He sighs. “I just mean, it’s more than just a farm. We have a country mart, a little cafe, animals—I’m busy. I can’t babysityou.”
“Wait. Time out. You own afarm?”
Si finally looks at me, his mouth hanging open. “He didn’t tell youanything.”
“He just said he had a placeupstate.”
“Unbelievable. He’s a piece of shit,” he adds under his breath. “Yes, I own a farm. It’s our familyfarm.”
“You have no life because you spend all of your time dealing with thefarm?”
“Exactly. I hope boring works for you in a make-believeboyfriend.”
“Sure,” I say. “Whatever. I mean, thank you. You didn’t have to do this and it wasn’t right for Scott to not be upfront with you about whatever plan he was cookingup.”
“We can agree there. Youready?”
“I guess. You can tell me about yourself on the way there and we can make up a nice little backstory forme.”
“Awesome,” he says. He already regrets this. “You want me to call you by your real name or do you have an alias you’ve been saving for a moment just likethis?”
“Not sure I’ll actually respond to any other names,” I tell him honestly, but immediately something comes to mind. “Ebie. Like the letters E andB.”
“Ebie.Done.”
“Should I call you Si?” Iask
“No,” he says. “Only Scott calls me that. Silas McInroy. Owner of McInroy’s Farm. Great to meet you.” He doesn’t shake my hand or anything though. He just starts his pick-up truck and backs out of thelot.
* * *
We’reboth quiet again for a few minutes after Silas pulls out of the gas station. We drive down a dark road, illuminated by the moonlight overhead. I have questions, but I don’t know where to start. Also, the longer I spend sitting next to this man, the more aware I become of him. He is large. So large and nothing like Scott, even though I can see the stark resemblance in their facial features. I like Scott, I do, but he’s such a fucking obnoxious man in the way he walks and takes up space. And Scott never shuts up. He doesn’t talk over me, but if the opportunity is there, Scott’s mouth isopen.
Silas is comfortable with silence. He doesn’t even turn on the radio. I glance at him and then turn my eyes back to the road. I can’t remember the last time I was somewhere so quiet andempty.
“You allergic to dogs?” he asks out ofnowhere.
“I don’t think so. Why, you have adog?”
“We have five. A few wander a bit and usually sleep near the barns. Two sleep in the house. I hope that’s not aproblem.”
“As long as they aren’t face-biting dogs that can smell fear, we should befine.”
“No, they don’t bite. They should lose interest in you pretty quickly. I will be busy, but tomorrow, in the afternoon after you get some rest, I’ll take you around and introduce you toeveryone.”
“Oh.Okay.”
“The farm is like a little city. People are curious and nosy. It’s better if I introduce you to everyone who works on the farm and give them strict instructions not to bother you once they’ve seen your face. Otherwise, one person will get a whiff of a visitor and people will start showing up while you’re trying to sleep or work just to introducethemselves.”
“Ah okay. Small townnosy.”
“Yes,” he says as we come to the most quaint country four-way stop. There’s no one out. It’s the dead of night, but he stops anyway and waits a few beats before proceeding through theintersection.
“You have any hobbies? Things you like. I see you’re a Jetsfan.”
He glances over at me and smiles. I almost gasp. It’s Scott’s smile, but about fifty times sexier for a whole host of reasons. “You a Pats fan orsomething?”
“Not much into sportsball,” I say. “But I do enjoy the occasional Yankeesgame.”