“I could cook,” I offer.
Being left alone so much by my parents made me efficient many years ago.
“Well, Ezekiel’s coming to supper.”
My stomach drops with the news, but my face remains impassive.
“He loves eggplant parmesan, but I’m out of eggplant. I was thinking maybe a meatloaf. That recipe is easy to double, so I’ll have enough to send home with him.”
My head tilts in confusion. She mentioned his mother the other night so I know she’s still in the picture. I also know how families are around here. The women are expected to have supper on the table when the men get home from work, but that doesn’t explain why Nan is always sending food home with Ezekiel. She makes meals for them even when he doesn’t stay to eat with us. I’ve been lucky enough to see him coming toward the house through the kitchen window each time, making it easy for me to slip out of the room until he leaves.
I had said I’d be different here in Utah, but one scathing remark from the guy has me cowering in the shadows just like I did back home. I hate him for making me act that way, but self-preservation won’t let me act any other way.
“Yeah,” Nan says like I’ve been carrying on a conversation with her rather than looking out the window to catch a look at the evil boy. “Meatloaf it is. Do you like mashed potatoes, dear?”
“Love them,” I answer as I turn around and give her a fake smile. “I can peel the potatoes.”
“First, I want you to take that lemonade out to Ezekiel. It’s supposed to get really warm today, and I don’t think he takes the time to drink enough liquids.”
She doesn’t hide the glint in her eye fast enough for me to believe that I’m being sent into the lion’s den to make sure the beast stays hydrated. This is just another way for her to shove me in front of him with the hopes that we end up liking one another.
Fat chance of that ever happening.
With a slow, calming breath, I grab the cold glass of lemonade and head for the back door. The barn is about thirty yards to the right of the house, and the window in my room gives me the perfect view of who’s coming and going from the tattered old building.
I wish I was in the safety of that very room as I walk toward the open barn doors. I guess I should count my lucky stars that I’ve been able to avoid him for a full four days.
The doors on the far end of the barn are open as well, creating a wind tunnel through the center of the building. Empty stalls line the walls, and my hope fades that I’ll see a horse the deeper I go inside. When I spot Ezekiel walk from the end of the barn to the back of a pickup truck, I slide to the side and watch him. There’s no music playing, no other sounds than the wind whipping through the barn, and yet he seems perfectly content to carry large square bales of hay from some room in the barn I can’t see and toss them into the back of the truck.
He doesn’t have a scowl on his handsome face, and his mouth isn’t twisted up in a sneer like it was the very first time I saw him. At first, I think maybe he’s happy to be out here working, enjoying the warmth of the sun, but as I watch him carry bale after bale, I realize how robotic he is. He’s merely existing, performing the same actions over and over. There’s no joy nor hatred right now, and I honestly don’t know how to feel about it.
When he disappears into the back room, I step outside of the stall and walk closer.
His movements don’t falter when he notices me. His eyes sweep over me, and then he goes back to work. I don’t even count enough for him to acknowledge that I’m standing there. He loads up two more bales of hay before I force myself in his path and hold out the glass of lemonade.
“Nan said to give you this.” I shove it in his hand, but he merely sets it to the side before disappearing into the back room for yet another bale of hay. “Aren’t you going to drink?”
“Did you spit in it?” he asks without looking in my direction.
“What?” My head snaps back in disgust. “No, I didn’t spit in it.”
Instead of focusing on the rippling muscles on his back, a strange noise on the opposite side of the barn draws my attention. All anger for Ezekiel is forgotten when I see four little goats in one of the stalls.
They grow excited when I draw closer, bouncing around and spinning in circles until my hand is right up against the gridded panel keeping them closed in.