Meet Me At Miller's Barn

Meghan lay quietly, wrapped in a flannel blanket, looking up at the night sky and the few twinkling stars she could see through the gap in the roof boards of the old barn. She glanced over at Clinton. He was sobbing, tears flowing steadily from his blue eyes. She smiled slightly at the sight, he was always crying from what she remembered. It was one of the things she loved best about him.

She looked back up at the stars, remembering the first time she was in this barn with him. Her heart swelled thinking about it. The memory was as fresh as if it happened yesterday and not over 30 years ago.

She first noticed him in History class. It was 1987. He was a new student. He strutted into class sporting a green rugby shirt and tight blue Ikeda jeans, surveying the room as if they were expecting him. He was carrying a novel, a prop, she figured, another idiot posing as an intellectual for attention. It was a stupid analogy, she knew of nobody that posed as an intellectual, she just found his presentation particularly distasteful. She hated him instantly. Well, except that he was absolutely, stunningly gorgeous!

He looked like he had been crafted out of marble. Strong chiseled features, a slim, yet athletic build, with rich chocolate curls and soft eyes. It was a mix of arrogance and alluring that simultaneously revolted and attracted her.

She was revolted because he seemed so full of himself. He walked into class every day, looking directly at her and smirking, as if he saw her longing gazes. That, and she knew he'd never go for her. A guy like him never went for her type. She was tiny, sort of cute, but awkward. And she was one of the smart kids. The really hot guys never went out with the smart girls unless they were exceptionally beautiful, or maybe rich. Clinton was out of her league, way out, and she hated him for it.

Yet she was intrigued too. As the weeks wore on, they exchanged a few words. Those words grew into a friendship with notes being passed back and forth. She got to know the boy behind the facade and realized she loved him, even if he'd never love her back. She never said anything, she couldn't. The thought of him rejecting her, and of ruining what little they had together was more than she could bear.

October 16, he passed her a note. She remembered vividly. He smelled so good as he stepped toward her and said, "read this and get back to me." There was an urgency in his voice she had never heard before. She began to open it.

"No," he ordered, "wait till I'm gone."

Her heart sank. She smiled weakly, knowing what it said. He found a girlfriend, one of the beautiful girls, and now their brief friendship had to end because "she" said so. She stuffed the stupid piece of paper into her back pocket and went off to her first class, Math with Mr. Lyons. There was no hope of reading it there. She was okay with that.

She didn't bother reading it at all. Not the entire morning. At lunch, she saw Clinton and he asked about the note. She casually tossed her auburn locks and said she'd been busy.

"Read it before History," he said. There was something in his voice, almost a plea, so she agreed. She waited until he was just out of sight then pulled the note from her pocket and:

"Miller's Barn tonight. 7 o'clock."

She read the words over and over, her heart in her throat, her body silently trembling with anticipation. She knew all about Miller's Barn and she knew she was never invited. NEVER. The old red barn had once been the home of Miller's Holsteins, but had been abandoned for ages. It became a popular hangout for the cool kids, a place to dance, a place to party or just to be alone with a special someone. Meghan never was cool and she never had a special someone, so she never went to Miller's Barn.

She scribbled her response through shaking hands, "ok." She handed it to him as he strutted past her to take his seat.

Meghan arrived at the barn before Clinton did. It was so exciting. She remembered the smell, a mix of mildew, old hay and rotted manure, mixed with stale beer. She wore her best demim skirt and an oversized sweater. She perched herself atop an ancient square hay bale to wait.

Clinton arrived soon after, a tattered old basket in hand. He looked amazing! He wore blue t-shirt that showcased his eyes, and faded jeans that hugged his muscular bottocks and thighs. Meghan gasped quietly at the sight of him.

He approached, opened his basket and laid a green flannel blanket down. Meghan sat down as he continued to take things out, a bottle of Rockaberry Cooler, 2 plastic cups, a small battery operated stereo and two tapered candles. He sat down beside her, poured the cooler into the cups, and gave her one.

Meghan sipped the drink gingerly. She still couldn't believe she was here. Clinton reached out and stroked her cheek, then turned on the stereo, "do you know why I wanted you to come here?" he asked, his voice husky and smooth.

She shook her head.

He raised his left eyebrow, "really?" he challenged.

Meghan jerked back, suddenly livid, "I'm not like..."

Clinton giggled, placing a huge smooth hand on her thigh, "I know that," he cooed, "do you want to know why I asked you to come here?"

Meghan nodded.

"I love you," he stared right into her eyes as he said it, "I love you so very much." His eyes filled with tears as he moved closer.

Meghan sat, dumbfounded. She was paralyzed. She couldn't move, she couldn't speak. She loved him too. She ached to scream it from the crumbling rooftop. She opened her mouth. Nothing. So she sat there, a silly, silent lump.

Clinton took her chin into his hand gently, tilted her face toward him, and kissed her softly.

As she broke away, she gasped, breathlessly, "I love you too."

Clinton turned away for a moment, pulling a lighter from his pocket and standing the candles at the edges of the blanket.

Meghan barked, more forcefully than she had intended, "Don't do that! Dude, barn, hay, fire..."

Clinton placed the lighter down. She made a good point. He kissed her again. He was so strong, so gentle, so wonderful as he guided her into womanhood that night. Miller's Barn was their meeting place for weeks after that until they were caught.

Clinton's father, Bryan, had apparently gotten wind of the romance and one spring day in 1988 decided to "save his son" from the smart girl from the wrong side of town. She never saw him again. Her last memory was of her, sitting wrapped in a blanket, as he was dragged away, crying and pleading.

Now, over 3 decades later, she looked at him again. Still crying. They had both gone on with their lives. She became a successful lawyer, married, divorced, and had 3 children. He had become an artist, often painting red barns. They hadn't spoken since that day. The pain of losing him was more than she could bear. She forced him and his memory deep, deep into the recesses of her mind, well beyond conscious memory, safely away from any chance of remembering.

It wasn't until Meghan's secretary, Lynn, came bursting into her office, bragging about a painting she bought from a local artist that the name Clinton Redgrave became current again. The name was familiar, but it couldn't be him, she remembered thinking. Lynn pulled up his Facebook page. Meghan looked at the larger, but still handsome man on the screen as her stomach jumped into her throat. She felt the heat rise inside her as she realized it was him. Every memory she ever had came flooding back. She didn't say much to Lynn, but as soon as she was alone, she sent him a message.

For a few weeks they chatted back and forth, catching up on each other's lives. Then, on October 16, 2019, he sent this message, "meet me at Miller's Barn, 7:00."

Meghan's heart filled with a mix of joy and trepidation. Miller's Barn! Oh, the memories! Would he still like her? Would he still love her? She knew, even if she tried to hide it, that she never stopped loving him, not for a moment. She went home and primped and preened. She knew that the awkward teenager she once was had given way to an exceptionally beautiful woman, and she was determined to make sure Clinton noticed.

She arrived at the barn early, and waited for him, again atop an old pile of hay. The barn was more dilapidtaed, and seemed smaller now, almost tiny. The smell of old hay and manure had faded, but the musty smell remained. It was pungent and stung her nose.

Clinton entered, grinning widely. He was bigger, a lot bigger, but still strutting like the cat that got the cream. He wore an old fleece jacket and baggy, paint stained jeans and carried an old basket. "Hi," he said causally.

Meghan stood quietly, she took off her light jacket to showcase her slim shapely body, "no hug?" she teased.

He dropped the basket and wrapped his huge arms around her. It felt like home as all the old feelings spilled over. He spread out a green blanket, they sat down.

"No tunes?" she quipped playfully.

He raised that left eyebrow and pulled his phone out, putting on a playlist from the 80's. It was The Police. It was always The Police. It was The Police then, and it was The Police now. She rolled her eyes. She hated them and he knew it. He pulled out a bottle of wine and two stemmed glasses.

Meghan grinned, thinking back, well, his taste had improved, Gordon Sumner aside.

They sipped wine and chatted, just like old times, trying to ignore the obvious tension. Clinton piped up, stroking her face, his hands as soft as she remembered, "I still love you," he whispered, tears in his eyes.

"I still love you," she melted. And there, in the very same spot as all those years before, they reconnected. It was as gentle and beautiful as the first time.

"Hey," Meghan grinned as she lay in his arms, "you got any more wine?"

Clinton nodded and got up from the blanket to grab the second bottle from his basket. It was then he heard the loud creeeeeeeaaaak and then a thud. He ran toward Meghan, but it was too late, the huge black beam was resting across her chest.

Panic welled within him, "Meg, Meg," he screamed as he struggled to pull the 1400 pounds off her to no avail.

Meghan tried desperately to inhale, but the weight on her chest was too much, "I'm fine," she assured him, I'll be fine."

Clinton grabbed his phone and tried to call for help. There was no signal. He begged her to hang on, "I'll go out and get a signal," he screamed in desperation.

Meghan shook her head, "no," stay here with me, hold my hand." She grabbed his arm as she turned her head from the stars to him. If she were going to take her last breath here in this old red barn, she could think of no one else she'd want to take it with than the only man she ever loved. "Just tell me again that you love me."

And he did, through a flood of tears, he said it over and over until she couldn't hear him and even after, hoping she might. That was Clinton, always crying.