he says. I sigh. Bless this man.

“Okay.”

“Are you feeling alright? I, uh, got you some food.”

“Shit. Meyer, what time is it? We have to get Hazel don’t we?!” I just realized.

“No, I already called Marissa. She’s got her. And I’m not drinking so I’ll be fine to drive… whenever. We’re free to stay and hang out.”

“Oh, okay. Um. Okay, great.” Jesus, it’s like I don’t speak in front of people for a living.

“Jones. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I was so bent on making the date happen, making you hike and then making you feel like you had to kiss me since nothing else was going according to plan. Let’s just— take a mulligan on this one?”

I peel my forehead off the door with a groan. “Meyer, no. Stop.” I open the door too abruptly and he steps forward to catch himself, apparently having been leaning on it himself. My face bumps into his chest in the movement. “Ouch.”