The number isn’t in my contacts, though I recognize it immediately.
Hi sweetheart! It’s Mom. Hope this is still your number! I have the most wonderful news to share with you girls. I’m coming home for the holidays! I’ve found the perfect business opportunity for us to work on together. I know how much you’ve always wanted to expand your little animal service, and I think I’ve found the solution. Can’t wait to see my successful daughters! We have so much to catch up on. Love and kisses, Mom
* * *
I read the message three times, my good mood evaporating more with each pass. The casual endearments, the fake enthusiasm, the assumption I’ve been waiting for her help with my “little animal service.”
Most telling of all: “my successful daughters.” Emma Storm only shows up when she thinks there’s something in it for her. I remember last year she tried to wreck Eden’s beekeeping business and horn in on the beeswax products Eden’s been selling. The last thing I need is my mother interfering with my goats, especially when I’m in precarious financial straits with MUNCH.
I sink onto my couch, already missing Reed sitting here with me, and stare at the text until the words blur together. Just when everything was starting to feel possible—Reed, the therapy plan, the tentative hope that maybe I could trust someone—my mother decides to reappear with whatever scheme she’s cooked up this time.
Outside, the snow continues to fall, and for the first time since the storm started, I feel truly cold.
21
Reed
I’m limping around my greenhouse like some kind of mad scientist-pirate, alternating between euphoric grins at the memory of Eliza’s hands on my body and crushing anxiety about the spreadsheet on my tablet showing exactly how fucked I am financially.
Three weeks. That’s how much operating capital I have left before I’ll be forced to shut down Urban Forest Solutions and crawl to my father’s office with my tail between my legs. The presentation at Bramblewood was supposed to generate interest, but it generated exactly zero investment inquiries and one very public humiliation.
I am in the midst of the December holiday season with no mass-produced product and barely a spare prototype. These tiny trees are perfect—healthy, symmetrical, exactly what I envisioned when I started this whole venture. But perfect doesn’t matter if no one’s willing to fund their production. At least the Bramblewood folks still want my trees as centerpieces for the gala. I should head over there at some point and check on the trees… make sure no more wildlife got loose in the manor or something.
I smile again, thinking of my night with Eliza. All of this is too much, but somehow, it feels approachable, knowing a feisty goatherd is on my side.
“Yo, Reed!” Paolo’s voice echoes through the greenhouse as he pushes through the door. “Can I ask you a big favor?”
“Maybe,” I tease, grateful for the distraction. “What are you doing here?”
“Heading to my cousin’s for Immaculate Conception stuff and thought I’d ask if I could snag one of your trees. My abuela’s been asking about my ‘so-called friends’, and I figured…” He gestures around the lab with a grin.
I wave an arm toward the display area. “Take your pick.”
Paolo examines the trees with exaggerated seriousness before selecting a particularly full specimen. “This one’s calling to me. Very Feng Shui.”
“That’ll be?—”
“Don’t even think about charging me,” Paolo interrupts. “Consider it payment for all the times I’ve had to listen to you obsess over pH levels.”
I watch him cradle the small tree carefully, and something twists in my chest. In a few weeks, I’ll be giving all these trees away or watching them die as I pack this place.
“So,” Paolo says, settling the tree on his hip, “how are things with the goat lady? You’ve been suspiciously happy, despite your impending financial doom.”
Heat creeps through my neck. “We’re… we’ve made some progress.”
“Progress?” Paolo’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s the most euphemistic way I’ve ever heard someone describe getting laid.”
“It’s not just that,” I protest, though my face is probably burning red. “We talked. Really talked. About real things.”
“Aw, look at you being all emotionally mature.” Paolo grins. “I’m proud of you, man. Even if your business implodes, at least you won’t be alone.”
The reminder of my failing business makes my stomach clench, but Paolo’s genuine happiness for me softens the blow. “Thanks. I think.”
“Hey, things could turn around. You never know.” Paolo heads toward the door with his tree. “Enjoy the holidays, Reed. And don’t marry your farmer girlfriend until I get back.”
“She’s not my girlfriend—” But Paolo’s already gone, leaving me alone with the echo of his laughter and the space where the tree used to be.
I stare at the gap in my lineup, the way the other trees seem to lean slightly toward the absence. In a few weeks, this entire greenhouse will look like that—empty spaces where my dreams used to be.
