My Uncle Hank had inherited the family farm on the account of my dad — his younger brother — being more keen on playing sports for a living. My dad didn't have the height to do much, though, and it was actually my Uncle Hank who had my grandfather's height passed down to him, ironically. But being a quick drive away from each other's homes meant that my Uncle Hank recruited me often to be a farmhand, for one as a way to get out of the house during the summer and for two as a way to bond with my cousins. When my dad was away coaching, my mom liked to accompany me from time to time; she would paint my cousins and I handling the pigs for as long as she could stand the smell, at which point she'd move to paint Thompson Lake.
I had fond moments of helping out at the farm, though it had been years since I was enlisted to do so. I sort of outgrew the inability to say no and my younger cousins took over soon enough for me to fly under the radar of responsibility. But as soon as we'd made it out onto that pasture and the familiar sounds from the animals grew louder and louder, I remembered how much I missed it. The ground grew softer under my sneakers as we approached the cow barn.
"You might wanna change into these before you head in," Micah said, tossing Joe and I pairs of rubber boots.
We took a seat at a nearby bench and changed into them, mine looking absolutely gargantuan in my hands. I could only picture what they'd look like on my feet. Embarrassed, I stalled to put them on. I looked over at Joe apologetically; we'd finally had a second alone as my cousins disappeared into the barn. "This probably wasn't the two week vacation you were envisioning."
He gave me a reassuring smile. "To be honest with you? It's not. Because it's way better," he said, pulling his boots over his joggers. Of course, they fit him like a glove; he must have been the same shoe size as Micah for these back-ups to fit him. "I've had my fair share of island resorts, Disneyland trips... But stuff like this, I never get to do."
I tried to convince myself he'd only said these things to make me feel better, but every bit of him came through sincerely. He could be so irritatingly perfect. I smiled back at him before tugging on my own boots, my hair falling over my face from my ponytail. "In that case, I think you owe me a trip to Disneyland," I quipped with him.
He reached over and pulled my hair back from my face, my ponytail naturally resting behind me again as I sat upright, done putting my boots on. Butterflies flew in a frenzy in my stomach and I was foolish for thinking they would have gone away since I'd last seen him. They must have hatched tenfold, overdue from how long it had been since Joe and I had a moment together c just the two of us. Even with the smell of cow shit and humidity already making me feel sweaty, he managed to make it feel like a fairytale.
"We can go wherever you want," he told me.
I never thought I'd be such a romantic. It was concerning how much Joe had seemed to change me in such a short time.
A hand knocked relentlessly against the side of the barn, pulling us away from our moment. "Hey Ave — woops, sorry." It was Hunter, retracting slightly back into the barn as he realized he may have messed with an intimate conversation. "Just wanted to say everything's ready for you guys in here."
"Thanks, Hunter," I said, flashing him an awkward smile.
Joe led the way to the entrance of the barn and we were quickly greeted by the mooing of about 10 cows, some of them laying down and others active, wandering about their hay piles. Claire and Micah were off in the corner, tending to a mama cow and her little calf. Once Micah saw us come in, he stood up and brushed his hands against his jeans.
"Welcome to the family farm," he told Joe, then addressed me. "It's been a while, Avery, so you probably only know a few of the cows here from the last time you visited. Chessy had a little baby just a few months ago."
I cooed, unable to hide my excitement for the news. "Really? Oh my gosh, off in the corner, right?"
"Yes'm. Joe, you ever milked a cow before?"
Joe chuckled. "No, can't say I ever have."
"Today's your lucky day." Micah beckoned for him to come over and I followed suit. This felt strangely like the night we'd gone to the gala, except it was a completely different environment; the principle was the same, though. I was meeting people from Joe's world and here he was, meeting people from mine.
Micah pulled out some stools for us and we each took hold of our own cow.
"You might wanna watch Avery do it first before you get kicked in the face," Claire advised Joe, giggling.
And so, I demonstrated how to milk a cow for Joe Burrow, the motion of it total muscle memory for me. Maybe it was a little less effortless than clicking the shutter button. I looked over at Joe, a wide grin on my face as I squeezed the milk into the bucket. "It'd probably help if you sweet talked her, too. You're good at that," I teased.
I stopped to watch as a cautious Joe reached for the cow's udder, Hunter and Claire and I holding back our laughter.
Micah wore a concentrated expression as he encouraged him, "It's important to do more of a pull than a squeeze."
Joe, who had begun to laugh and flush scarlet from embarrassment, did his best to listen to Micah's advice. "More of a pull than a squeeze, got it," he said. I hated thinking about it, but the situation was ripe with innuendos, and that's what made us all laugh.
"Talk dirty to it!" Hunter suggested in between childish giggles. He earned a swat to the arm from Claire for that one.
Eventually, after some coaxing and sweet-talking (Joe said things I would never repeat to the Bengals team...), Joe managed to get some milk out from Tracy the cow. He and I immediately shared a celebratory high-five, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't think to crash into him with a hug instead. "You did it!" I cheered, grinning.
"We'll make a farmer boy outta you just yet," Micah told Joe, snickering. The oldest cousin hadn't joined in our immature hijinks, but Joe seemed to have gotten his approval, despite the words not being said. I pondered if Micah knew something the others didn't— could see the connection between Joe and I that for some reason, I thought better to conceal from everyone else. But if anyone were to find out first, I hoped it was Micah, for he always looked after me like an older brother I never had.
We milked the cows for another twenty minutes or so in casual conversation with my cousins before Micah thought we'd done enough work to earn some time with the calf.
Joe was the first to meet her — Baby Marcy — and he'd been so gentle, leveling with her despite his height. I watched as Micah directed him to reach his hand out first for a sniff before giving Baby Marcy a pat. Joe did as he was told and the calf practically melted into him like butter, quickly cuddling into his chest for a hug like a puppy.
I couldn't hide my smile as I watched the whole thing unfold. I jogged out of the barn to quickly grab my camera from my bag near where we'd left our shoes, coming back just in time to snap a photo of Baby Marcy and Joe sharing a hug. Maybe this wasn't the glamorous beach vacation he deserved after going to the Super Bowl, but I hoped it measured up somehow.
-
"Avery, you didn't mention your family owned a farm," Joe kicked off the conversation as we left the barn, headed for a walk around a path circling Thompson Lake hours later. We wouldn't get to the whole thing, I told him, but there was something at the halfway point that I wanted to show him; after that, we could turn back. He reached for my hand as we walked and his hand felt simultaneously frigid and like a furnace.
"It never really came up, I guess," I said, shrugging. There was still a part of me that was closed off and I felt as if he'd been just as cognizant of it as I was. Joe was not the type to be oblivious of one's feelings. I didn't know how to explain it. Loving me would take patience — being my friend alone would take patience.
"Just like how that stuff about your mom never came up, or... anything really too personal about you," he pointed out politely. Ah, yes — mom having passed away a few years ago would be a priority on anyone else's list of things to share about themselves, and yet for some reason, I buried it. I felt guilty for that one.
I chuckled, kicking rocks on the dirt path, both of us in our normal shoes now. I bit my lip. "With other people, like — even with Trish and Spencer — I guess I just really like people's perception of me to stick to how I present myself, you know? I don't wanna be overanalyzed or have anyone be thinking about me more than they should. It's hard to explain."
"I think I understand. You're a perfectionist."
"No! Not at all. — Maybe. Is that what you think of me?"
"Sort of. It's not a bad thing," he said, patting the small of my back as we walked. "It's just kinda proving my point. You know, you work so hard to try and make yourself seem a certain way but the other person's going to judge you no matter what, or see you how they want to see you."
"Mr. Golden Boy Quarterback is giving me advice and telling me to be myself?" I mocked playfully. "What about you, you're always so calm and collected and cool... You ever get nervous?"
He pushed at my head, snickering. Damn him for always using his height over me, making me feel small even if there wasn't a big deficit between us. "Of course I do," he said. Then, a moment later, he gave in a bit. "Alright, maybe we both have some things to work on."
I smiled at him.
In my head, I was the same as my photographs, just as my mom was the same as her paintings. You saw them at face value with little to no room for interpretation. I didn't want anyone else deciding who I was; I wanted my identity to be purely branched from my own thoughts alone. On days like today, though, when we were all out on the boat or when we were in the barn, I wondered: When people looked deeper into me, what did they see? How did I make them feel? What do they think about when they think of me?
Because, to some extent, I was slowly learning that art — photographs and paintings and whatever else — became art when it was interpreted by someone, or when someone projected their feelings onto it. When I look at a photograph by Ansel Adams, I guess I can put myself in his shoes and wonder what he's thinking when he's out on that mountain by himself, looking at the vastness of it all. But will I ever really know what was on his mind? The only concrete thing I'd know for sure is how his photographs of those wide, open mountains made me feel...
Like I wanted to be there with him, capturing that moment, too.
Joe looked at me, squinting a bit from the sun that was midway in the sky, negotiating with the moon. "You know, that only makes people more curious about you, and want to be with you," he said matter-of-factly.
"What does?"
"Keeping yourself behind that glass."
Then, gently, he added: "Maybe I'm wrong, but... I've noticed this one thing about you. I noticed it almost right after we first met."
I raised my brow a bit.
"I don't think you're a lonely person, but... you're always alone. I wish you saw what other people— what I— see in you."
I was left almost speechless by his words. "What do you mean?"
"It's dumb."
I shook my head at him, reaching for his wrist with my free hand to wordlessly urge him to continue before setting it back to my side.
"You have this crazy talent for seeing things that no one else can see, which makes it funny that you can't see how amazing you are," he said. Then, as quiet as if he was about to spill a secret: "I wanna be with you, Avery."
My knees felt like they wobbled as we walked, and yet I continued my stride forward. I couldn't speak, my heart going a million miles an hour. I felt him squeeze my hand in his. I would thank him later for navigating me in both this conversation and where my feet were going; otherwise, I would be lost at sea.
"I don't know... This is gonna sound crazy." He chuckled. "I mean, it probably is. But I look at you and I just want to spend the rest of my life, or for however long 'til you're sick of me, trying to show you the things you can't see about yourself. And along the way, if you're gracious and patient enough with me, maybe you can keep showing me things I can't see about myself, too. Like how hard I am on myself when I don't have to be."
At that point, we had to stop walking or I would have collapsed. We turned to each other and I tried my best not to look so panicked. My lips parted. He leaned in. His fingers pushed my baby hairs back against my ponytail. That perfect little curl of his blew in the wind.
He kissed me. The frogs, egrets, toads, and water snakes watched.
He pulled away, and as gentle as he was, it felt like ripping glue off my skin. Then, in a whisper, his next words felt miraculously amplified, vibrating off my skin: "I think I'm falling in love with you."
"...You might crush me," I whispered back.
"Good."
This time around, I kissed him, my hand reaching for the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair there. He wrapped his arms around the small of my back, and I felt his thumbs press against my shirt near my stomach. I didn't have to tell him that I was falling for him, too, because I think he knew that. No — I knew he knew that. Everything around us was falling, the Spanish moss dipping into the swamp water, the sun sinking into the embrace of the sky, and I was included. The gory bits of it, the complicated in-betweens, would have to wait another time; for now, I would free fall with Joe like this.
Somehow, we began walking again, and walked far enough to reach that spot on the path that I wanted to show him. Tucked near the swamp, past some brush, a dilapidated bench sat. I wondered if this was a part of the path infrequently walked because it looked as if nature had taken over a little bit, growing on top of some of the landscaping. This particular part of the path wasn't dirt; it was made of red stone, and widened out to a larger square one could lay out and have a small picnic in. My dad and uncle had made it a project of theirs when I was still in my mom's stomach, I thought. Dandelions sprouted just so from the cracks between the stones, a sign of the coming spring in the eternal summer of Louisiana.
"C'mere." I beckoned Joe forward, wanting to show him a part of the bench. We bent over in front of it, and I scanned a certain spot, pointing to it.
On the far left corner of the wooden bench's seat, a message rested carved into the wood: "For Angel, my angel," Joe read aloud. "Who's Angel?"
"Angel's my mom," I told him, smiling softly. I took a seat at the bench and brushed my fingers over the engraving, turning into it to admire how messy it was. I felt the depressions of how hard my dad must have carved to get their initials all jagged on this wood. I knew that my mom would take breaks from painting to look at it.
Joe and I sat straight on the bench, looking out at the view. The trees and bushes split evenly in the middle from this bench, revealing a part of the swamp; sun would shine through it if it hadn't started to set. This was the little opening I'd taken a photo of earlier today. We admired the view quietly, sitting here together. I reached my hand out to feel a difference in the breeze coming from the swamp before setting it back down on my lap.
"Joe," I said finally, looking over at him. I took a deep breath. "I want us to be together. I want to make it work. I want to fully believe in it and not have to always pinch myself so hard or... or question how you make me feel the way that you do." It was the most succinct I'd ever been about my feelings for him, I thought. And yet it all came out in what I could only bet was a babble.
I continued, "I don't wanna spend another second wondering if this is the smartest thing to do, or how this'll change the future. I don't wanna keep being scared. I don't think I'll have you in my future if I don't work for it — if we don't work for it — and that's important to me."
"It's important to me too, Ave," he said, brows furrowing just so at me; I knew he was sincere and serious. "I want all of that."
"Really?"
He nodded, wearing a delicate smile.
Though I told myself that I would cherish this moment, I couldn't help myself. The looming darkness of reality was eclipsing this happy, shiny, sunny sanctuary. I gulped, then in quick rambling, I spewed: "But what about your job? I mean, you're always gonna be on the road and I don't want you to feel tied down to—"
Joe reached for my hand, placing his own on my knee; my compass, which dared to go haywire, was now calm toward the north. "We don't have to figure it out today, baby. I know we'll work it out," he said. "For now, let's just enjoy this, yeah?"
I nodded, leaning my head against his shoulder. He kissed the top of my head. He'd called me baby like it was something he did regularly; it echoed in my ears.
"Avery,"
I pulled away enough to look up at him. The sun had finished its negotiation with the moon, the sky all purple and yellow; it would be time to go home soon. I hummed.
"Will you be my girlfriend?" Joe asked.