Emersyn
Days have gone by since that night in the living room. Still, I can taste Marx on my tongue, feel the heat of his skin. He's always in my thoughts, whether I'm awake or asleep. I've tried to go about my daily life, but it's like I'm lost in a fog.
Fowler said Marx wants me. Did Marx tell him that? Or is Fowler guessing?
I sit on my bed, staring at the wall in front of me. My fingers play with the edge of the blanket. I'm here, but my mind is somewhere else, tangled up with thoughts of Marx.
I get up, hoping to shake off this haze. I head to the kitchen to make some coffee. Maybe caffeine can clear my mind. As the coffee brews, the smell fills the air. Normally, it's comforting. Today, it's just there.
I pour myself a cup and take a sip. I didn't bother putting cream or sugar in it. It's hot and bitter, but I hardly notice. I'm too caught up in what Fowler said.
Does Marx really want me? And if he does, what's stopping him? I would think that being on my knees in front of him would tell him how much I want him.
I take my coffee and move to the living room. I sit on the same couch where it all happened. I look at the chair where Marx was, and my skin tingles, as if he's still there.
I take another sip of my coffee, but it's lost its warmth. Like me, it's gone cold, sitting too long, waiting for something to happen.
Fowler's words keep echoing in my head. I want to talk to Marx, to know what he feels. But I'm scared. What if Fowler is wrong?
I put my cup down on the table and stand up. I need to do something. Anything. I need to get my mind off of this whole situation.
I grab my cup and in the sink, glancing at the clock. It's getting late, but sleep is the last thing on my mind. Fowler said to give Marx time, but time is stretching out like a long road with no end in sight.
Maybe a shower will help. Maybe the hot water can wash away these confusing thoughts, these heavy feelings. I head to the bathroom and turn the faucet, letting the steam fill the room.
As I step into the shower, the hot water feels like tiny needles on my skin. I close my eyes and let it wash over me. But even here, with the water streaming down, Marx invades my thoughts. How would it feel to have his hands on me right now, instead of this water?
I shake my head, trying to get rid of the image. This isn't helping. I quickly soap up, rinse off, and step out of the shower. Wrapping a towel around me, I walk into my room.
I dry off and put on a comfy T-shirt and shorts. I should go to bed, try to get some sleep. But my bed feels like a lonely island tonight. I keep thinking about Marx's room, just upstairs. It's like a magnet, pulling me.
My feet move before my brain can catch up. I find myself standing in front of his door. My heart pounds in my chest like a drum. Should I knock? What would I even say? Is he even home?
I raise my hand, but it hangs in the air, frozen by fear and doubt. I drop it back to my side.
Maybe Fowler is right. Maybe I need to give Marx time.
I turn back toward my room. Each step away from his door feels like a tiny defeat. But maybe it's a battle that I'm not yet ready to fight.
As I crawl into bed, I know that sleep will be hard to come by. And as I lay there, staring at the ceiling, I can't help but wonder—how many more nights will pass before I find the courage to face what I'm feeling? Before Marx finds the courage to face me?
And with that heavy thought, I close my eyes, plunging into a restless sleep, where dreams of Marx are both a comfort and a curse.
**
The next morning, I find myself in the garden with Cruz. The air is crisp, a sure sign that colder days are coming. The sun is out but offers little warmth. Even so, Cruz is in his element. His hands, covered in soil, move with purpose as he tends to the plants.
"You look like you were born to do this," I say, watching him dig around a young tomato plant.
Cruz looks up and smiles. "Maybe I was. There's something about working the earth, watching things grow, that just feels right, you know?"
I nod, understanding more than he might think. Lately, I've been doing a lot of growing myself, though not all of it has been comfortable. I look at Cruz—his tan skin, his dark hair tucked under a backwards baseball cap, his eyes full of life—and realize how much I value his friendship. He's easy to talk to, easy to be around. And right now, easy is what I need.
"So, what are we doing today?" I ask, eager to focus on something other than my own tangled thoughts.
"We're getting the garden ready for colder weather. Some plants can handle it, some can't. We've got to protect the ones that need it and let the others do their thing. Honestly, I'm a little late getting started."
"Which ones can handle the cold?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"Kale, for one. And root veggies like carrots and beets. They actually taste better after a frost. It's like nature's way of adding sugar."
"And the ones that can't handle it?"
Cruz stands and wipes his hands on his pants. "Peppers, tomatoes, basil. For those, we either harvest what we can or bring them inside. If they're in pots, that is. Otherwise, we cover them up, try to keep them warm."
"How do you cover them?"
"With frost blankets or burlap. The idea is to trap the heat that rises from the soil, keep it around the plant. It's like giving them a warm hug."
I laugh. "A warm hug. I like that."
Cruz returns to his work, and I follow suit, pulling weeds from around a zucchini plant. As I work, I let the rhythm of it calm me, ground me.
"So, Em, you've seemed a bit distracted lately. Everything okay?" Cruz asks, breaking into my thoughts.
I look up, startled. "Uh, yeah, I'm fine. Just a lot on my mind, I guess."
"You know you can talk to me, right? If you ever want to, I mean."
I smile, touched by his offer. "I know, Cruz. And thank you. I might take you up on that sometime."
He nods, as if to say, "Anytime," and goes back to his work. And so do I, but not before taking a moment to appreciate this—this garden, this friendship, this simple task that, for a little while, lets me forget.
I have fun with all the guys, but being with Cruz is always so calming.
As we work, I listen to Cruz talk about soil pH levels and companion planting and beneficial insects. And I realize how much there is to know, how much care and knowledge goes into helping things grow. It's a lot like life that way.
Cruz leans against a garden post, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "You know, gardening here reminds me a lot of the farm I grew up on. Sometimes it makes me miss it."
"Oh?" I ask, intrigued. "Why didn't you stay on the farm if you loved it so much? You're really good with the plants."
Cruz hesitates for a moment. "As much as I loved it, it also felt like a prison. I had to get out, make something of myself, make money to help my family."
The serious tone of his voice grabs my attention. "What was your family like, if you don't mind me asking? I know you've mentioned your sibling. And your mom."
Cruz takes a deep breath. "Yeah, well, they're the important ones. My father was a mean man. The kind of man who didn't know how to speak softly. He yelled a lot, hit my mom even more, drank all the time," his voice trails off for a moment.
Cruz is the exact opposite of the man he's describing. I've never know Cruz to raise his voice even the slightest. And I know he would never raise his hand to any woman. It's amazing that someone as kind and thoughtful as Cruz came from such a horrible man.
"When he was bored of hitting my mom, us children were the next target. My siblings were so young back then, so fragile. I don't even think they were out of primary school. As the eldest, I had to protect them. Took most of his wrath for them. Got a lot of scars, inside and out."
I feel a pang of sadness for him. "That sounds awful, Cruz. I'm so sorry." And I mean it. I didn't have the happiest childhood, but it wasn't nearly as bad as that.
Cruz looks at me, his eyes darker, almost haunted. "Eventually, he left. Knocked up some woman from town and moved off with her. Cleared out our bank account on his way out, leaving us with almost nothing. We were poor, scraping by on what we could grow and sell. I worked every spare second I had on that farm. Didn't get much of a childhood because of it."
I'm lost for words.
"I love my family, love our farm, but part of me died there. A part I'll never get back," he continues, his voice tinged with sadness. He's quiet for a moment before finally speaking again. "I like to focus on the happier aspects, though."
"And have you found happiness now?" I ask gently.
Cruz smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Yes, and I've found purpose. Since moving to the city and working my way up, I've put all three of my younger siblings through college. Together, we support our mom. That's something, right?"
"That's a lot, Cruz," I say, my heart swelling with empathy for this man who has faced so much and still stands strong. "That's everything."
His eyes meet mine, and in that moment, I see the weight he carries, the pain, the responsibility. I think about Marx, about the weight he seems to carry, too. We're all damaged in some way, aren't we? But while some of us hide, others, like Cruz, wear their scars openly, bravely.
"Thanks, Em," Cruz says, breaking the silence. "It's not often I get to talk about this stuff. It's... liberating, in a way."
"I'm glad you feel you can talk to me," I reply. "And thank you for sharing."
As Cruz gathers the last of his tools, I'm left with my thoughts. My worries about Marx seem small in comparison to what Cruz has shared. But they're my worries, my feelings, and they're real to me.
Cruz heads inside, and I'm left alone in the garden. I think about Marx, about the invisible scars he might be carrying, the ones that keep him from taking that next step. Is he held back by his own past? By his own fears? Maybe one day I'll know.