Page 99 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
Buttercup stares, her porcine eyes looking alarmingly human, grunts as she swallows the last of the apple she finally took interest in, then bolts.
I lunge after her, my hands raking over her enormous hide before she slips away and disappears into the shallow stretch of trees that line the garden. I belly flop onto the dirt with a thud, but quick as lightning, I’m back on my feet and racing after a pig that should not, by all logic, be able to run as fast as she’s running.
I cut through the trees, heart pounding, and make it to the road in time to see Buttercup tearing down the hill . . . heading straight for the pavilion.
No. No, no, no, no, NO.
I filter through my very sparse list of options for rerouting a charging pig away from a pavilion full of fancily dressed wedding guests.
One: Outrun. Body slam. Slip lead. Grunt and beat my chest in victory.
Two:
…
…
…
I’ve got nothing. I’m doing this thing WWE style or I’m not doing it at all.
I’ve only made it a few yards when the sound of a Gator, one of the four-by-four utility vehicles we use to get around the farm, draws my attention. I don’t have time to slow down, but when Brody appears at the top of the hill, a surge of relief pushesthrough me. I point toward the pavilion. “Pig!” I yell as I point. “Go cut her off.”
Brody looks down the hill and races after Buttercup while I cut across the pasture, channeling my high school hurdling days and jumping the fence in a move I wish someone could have caught on camera. I watch as Brody veers in front of Buttercup just before she turns into the field that holds the pavilion. Instead, she turns the opposite direction, heading straight toward me. There’s one more fence between us, and I barely clear this one, clipping my shin on the board and sending a shooting pain up my leg.
But when I launch onto Buttercup, my arms wrapping around her middle as I roll us into the irrigation ditch beside the road, I’m not thinking about my shin. I’m thinking that of all the ways to die, this might be the most embarrassing one.
I can see the headlines now.Man Crushed by Giant Pig. Saves Wedding as Final Act.
Because that’s what’s going to happen. This pig is going to land on top of me and crush my lungs. I’m a decent-sized guy. A little over six feet. Two hundred pounds. Not as ripped as any of my brothers but cut enough not to be embarrassed when I’m standing next to them.
But Buttercup is massive.Monstrous.
The air whooshes out of my lungs when I hit the ground, and Buttercup squeals, feet flailing. The ditch is barely wide enough for both of us, and I use that to my advantage, pressing my back against the banked dirt and using it to brace myself while I pin the lower half of Buttercup’s body with my legs.
The pig huffs and struggles, but that only makes me tighten my grip. After fifteen seconds or so, she finally stills, but the grunts she’s making don’t sound like she’s very happy about it.
Yeah, me neither, pig. Me freaking neither.
“How’re you doing down there?” Brody asks from the road, laughter in his tone. “That was a real . . .hambush.”
“You did not just say that,” I manage on a grunt. My lungs don’t feel fully functional yet.
“Do you need me to call you a . . .hambulance?”
“Brody. Slip lead. Do you see it on the ground anywhere?” I know I had it when I took off across the pasture, but the only thing I’m holding now is pig.
“Got it,” he says. He steps to the edge of the ditch and slips the lead over Buttercup’s head. Once the lead is secure, I shift again, rotating the pig enough for her to gain her footing. I follow, scrambling to my feet, only now realizing that the two inches of muddy water in the bottom of the ditch have soaked into my shirt.
Buttercup stands placidly next to Brody like this is all perfectly normal. Like we’re out for an evening stroll and didn’t just have a life-threatening wrestling match.
Brody eyes my muddy clothes and presses his lips together. “She was running pretty fast,” he says, barely containing his laughter. “We should enter her in the Olym—”
“Stop.” I hold up my hand. “Don’t say it.”
He grins. “Olym . . . pigs.”
“I hate you so much right now.”
