10. Lia

I can't believeI just rolled around in actual shit with Ethan Bedd. I spend pretty much all my waking hours thinking about poop, hoping I don't poop at the wrong time, hoping I can poop when I need to … it's exhausting. People think it's gross. I never, ever feel like I can just talk about Crohn's disease and Ethan just … rolled with it.

Shit is clearly part of his daily life out here and I find that so freeing, so validating. There's not one person in my city life who I'd feel comfortable telling about my poop journal. I marvel again at how real everyone seems in Fork Lick. I'm glowing as we walk toward Ethan's house or … maybe I'm glowing beneath the layers of filth. He crunches along the path with a happy smirk on his face and climbs his porch steps.

I halt when we arrive, not wanting to track all this into his home. Sure, I can scrape off my boots, but there's no way I'm going to sit on his furniture like this. I find myself wondering how he plans to avoid a muddy mess and, when he opens the door, I quickly imagine him stripping right inside it before crossing over to his bathroom to shower.

Nope. I should not think about Ethan Bedd in the shower. God, just looking at his throat above his shirt collar has me simmering with desire. I must not, cannot think about the ridge of muscles along his spine, all soapy and warm …

I tuck my hair behind my ears and unlace the apron he lent me, draping it over the railing on his porch. "If you could hand me my bag from in there, I can head home to shower. I think I have what I need to keep going on the grant application."

Ethan frowns. "I'm not afraid of a little mud if that's what you're worried about."

I puff out a noise I hope conveys a multitude of emotions. "Ethan. It's not mud. I reek."

He shrugs. "Nothing I haven't smelled before. You should be here when I'm spreading the store-bought manure."

Why is his grin warming my frozen insides? Why am I feeling all fluttery over a poop-centric conversation? I shiver a bit. I still feel nervous to fart around Richard, the stomach doctor, and here I am just yakking about doo-doo with Ethan. "I just really think I need a hot shower before I can focus on work." I immediately blush, having mentioned showering in front of Ethan, who I'm now picturing in the shower. Again.

He nods slowly and holds up an index finger. Ethan ducks inside and returns a moment later with my bag in one hand and the paperwork in the other. When he approaches to pass them over, I can see his chest expand and contract with his deep breaths. "Thank you," I whisper. I clear my throat so my words come out louder. "I had a really good day today."

He cracks a crooked grin and the sun glints off his eyes. With his face all rosy from working outside, he looks like a blue-eyed Apollo. He is all muscled and tall with a quiet stillness that comes from the constant, steady work of pulling the sun across the sky or the beans up through the soil in his case.

"Just let me know what else you need for the paperwork." Ethan leans against his porch rail, body relaxed in a way I haven't really seen in the few weeks I've been back here.

"Look at you coming around to the idea that change isn't scary."

His brows shoot up. "Change is terrifying, Lia. Everything about it feels wrong." He pulls his hat off his head and smooths his sweaty hair back with his palm. "But you make it seem possible."

I walk home floating at his compliment. Of course change is possible, but I suppose Ethan and his family have been operating in a place of protection and recovery from loss and trauma for so long that they can't imagine another way of being. I realize that's true of me as well. It's not like I love the work I'm doing in financial planning. Nobody wakes up one day envisioning a life spent trying to turn around poor investments. Absolutely nobody enjoys claiming assets from people whose dreams are crushed. Well, nobody I like spending time with at any rate.

I do appreciate that Burgess and Bowers have given me the chance to work with the Bedd family to turn their loan around rather than foreclose. I certainly appreciate their generous healthcare plans and flexible policies that let me control my health as much as anyone can with my condition. But today, sitting down and talking through the story of this land, weaving a narrative for the grant application, imagining incorporating the community into the harvest … today was special.

Confident my brother won't exit his office-cave until well past dark, I strip to my undies inside the door and make my way to the shower. I use every drop of the hot water, letting the warmth sink into my bones. Only after I shove my clothes into the washer on a sanitize cycle do I check my messages.

I smile and put the one from Richard on speaker. His familiar voice sounds out of place here in Fork Lick, telling me he's calling me as my doctor this time. "We finally got your labs from that po-dunk clinic." I frown, wishing he wouldn't talk that way about my hometown. "Your white blood cell counts are high, babe. I swear I'm not just saying that to spend time with you sooner. You're going to need to come in for your infusion as soon as possible. I told you it was a bad idea for you to go there."

I feel the bottom slip out from my blissful day at the knowledge that my immune system is up in arms again, and it's only a matter of days before it'll start attacking my intestines. I also don't like how I feel after listening to Richard's message. There was nothing warm or complimentary there. He didn't ask how my project is going. I realize now that I want him to ask me about my life outside of Crohn's disease. Or at least make a joke about it. Richard's tone and his blunt message echo in the house, a stark reminder that I really don't have a lot of control over my life—not for long.