“And the orchard?” she asks, pulling me out of my cinnamon bread and Bastian fog. “Everything ready for winter?”
“Almost. Got the last of the frost protection up yesterday. Just need to finish pruning the younger trees.” I wrap my hands around the warm mug. “Jackson would laugh at how obsessive I’ve gotten about it all.”
Her hand covers mine briefly, a touch so gentle it almost breaks me. “He’d be proud, honey. So proud.”
I swallow hard against the sudden tightness in my throat. “Yeah, well, someone had to keep his dream alive.”
Sylvie refills our cups without comment, letting the moment settle. When she speaks again, her voice carries that particular mix of wisdom and kindness that’s uniquely hers. “You’re doing a great job of that. Just don’t forget about your own dreams.”
I consider her words for a moment. My dream was to run the orchard with Jackson and expand it. Grow the byproduct side, while he focused on the fruit and soil quality, and generallymaking sure that year after year, we have the best apples in the state.
“Sometimes dreams have to change.”
She squeezes my hand again but doesn’t say anything else.
When Bastian comes back into the house and goes straight up the stairs without saying a word, I make my excuses and leave.
My house greets me with shadows and silence. I don’t bother flipping on the lights. Instead, I head up to my room and sit on the chair in the corner. The one that offers me a perfect view of the corner of the house next door, where Bastian’s room used to be.
A light is on, but after all the renovations and additions they’ve made, I’m sure that room is no longer the same as I remember.
My house is smaller than the Halls’, but somehow less cozy. Even while growing up there was never the permanent smell of baked bread or the warm light of a fireplace in the winter.
My mom is a great mom, but she was never a homemaker. She loved her job in town, and any time she was home, you could find her in the garden tending to her flowers. Cooking or baking was just a chore for her, one that I remember Jackson shared with her because he loved doing those things.
She hated the smell of wood burning, so we have a very expensive heating system that I don’t bother using now that it’s just me in the house.
I should be exhausted. Twelve hours of pruning apple trees, repairing irrigation lines, and dealing with a broken sprayer should have me dead to the world by now. Instead, I’m sitting here wide awake, my body bone-tired but my mind racing like a dog chasing its own tail. The silence presses in from all sides, making the house feel bigger and emptier than it actually is. Maybe what I need isn’t sleep. Maybe I need somethingquick and uncomplicated to burn off this restless energy. Something that doesn’t require explanations or morning-after conversations. I reach for my phone on the nightstand.
The dating app’s interface glows too bright in the dim room. I swipe left on a guy whose profile readsLooking for my country boy. Hard pass on the fetishization of farm life. Left on a shirtless gym selfie with no bio. Left, left, left.
I ignore the inbox because the least uncomplicated thing I could do tonight is hook up with someone I’ve been with before. No, thank you.
I close the app and stare at the screensaver. A photo of Jackson grinning, his baseball cap pushed back on his head, dirt smudged across one cheek.
“What would you say about all this?” I mutter to the image. “About your best friend coming home to stay, about me being invited to Thanksgiving dinner like nothing’s changed?” I laugh, but it comes out hollow. “About me sitting here talking to a picture instead of having a life. Dating.”
The photo offers no answers, just Jackson’s frozen smile and the memories of everything we never got to say. I close the app and open my messages instead, quickly typing one to Finn before I can think better of it.
Taylen:
Need a drink. Meet at Joe’s?
I push myself off the chair, grabbing my keys and wallet before I get a reply. Finn’s my ride or die. He’ll be there.
Hopefully, by the time I come back, tonight in a cab or tomorrow after crashing at Finn’s, I’ll be out of this weird funk that’s been chasing me for weeks.
Or maybe Finn’s right. Maybe I do need to talk about it. About Bastian, about Jackson, about all the hurt and regrets.
But first, I need a drink.
5
BASTIAN
The heatof the shower pounds against my shoulders, but it does little to ease the deep ache in my muscles.
I brace my hands against the tile wall, letting the water cascade down my back.
