I’ll admit this is a masterful counterplay. Perfectly legal, undeniably useful, and absolutely impossible to complain about without looking ungrateful.
“Well played, Bastian,” I mutter as Elvis struts past me to inspect his new domain. “Well played.”
A week later, my hands shake slightly as I arrange the last jar of apple butter, the glass catching the warm morning sunlight. Seven days of three a.m. wake-up calls have left me running on fumes and stubbornness, but I’ll be damned if I let it show at the biggest market day of the year.
The market fills the town square, vendor stalls arranged in neat rows radiating out from the central gazebo where the Winterberry Senior Brass Band plays Christmas music. Steam rises from coffee cups, and breaths mingle with the crisp morning air. I straighten my display of Honeycrisps to keep busy. Whatever happens, I can’t stop, or I might just fall asleep on my feet.
“You look like death warmed over, dear,” Mrs. Whitaker observes as she inspects my cider selection. Her dark curls peek out from under a hand-knitted hat that probably predates my birth. “Not sleeping well?”
“Just pre-holiday preparations,” I lie smoothly as she picks two bottles of cider and places a bunch of apples in a bag. “You know how it is this time of year.”
She clucks her tongue, clearly unconvinced, but pays for her stuff and moves on. Around me, the market pulses with its usual energy. Kids darting between stalls, old-timers gathered by the mulled cider cart debating snow forecasts, vendors calling out their specials like carnival barkers at a county fair.
I stifle another yawn as I restock the empty spaces in my display. My muscles protest every movement, a week’s worth of sleep deprivation settling into my bones like winter frost. But I maintain my professional smile, making change and small talkon autopilot while mentally calculating how many more hours until I can collapse into bed.
A young couple stops to sample my new spiced cider, and I launch into my practiced pitch about traditional mulling methods. My voice sounds strange in my ears, too bright and brittle, but they nod appreciatively and buy two bottles. Small victories.
The morning stretches on, marked by the steady stream of customers and the gradually emptying displays. I focus on each transaction with fierce determination, refusing to let Bastian’s revenge tactic impact my business.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Sylvie bustling around her stall next to mine, her hands quick and efficient as she weighs out cheese, restocks milk bottles, and wraps squares of her famous home-churned butter. Her garden produce, winter squash, root vegetables, and preserved goods from her summer allotment create a colorful display that draws a steady line of customers.
Every few minutes, I feel her concerned gaze drift my way, but the constant flow of people buying her dairy products and vegetables keeps her too busy to come over and interrogate me properly.
Fuck, I’m tired. So tired that the coins in my cash box start to blur together, forcing me to count each transaction twice. So tired that I catch myself swaying slightly between customers, my body seeking rest even while standing. Still, I persist. Because that’s what I do. I endure, I adapt, I overcome. Even if overcoming means surviving a week of pre-dawn wake-up calls courtesy of an overly enthusiastic rooster named Elvis.
I’m rearranging my display after running out of apple butter when my ears pick up a name mentioned by someone in passing. I look up and spot them easily, thanks to Bastian’s height. Mik is talking to him and holding hands with a guy who must be hisboyfriend Tyler. Ahead of them, Kay greets the locals she knows from years of coming to Winterberry with her father.
My stomach does an uncomfortable flip that I blame on lack of sleep rather than the way Sebastian’s expensive-looking coat stretches across his shoulders in a perfect fit. And it definitely has nothing to do with the way his permanently ripped jeans draw my eyes to the skin beneath.
Kay reaches my stall first, her face lighting up with genuine warmth. “Taylen!” She practically vibrates with excitement, her hands already reaching for the sample cups of cider. “How are you? Nan said we had to come try your new spiced cider. She says it’s the best.”
My exhaustion lifts slightly in the face of her enthusiasm, and I love how she calls Sylvie Nan, even though they’re not blood-related. I’ll give it to Bastian. He’s created a tight-knit family with that rock band of his.
“You’ve grown at least three inches since I saw you in the summer,” I tell her, pouring a sample of the spiced cider. “Pretty soon you’ll be taller than your dad.”
“Not likely,” Mik laughs, catching up with his daughter. “Taylen, I don’t think you’ve officially met Tyler yet,” he says. “Tyler, this is Taylen Howard. He grows the best apples in Vermont. His farm is next to Bastian’s.”
Tyler reaches out to shake my hand. “Nice to meet you, Taylen. Will you be at Thanksgiving tomorrow?”
“Sure will,” I reply with a smile that turns into a yawn I manage to stifle.
“Oh my god, this is amazing. Dad, Tyler, you have to try this!” Kay says, pointing at the nonalcoholic cider.
I pour more samples, careful to avoid meeting Bastian’s gaze as he hangs back from the group. But I can feel his eyes on me. The weight of his attention feels like static electricity on my skin.
Tyler asks about the cider-making process with interest and buys a couple of jars of my spiced-apple chutney.
“Can we see the honey stand?” Kay asks. “I want to get some for Grandma’s Christmas box.”
As they move away, Sebastian remains behind. The dark circles under my eyes suddenly feel more pronounced under his scrutiny, and I fight the urge to either snap at him or simply collapse in exhaustion.
“Elvis working out for you?” Sebastian’s voice carries that particular tone that makes me want to either punch him or kiss him. A combination that’s becoming distressingly familiar the longer he keeps not leaving Vermont.
I force my expression into one of casual appreciation, ignoring how his proximity makes my skin prickle. “He’s great, actually. Really whipped the flock into shape. Egg production is up fifteen percent.” The lie rolls off my tongue smoothly, though my bloodshot eyes probably tell a different story.
“I appreciate the thoughtful gift,” I continue, unable to stop the word vomit. “Shows you know your poultry. Although, I’ll take some credit for that. Moira and Myrtle have clearly been good teachers.”
Sebastian’s knowing look tells me he sees right through my act. I swallow dry as he steps closer, and his scent—hay, leather, and pine—fills my nose, making it hard to maintain my composure.
