The smell of coffee and pancakes fills the cabin, soft jazz humming from my old radio.
Taegen sits curled up at my kitchen table in one of my flannels shirts, her legs tucked under her, and her hair pulled up in a messy bun.
She’s tapping something on her phone, smiling at the screen every so often. The morning light hits her just right, catching on the freckles across her nose, and I have to look away before I forget what breathing is.
It’s been years since this place felt alive. Now it does.
NowIdo.
“Breakfast smells amazing,” she says, setting her phone down. “I could get used to this.”
“Good,” I tell her, sliding a plate in front of her. “That’s kind of the point.”
She laughs, low and easy, and I realize I could listen to that sound for the rest of my life.
I sit across from her and take a breath. “There’s something I should tell you.”
Her brow furrows. “That sounds ominous.”
“It’s not. At least, I don’t think it is.” I rest my elbows on the table, palms up. “I need to come clean about something.”
She gives me that patient journalist look—half-curious, half-protective. “Okay.”
“I liked you back then,” I say. “More than liked. I was going to ask you to Homecoming senior year. Had the whole plan. But before I could, you told me you were going with Jason.”
Her eyes widen. “Really?”
I smile wryly. “You two got serious fast. I figured my shot was gone. Then you left, and I convinced myself it was just high-school stuff. But the truth is, I don’t think it ever went away.”
She’s quiet for a heartbeat, fingers tracing the rim of her mug. “Dylan…”
“I don’t expect anything,” I add quickly. “I just—I needed you to know why I went quiet. Why I didn’t reach out. I was stupid and proud, and maybe a little heartbroken.”
Her smile is small but warm. “For the record, I wish you had. We might’ve saved each other a lot of time.”
The knot in my chest eases. I reach across the table and take her hand. “Maybe we can still make up for it.”
Her lips part, and I know she’s about to say yes when the door flies open.
“Dylan!”
Chase barrels in, newspaper in one hand, hair wild, jacket half-buttoned. “What the hell is this?”
Taegen and I both jump to our feet.
“Morning to you too,” I say, heart already sinking.
He slaps the paper on the table, front page up.
Go Big or Gourd Home: Inside the Fight to Save Carver Family Pumpkin Patch.
At first it looks like her article—the headline, her byline, the opening paragraphs she’d read to me last night. Then I catch the block quotes near the middle, and my stomach turns.
“An anonymous local source claims the Carver siblings’ refusal to sell is ‘sentimental foolishness’ standing in the way of real economic progress for the town. According to reports, the family’s debts have doubled in the past two years?—”
“Wait,” Taegen says, voice shaking. “That’s not what I wrote.”
Chase is pacing. “It’s everywhere, man. Online, print, radio picked it up already. Half the town’s talking. Karen and Chad are making sure everyone has seen it.”
