Page 84 of A Bittersweet Summer

She shook me from the sleep that was my life before, and to watch her navigate her brother’s sickness—watch her betherefor her mother despite all that woman’s horrible behavior? I’m in awe of her.

“You’re staring,” Cass says from her spot on the living room floor. She works the yarn with a hook, the blanket slowly forming with every stitch. Since we left the hospital two days ago, she’s been working as normal, and even learned to give one of the mares a progesterone shot.

“Hard not to,” I say, striding closer. “That looks so tedious.”

With Gus home today, things have eased. Megan called Cassidy earlier, explaining how badly he wanted his own bed—his own space. There’s a long road ahead and so many medications. Megan was a bit taken aback, but everyone took a collective deep breath.

They let him come home, and things began to settle.

“It’s relaxing,” she comments as I sit next to her, my muscles easing after a long day’s work. Roe went to stay with a friend for the night, leaving the house to us. “Is that why you’re staring?” she chuckles. “Because you’re mesmerized by a crochet hook?”

“I’m mesmerized byyou,” I whisper, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Cass leans into it, pausing her crafting and setting it aside. “You’ve seen my hobby,” she says. “And I still have not seen this swing dancing you speak of.”

I groan, tipping back until I’m lying on the carpet. It gives Mud the perfect opportunity to trot over and lick my face. Swatting him away, my ball cap falls off my head. “Disgusting,” I mutter.

Cas stands, placing her work in the small basket next to the couch. When she offers me her hand, I stare at it.

“I’m not a great dancer,” she confesses.

“Alright.”

She sighs. “So, teach me, then!”

I chuckle, grab her hand, and stand. I pull my phone out of my pocket, pulling up the playlist I use for the Country Christmas celebration. It’s really the only time I pull out this particular skill. It’s not like I walk around the farm looking for swing dance partners in between all the times I’m shoveling shit.

It is, however, something I enjoy—a nice change in pace.

I’d learned sometime in middle school when my mom thought I needed totry something new. I’m pretty sure the only reason she did it was because Rosemary wanted to start dance classes, and swing dancing was the only class left with spots open.

“Alright,” I start, taking both of her hands as seriously as one can. “We can start with a basic move. Feet first.”

I show her a few steps, over exaggerating the pain when she steps on my right foot.

“Oh come on,” she teases. “It’s not like you’ve never had a horse step on your foot. You’re fine!”

“It’s broken, for sure.” I make a show of gripping my socked foot, relishing in the way worry creeps onto her face.

“Nuh, uh,” she says, stepping closer in time for me to wrap my arm around her waist. I spin her as she laughs, holding her tight.

The song changes, something recommended but not on the playlist. I’m not sure why it’s a recommendation considering the change in mood.

With slow music playing, I pull Cass close, placing my hands on her waist. She leans into me, her head on my chest as she wraps her arms around my neck.

We sway like that for a time, my chest tight with the fullness.

I love you, I think, but I don’t dare say a word.

“Did I do okay?” she asks, her voice vibrating against my chest when she speaks. “Except for the foot thing.”

Planting a kiss in her hair, I think the words again.

I love you. I love you. I’m in love with you.

I hold it in, anyway.

“You did just fine,” I say. “By the time Christmas rolls around, you’ll be teaching the lessons with me.”