Chapter 2

The week before my father died, we’d made plans to travel to France. Dad had been so excited, planning our route, talking endlessly about the first time he saw Paris and when he met my super glamorous, beautiful mother.

“You should have seen her, Law,” he’d said. His voice full of awe and his eyes dreamy, he’d gazed at my mother, mixing up a batch of lavender water. “How or why she agreed to marry a farmer, I have no idea.” He’d gotten up and went to her, kissed her neck, and she’d laughed. “Play the keys, Law…”

Loss opens you up, and I couldn’t fill the holes fast enough.

A voice interrupted my thoughts. “Hey.”

The dude from the car leaned on the fence. He smelled of too much cologne and his face had an irritating earnest quality.

“Hey.” I slid off the fence, my back to the killer pine tree drop. My heels poised, straining against gravity.

“Careful,” the man said.

“Nope, never careful.”

I appreciated his surprised look and hopped back onto the fence.

He looked as though he wanted to talk. I had no intention of wasting words with a stranger. Undoing my belt and unzipping my pants eliminated the unnecessary need for conversation.

I fucked him like my father’s funeral hadn’t broken my heart.

Not one for chatter during fucking, I gave him little to go off besides grunts and snorts.

The bottom’s face looked agonized and thrilled. “Fuck, yes,” he said over and over like a mantra.

My father’s dead, fucker, I thought as my balls slapped against his ass. The rhythm of his body melted into mine. The memory of the priest standing in the lavender fields sprung into my head.“Ashes to ashes…”

I fucked harder.

“So fucking deep,” he grunted. “Harder, fuck my ass!”

My ankles ached and sweat pooled at the band of my black nylon socks. “Fuck you,” I spat, drool dribbling onto his face as I drove into him.

“Yeah, fuck me,” he returned as he stroked his cock.

I didn’t give a shit about his enjoyment.

“You gonna come?” He looked up and raked his fingers along my thighs.

The question pierced the veil. “When I’m ready,” I said. “When…I’m ready…Uggh!” I forgot death and let pleasure win. Gravel ground beneath my shoes, and my feet slipped. I lost my balance and collapsed onto him. Cum pumped from my balls and ballooned the condom.

I withdrew my still-hard cock and rubbed it back and forth along his gaping, pink asshole. I slid back in and relished the relaxed warmth until my cock shrank.

“I’m coming,” the man growled as cum spewed from his cock.

The desolation of death crept back into my thoughts, and I wanted another distraction. For a second, I thought of punching him.

The man must have sensed a change in my demeanor because he struggled beneath me.

The sound of a car passing made us jump.

I sprung up, discarded the spent condom, and scrambled into my funeral pants and shirt. “Come on,” I said, offering my hand.

He snatched his discarded shorts in one hand and my hand with the other.

“Thanks,” he said, sliding into his shorts.

The car blew past, passengers none the wiser.

“Great fuck,” the man said. He drew close, sniffing. “What’s that smell?” He sniffed again. “Cologne?”

“I don’t wear cologne,” I replied before yanking the hair on the back of his head.

He winced. “Flowers, or—”

“Lavender,” I answered, then let him go. I tossed the crushed remains of lavender flowers from my pockets.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

“No.”

“You sure?”

I nodded and backed away. Overhead, hawks wheeled and the hot wind whispered in the pine boughs.

“Ashes to ashes,” I said, leaving him standing in his shorts.

* * * *

Walking back to the farm, my emotions swung from extreme to extreme. Several times my stomach dropped as though I were on an elevator. I composed myself before entering the gate. My grief-stricken mother didn’t need to catch me in crisis.

Surrounded by lavender fields, the isolated farmhouse stood out against the sunburned sky. My mother, statuesque and graceful, cut a striking image amidst the swaying lavender, reminding me of a knife stuck in the earth.

With the mourners long gone, only heat and the incessant hum of insects remained.

“Mom?”

She stood in front of an old potting bench, my father’s urn in her hands. We’d set up several of these benches so guests could bundle and tie their freshly picked lavender with silk ribbon or brown twine. God, how my father loved chatting with people; he could talk incessantly about lavender, the land, where to eat in town, and what to see before they headed back to L.A. or wherever.