I watch in growing dismay as my bandmates lean forward, caught up in Finn’s enthusiasm. Stone’s eyes light up with that particular gleam that usually precedes our most questionable decisions. Nikko’s already pulling out his phone, like he does when we’re brainstorming tour schedules.
My gaze keeps drifting to Taylen, waiting for him to object, to point out the hundred ways this could go wrong. But he sits there with his jaw set in that stubborn line I’ve come to recognize, deliberately nodding along as Finn details where the Christmas tree could go. The defiant gleam in his eyes makes it clear he’s agreeing just to spite me, and my stomach twists with something that isn’t entirely dread.
“The views of Mt. Philo would make it all feel magical,” Finn continues, punctuating each point with increasingly dramatic hand gestures. “The natural amphitheater effect of the valley would be perfect for the carol singers. And imagine the lighting opportunities with all those apple trees!”
“It would solve the vendor space issue,” Taylen adds quietly but with confidence. “The terrain’s actually ideal for temporary structures.”
I sit there, my turkey growing cold, as my sanctuary transforms into a festival ground in their collective imagination.
The chair scrapes against the floor as I push back slightly, needing some distance from their enthusiasm. I press my hands flat against the table as I gather my thoughts, forcing my voice into the calm, reasonable tone I’ve perfected over years of band meetings and contract negotiations.
“There are serious concerns we need to consider,” I begin, measuring each word carefully. “The media attention alone could be devastating. One tweet about Hall of Fame hosting aChristmas festival, and we’ll have fans descending on the farm from every state.”
Stone waves this off with a casual flick of his wrist. “Please, we’ve managed bigger crowds.”
“Not here,” I counter, my frustration leaking through. “The farm’s infrastructure isn’t built for that kind of traffic.” This is our sanctuary. Don’t they get that once this comes out, it’ll be impossible for us to blend in with the locals like we’ve done for years? Everything will change.
I glance at Taylen, silently pleading for support, but he just gives a small shrug that sends rage crawling up my neck. “The orchard handles harvest festival crowds,” he offers, and I have to clench my jaw to keep from snapping at him.
“That’s different, and you know it,” I say between gritted teeth. “We’re talking about insurance liability for hundreds of people on active farmland. What happens when some kid decides to climb over the fence and get into the equipment barn? Or someone breaks into the barn and lets the cows out?”
Nikko’s already typing on his phone. “I can have our insurance guys look at temporary event coverage. We’ve done similar things for outdoor concerts.”
The betrayal of my own team stings, but it’s Taylen’s continued thoughtful silence that really gets under my skin. He should be backing me up on this, should understand the risks to both our properties.
“And the timing,” I press on, desperately. “Christmas is weeks away. The festival is supposed to start on the second weekend in December. There’s no way we could coordinate something this big that fast.”
“That’s literally my job,” Finn interjects, his excitement apparently immune to my concerns. “Give me two days to draft a proper plan. We can make this work.”
I look around the table at their eager faces, feeling increasingly cornered. Even Mom’s watching me with that particular expression that means she thinks I’m being unnecessarily difficult. Only Fox remains neutral, methodically finishing his dinner like we’re discussing the weather instead of upending my entire life.
“I’ll think about it,” I finally concede, though the words taste bitter on my tongue. But from the triumphant gleam in Finn’s eye, I suspect this battle was lost the moment he burst through the door with his crisis.
Mom stands with the same energy she’s used all her life to break up our arguments. “Why don’t you all retire to the living room? Bastian and I will clean up here before we have dessert.”
“That sounds like a great idea,” Dad says, sharing a look with Mom.
Everyone drifts away from the table until it’s just Mom and me left in the kitchen.
Even though I know what’s coming, I still have hope that the only reason she asked me to stay behind is because I didn’t help with the dinner prep.
When I see the way she looks at me like she’s considering what to say, I know I’m right.
“How are things going between you and Taylen?” Mom asks softly, as if she has no agenda.
“Fine,” I manage, focusing intently on drying a serving plate that’s already bone dry. “Why wouldn’t they be?”
She hums thoughtfully as she loads the dishwasher, her movements efficient but unhurried. The silence stretches until I have to fill it. “We’re neighbors. We’re civil. That’s all there is to it.”
“Jackson would have wanted you two to get along,” she says quietly, and the mention of my best friend hits me like a physicalblow. “He always said you were more alike than either of you would admit.”
My grip tightens on the dish towel until my knuckles turn white. “Mom, don’t.”
“Don’t what?” She pauses, turning to face me with that gentle persistence that’s impossible to escape. “Don’t mention your best friend? Don’t notice how you’ve been avoiding Taylen for years? Or don’t point out that you’ve been carrying guilt that doesn’t belong to you?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” The words come out sharper than intended, but she doesn’t flinch.
“I know you left for a tour the same week Jackson died,” she says softly. “I know you couldn’t make it back for the funeral. And I know you’ve been punishing yourself for it ever since.”
