“I know enough.” I turn away, unable to look at him anymore without saying things I might regret. “Thanks again for the hospitality. Next time, just leave me in the truck.”
I walk away without looking back, my boots leaving deep prints in the snow. Each step puts distance between us, but does nothing to ease the knot in my chest.
Behind me, I hear the barn door close with more force than necessary, and I tell myself the satisfaction I feel is because I’ve exposed his lies, not because I’ve managed to crack that perfect control of his.
I glance behind me, expecting to see Gouta following, but she’s not there.
Traitor.
Just like my heart, which can’t stop hoping that, for once, what it wants is within reach, only to get crushed over and over again.
Because Bastian is going to leave. Because he always leaves.
7
BASTIAN
I slamthe post driver down with a satisfying thunk, sending vibrations up my arms. Each impact drives the fence post deeper into the frozen earth. This is the kind of back-breaking work I know I’m going to feel for the next few days.
I’ve picked the farthest corner of our property for this morning’s work, where the tree line borders Mt. Philo State Park. As far from Taylen’s orchard as I can get without actually leaving Hall land. The irony that I’m running away while trying to prove I’m here to stay isn’t lost on me.
Sweat trickles down my back despite the November chill, my flannel shirt sticking uncomfortably between my shoulder blades. The physical strain feels good, necessary, and my muscles burn with each lift and drop of the driver.
“You know, you could help instead of just lying there judging my technique,” I say to Gouta, who’s sprawled across a bale of hay like she’s holding court. Her red ribbon is somehow still perfectly attached in place despite her active morning of following me around the farm.
She bleats in response, shifting to a more comfortable position but making no move to actually assist.
“Right, I forgot. You’re management now, not labor.” I pause to wipe my forehead with the back of my glove. “Must be nice having job security while the rest of us actually work for a living.”
Gouta’s answering sound is distinctly unimpressed. She fixes me with those smart eyes that seem far too knowing for a goat, like she can see straight through all my pretenses to whatever’s really driving me to work myself into the ground this morning.
“Don’t give me that look,” I mutter, returning to the fence post. “Some of us process things by doing actual work instead of lounging around looking judgmental.”
Speaking of judgmental, Taylen’s words—the ones I’ve been trying to drown out with heavy work for days—come back to me. His claim that I’m filling my days with farm work while plotting my escape in the evenings.
I laugh at that. My “escape route.”
Thump
“If you’d bothered to ask questions instead of jumping to conclusions, you would have found out that those mugs are the result of too many late nights listening to demo recordings from local musicians who can’t afford studio time.”
Thump.
“Kids who dream of making it, just like I once did.”
Thump.
“The scattered papers aren’t contracts for my next tour, or sheet music, for that matter. They’re notes about sustainable farming techniques I’ve been researching.”
Thump.
“Butyoudon’t want explanations.Youwant me to be the villain in whatever story you’ve been telling yourself about me. It’s easier foryouto believe I’m just playing at being a farmer than to consider that maybe, just maybe, the hurtyoufeel, I’m feeling it too, dammit.” I’m just too much of a coward to reach out.
I put the post driver down and stretch my back, staring into the Adirondack Mountains in the distance, and wondering if I have it in me to be the bigger person and reach out to Taylen to talk. An actual conversation kind of talk.
The crunch of tires on gravel pulls my attention from the view. A car weaves down the access road like the driver’s either lost or is past the age when one should be driving.
I recognize Stone’s driving style before I see him. No one else would treat a rental with such care. The car comes to a slow stop, and even Gouta bleats her disapproval. Stone emerges first, his designer boots instantly coated in mud.
