Page 25 of Something Like Sunflowers

Chapter 13

Devyn

Ialways thought coming back home would feel overwhelming, but honestly? It’s the opposite. I worried being around these people and the associated memories would cause some sort of cataclysmic explosion that’d knock the wind right out of me, but that’s not been the case at all.

I can finally breathe. And breathing, instead of suffocating for once, is much preferable. I inhale and fill my lungs with the smells of home.

Manure smells.

Farm smells.

Flower smells.

I tear open the guest room curtains, and I’m pleasantly greeted by the endless rows of wheat as far as the eye can see. The sun touches the tips of the grass horizon as dusk creeps in, and it charges me in a way. I’m refreshed, eager for what’s to come.

Springing onto the guest bed, I fumble through the notifications on my phone. I haven’t looked at this thing since I hung up with Shana on Mullins Road, and like, one-million-and-two people have sent me things.

After a couple of minutes sifting, it’s mostly just group chat messages from Channel Five that I forgot to remove myself from. I tap on the photo attachment and see it’s an announcement from Chad, an anchor I dated for a few months before leaving the station. He was nice to look at, but he was equally gropey and full of himself. He also checked his reflection more than I do, and that never would have worked for us long term.

I didn’t really grieve our breakup, so to speak. It was mutual. But I still stall when I read the cutesy pastel banner—Chad and Brittany’s Baby Shower!

They are getting married next month; they tell us in the text that follows.

Wonderful for them.

Not only is that just wonderful for them, I think as I gag myself, but it also means they were likely screwing around while I was with the jerk in question.

I twist onto my stomach and shoot Chad and Brittany a quick, “Congrats,” that’s not a lie, but also not sincere. What I should do is tell them I have syphilis or something. That would serve him right for sleeping around.

Upon further consideration—and self-reminders of the Bitch Program—maybe it’s best to remove myself from the group chat altogether. It’s annoying getting a million dings back-to-back about stupid stuff, anyway.

Distractions seem to come in bountiful amounts here in Pine Forest as it is, and my most recent one is still lingering in my mind.

God, he’s so much prettier to look at than Chad.

Hunter Isaac, the boy who threw sand at my face and pulled on my ponytail.

‘Breathe, Ponygirl.’

Who knew he was going to be about eight thousand muscles hotter than he was when we were kids?

Newsflash—I did.

There’s an inside scoop for ya. I knew he’d be everything, and that’s why I stayed far away for all these years.

But not far enough away from his social media, apparently. Because before I realize what I’m doing, I’m typing in his name and scrolling through his posts.

Oh, my God, he’s fine. If he could just leave shirts off altogether, the entire female—and some of the male— population would be cured of depression. He’s a shot of dopamine in a tall, dark, smooth-talking son of a glass that I want to drink all the way up.

I tap on a video of him with an axe on his shoulder and roll my eyes. He would. Still, I snuggle down into the mattress as I watch him slowly move his hand down the handle. He caresses it like…like it’s my skin.

Before I know what I’m doing, my hand is under the covers, fingers trailing up my thighs just like his move across the smooth wood of the handle. His fingertips brush the part of the axe where the metal wedge meets the wood, and with great precision, he takes his other hand and licks his fucking palm. His eyes never leave the camera, and I swear to God when he winks, it’s for my pleasure alone. I gasp when he slaps his hand down hard on the side of the wedge, and then he swings the axe above his head, giving a clear show of his triceps, ridges and all, before I hear the smack of the metal on the wood pile beneath it.

My hand snakes between my legs. But it is no longer my own.

It’s Hunter’s.

His arm muscles bulge as he slams the axe into the wood, splitting it in two. He pries the pieces open, inspecting the slit like I want him to inspect me. Between my legs. I whimper, hanging my head back. My eyes close, and I’m wholly given in to my fantasy as I pump my fingers inside myself, swirling slick circles over my clit—and it’s him—Hunter. He’s on top of me, his hand over my mouth with those piercing blue eyes of his, blazing into my very soul and embedding themselves there. As if they finally found their way back home. I gasp as he licks the shell of my ear and whispers in that deep, rumbling voice that haunts my fantasies, “Look how well you take me, babygirl.”

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