Betsy shifted her bag on her shoulder. “We don’t. Not yet.”
“Then you understand that particular beauty of babysitting. You get to be around kids all day, then go home at night and enjoy the peace and quiet.”
She just smiled.
Betsy and Ty met in early fall of her junior year. By Christmas, she was ready for him to meet her parents. She had friends who took every college boyfriend home to meet the parents, but Betsy hadn’t dated anyone she wanted to put through the particular agony of dinner around the Sawyers’ antique walnut dining table. For the life of her, she didn’t know why she’d chosen a farmer as the first boyfriend to bring home. She could imagine her father’s glances at Ty’s callused hands, so different from his own milky-white hands that floated through the air each night as he conducted symphonies and concertos. She imagined her mom taking in Ty’s tan, freckled skin, a clear indicator in her mind of inevitable skin cancer.
But she brought him anyway. Ever since their first date—he’d taken her to church at Auburn United Methodist, then to lunch at Amsterdam Café—she hadn’t been able to shake the peculiar sensation that she no longer wanted to do life without him. That she needed him. That his singular strength, solidity, and masculinity was tied to her—knots and tangles that probably began long before she was born.
When she brought up the idea of him coming to her home over Christmas break, he agreed without a second of hesitation. The day after Christmas, he pulled up the driveway to her parents’ house in his Chevy truck that rattled a little too loudly for her dad’s taste.
“What is that racket?” Her father lowered the newspaper an inch and peered around the edge of the Arts and Culture section.
Jenna, a freshman at Alabama and eager for any kind of excitement, jumped out of her seat and ran to the front door just as their mother walked out of the kitchen drying her hands on a dish towel.
Ty barely had a chance to knock on the door before Jenna flung it open. Betsy imagined the scene from Ty’s point of view: Jenna’s blonde curls springing out everywhere, clunky black Dr. Martens, white sweater that looked appropriate until she turned around and you saw it was open in the back all the way to her waist. Their dad still in his chair, polishing his glasses with the end of his silk tie. Their mom standing poised in a pristine white apron—pristine because she’d ordered their meal from Highlands instead of attempting to cook something presentable for their first child’s boyfriend. Betsy could almost hear her mother’s thoughts. Highlands for this guy?
Dinner went as she’d expected it to. Food delicious, silences awkward, conversation stilted. But under the table, Ty gripped her hand, his thumb rubbing small circles into her palm. With his hand wrapped around hers, he answered her parents’ questions as well as he could. They asked about his parents and his major. His grandfather’s farm and how he’d make it profitable again after his grandfather’s death two years before. He spoke of the dairy industry as a whole, and his family’s farm in particular, with obvious pride.
“I knew I was going to be a dairyman before anyone even asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up.” He took a sip of water and sat back in his chair. “It’s been in my blood my whole life.”
Her dad merely nodded, sipped his wine, and set the glass down. “I imagine it’d be hard for your livelihood to depend on something as fickle as the weather. Unpredictable animals. Crop prices.”
Ty nodded. “It’s an understandable concern. But honestly, sir, cows are pretty predictable, as far as animals go.” He smiled. “Once you have a herd that’s reproducing regularly, you milk ’em twice a day. That’s the thing about cows—rain or shine, heat or cold, hurricane or drought, you’ve got milk coming twice a day. When milk means money, it’s just a matter of getting that milk ready to sell. And I plan to grow most of our own crops in the fields, so we won’t have to buy them. That eliminates the problem of fluctuating crop prices.”
Her dad raised his eyebrows. “You seem to have it all figured out.” He turned to her mom. “Maybe I should have been a dairy farmer, honey.”
“Not sure you’re cut out for such a rustic life, dear,” her mother responded.
“I’m not sure anyone in this family is,” her dad said.
Betsy folded her napkin into a neat square. “I can decide that.”
From the other side of the table, Jenna winked at Betsy and smiled.
Ty cleared his throat. “Obviously there’s a bit more involved, but that’s the gist of it.” They spoke like Ty was dense, but Betsy knew he picked up on their dismissive attitude. It rolled across the table in waves.
That night Betsy and Ty sat in her father’s garden, wrapped in a blanket she pulled off the couch in the living room. Dozens of rosebushes, meticulously groomed by Jenna and their father, towered over the bench where they sat. “I’m sorry about my parents. They can be terrible sometimes.”
“Not terrible. They’ve probably just never met anyone like me.”
“I’ve never met anyone like you.”
Ty laughed, low and quiet. “Is that a good thing?”
She nodded, aware—almost painfully so—of his leg pressed against hers, the heat from his hand pouring into her shoulder, her neck. Every nerve danced on edge, ready to jump.
“What do you think about my life? The life I’m
