Demi Lovato Imagines

On Location

The relief of plunging your calloused hands under the stream of water makes your shoulders drop and head fall forward, and you breathe heavily into your chest. When the water slows to a drip, you push the handle again, sending another gush over your hands before you begin to wash off the mud that's caked on your boots. 

The sun has ascended above the distant hills so that warm rays press against the back of your neck and you turn up the collar of your plaid shirt to avoid burning. That reminds you, you think as you inhale deeply through your nose, you need to pick up more aloe vera next time you and your dad are in town. Perhaps extra considering it's already April and it's only going to get warmer. Straightening yourself up, you swipe your forehead with the back of your arm, looking back towards the field where the baby lambs are curled under their mothers' bellies. You're relieved that's lambing over for another year. Your dad's back means he's barely able to help out with the physical part of it anymore and you're too scared to admit to him how much it grosses you out. Not that admitting it would change anything. There's no one else who can do it. Relegating all memory of the smell of farmyard birth to the back of your mind, you pick up the handle of your bucket, hauling it towards the path that leads back to the farmhouse. 

Halfway up, you notice the car turning in to the end of the road. Then another one. Then another. All black and shiny, looking almost cut out and glued onto the landscape of mud and manure. Despite the rough track, they buzz along almost seamlessly. As they pull up in front of the house, you see your dad emerge from the front door, untying his apron. A dark-haired man gets out from the passenger side of the first car, approaches, and shakes your dad's hand with a smile. He's slightly taller. For some reason, this makes you even more apprehensive and slow down. They talk. Your dad turns around, scanning the landscape for a second before his eyes land on you. He points. The taller man tips his head in an awkward greeting. As you get closer, you realise he's younger than you imagined. You thought they'd all be old men, sitting on folding chairs with a megaphone in one hand and glass of gin in the other. Maybe you've watched too many movies. Finally, you reach to where you are in earshot. 

"Here she is. This is Y/n, my daughter. Y/n, John, John, Y/n."

Your dad clasps his hands in front of his abdomen, a tell-tale sign of his nervousness. 

"Hi," you bleet out through gritted teeth. You're hyper-aware of your appearance compared to this insanely groomed man standing in front of you, black patent shoes sinking into compacted dirt. He smiles, lifting his sunglasses to the top of his head and looking around. 

"Nice place," he grins. You can't tell if he's being genuine. 

"Thank you, sir, thank you so much! It's a hard graft but we think it's worth it," your dad instantly replies, pointing his thumb towards you. You almost wish you were wearing sunglasses so no one could see you roll your eyes. 

"Please," John says with a soft chuckle, "You don't need to call me sir. Are we okay to unload? To settle inside before setting up for the day?"

"Of course!" your dad nods, still in this high-pitched tone you can't remember ever hearing before, "Right this way!"

Without another beat, John turns around and clicks his fingers. Immediately, all the car doors open with what seems to be an endless stream of people climbing out and the full scale of what your dad signed up for becomes apparent. Two weeks. An entire production crew. The argument last month comes rushing back. 

"What do you mean you already agreed?"

"I sent off the paperwork this morning. Everything's arranged."

"Didn't you think I might have wanted to know about this? Before now?"

"Y/n, you know why we're doing this. I thought you'd understand, not go off the handle."