Dinner with my boss’s family is so unlike what I expected. Rose is the exact same person at home—bossy and loud, talkative—but her family is just so vibrant. I’m used to my brothers being so competitive, even unkind to each other. Archer seems to tease Hunter a bit, but I can tell all of them are glad to have him back home and eager to help him figure out how to move on from his past.
The Crawfords all praise their father for his amazing yield. He has utilized almost every inch of their back yard to grow something, and we all dig into the potatoes, tomatoes, corn, and even peaches until I feel like I might burst.
Daniel explains that the olive oil he uses on everything is a special order from the co-op and makes me write it down to ask Mary Pat for some.
“I just want to thank you all for including me at your meal,” I tell them. “I love having people to talk to over dinner. I’m not used to living alone.” I blush then, and bite my lip.
I don’t want to share too much or leave a bad impression. One hand instinctively moves to my ear and, catching myself, I tuck back the loose strands of hair.
Rose waves a hand at Hunter. “You don’t live alone,” she says. “You live next to Mr. Conversation.” Everyone laughs but Hunter, who seems surprised and confused. “I’m sure Abigail can come to you if she needs an ear. Hunter?”
“What?” He looks at his mother, perplexed.
“Well, haven’t you and Abigail become friendly, sharing a wall and what-not?”
I think of the half-naked rescue and then about hitting him with the broomstick, and I flush. “Oh, well, I don’t want to be a bother,” I say.
But then he looks at me, and his eyes bore into mine, and I feel transfixed, frozen by his gaze. I feel warmth creep up my neck. He doesn’t blink, but says, “You don’t bother me, Abigail.”
The room is silent while I let his words sink in. I feel myself melting, hypnotized by those dark eyes.
Diana laughs uncomfortably, but Archer stares at his brother. “Hunter,” he says. “Have you asked Abigail about helping Ma secure funding?”
“Oh, I don’t think he wants to—” Hunter whips his gaze back toward mine so fast I stop speaking mid-sentence. I watch his face transform into hopeful excitement.
“Of course! You’re a writer.” He stands. I stare at him, confused. “Abigail, I’d like to discuss my research with you and solicit your advice for my funding proposal.”
When I don’t say anything, his family looks at me. There is so much nonverbal communication happening, and I just wish someone would explain what’s going on. Hunter looks back and forth between his mother and me. “I’d compensate you for your expertise, of course. Is that why you hesitated?”
“I…wasn’t expecting you to ask me that,” I tell him. “You need help with a grant? I don’t know.”
“Hunter,” his mother pats his arm. “It’s late. Abigail needs her rest to work for me tomorrow. Why don’t you walk her on home? At her pace!”
Before I can process what has happened I find myself bustled out the door with Hunter, my arms laden with leftovers wrapped in beeswax cloth. Daniel shouts after me to wash the cloth by hand in soapy water and reuse it “instead of that awful foil that everyone just throws in the landfill!”
Hunter and I walk in silence, watching as all the shop keepers around the square close up for the evening. Many of them wave and address us by name. Ed Hastings tips his hat at us as he locks the door of the Oak Creek Gazette office, a tiny slip of a room between Diana’s plant shop and the dry cleaner. I can’t help but love the old editor of the local paper, especially after Rose explained that he feels slighted she didn’t ask him to help before she offered the job to me.
I watch as Ed studies us walking together, tapping his chin. Hunter greets Ed with a low growl, and Ed turns toward his old car parked nearby.
“So,” I say to break the silence as we walk. “Your family is so welcoming. I really appreciate that. It’s hard being the new person in town.”
Hunter doesn’t respond for awhile, but finally says, “I’m not good at interpersonal interaction.”
“Oh. Well…”
“People think I’m angry. I rarely am. I just don’t understand what other people are thinking.”
“Oh. Ok, well…”
We stop at an intersection and he looks both ways, which I find endearing because there’s not a soul or a vehicle in sight. He continues, saying, “I’d appreciate it if you could tell me what you are thinking when we are with one another. Please don’t assume I know.”
I nod. “Ok. I was thinking that you seemed excited when Archer asked about my work.”
“Yes,” he says, his voice taking an animated turn. “Very much so. I need—would you mind coming in so I can show you something on my computer?”
“That’s fine,” I say, setting my leftovers on my stoop before following him in his front door. I notice that he doesn’t look behind him to make sure I’ve come with him. He’s already seated at his computer, pulling up files.
“These are my research notes,” he says. “They only make sense to me, and I don’t know how to do proposal writing. I’m told it’s a different skill? My work is about my data…I need someone to help me sell my ideas. To a buyer,” he adds, which makes me smile. “I can’t tell if you are smiling because you are happy about this idea or if you are mocking me.”
I look around for somewhere to sit, but finding no other furniture I just lean back against the bare wall. “I was smiling because I can tell this is important to you, and I find it refreshing that you are so blunt about what you need help with, even though you are, like, a brilliant astronaut. And also, that you think I can help, because I’m just some girl from Greenwood, Ohio.”
“I don’t think your geographic origins affect your communication skills,” Hunter says.
“Well, my father would tend to disagree.” The last time I’d spoken to my parents, after they finished pleading with me to come to my senses, my dad began to holler that the fancy college people don’t give a shit about the words anyone from Greenwood has to say or write.
I wish so badly I had the strength to defend myself to him, to use my words with my parents and help them see why I had to leave. Maybe I’ll never get strong enough to say those things. But maybe I can become another kind of strong—strong enough to fight off any man who lays his hands on me in anger.
I look around Hunter’s weight room and think about him working out every day over here. I pull myself back to standing and put my hands on my hips. “I want to learn more about your project. We can work out a barter.”
Hunter scans his downstairs, barren save for the free weights and his computer gear. “Barter for what?”
“I’d love it if you teach me how to get strong.”