The plate in my hands becomes suddenly fragile, and I set it down carefully before I can drop it. “I should have been here.”
“You were living your dream, and you had a job to do. Jackson was so proud of you, Sebastian. He wouldn’t have wanted you to give that up, and he certainly wouldn’t have wanted you to carry this around for twelve years.”
“But I wasn’t here,” I repeat, my voice barely above a whisper. “When he needed me most, when Taylen needed?—”
“Taylen had his parents, had us, had the whole town.” Mom’s hand finds my shoulder, warm and grounding. “What he didn’t have was you torturing yourself from afar, unable to grieve properly because you were so busy feeling guilty.”
I lean against the counter, the fight draining out of me. “I don’t know how to be around him without seeing Jackson. Without remembering.”
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” she suggests. “Maybe remembering Jackson together is exactly what you both need. But you can’t do that while you’re keeping Taylen at arm’s length.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Isn’t it?” She turns back to the dishes, but I can feel her attention still focused on me. “Or are you afraid that if you let yourself get close to Taylen, you’ll have to admit there’s more there than just shared grief?”
The observation lands too close to home, and I busy myself with wiping down the counters. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Sebastian Hall, I raised you. I’ve seen the way you look at that boy.”
“He’s not a boy anymore, Mom.”
“No,” she agrees, a knowing smile playing at her lips. “He’s not. And that’s part of the problem, isn’t it?”
But she’s already turning to face me, her eyes soft with an understanding I’m not ready for. “You can’t keep holding yourself apart from everything that reminds you of him. And you can’t keep pretending there’s nothing between you and Taylen except old grief.”
The words settle in my chest like stones, heavy with a truth I’ve been avoiding. I focus on folding the dish towel, buying time I don’t really need. We both know she’s right, but admitting it feels dangerous, like opening a door I’m not sure I can close again.
Not to mention, he doesn’t trust me and seems to hate my guts. Both things I can’t entirely blame him for.
When we finish, she excuses herself and goes upstairs to freshen up. The noises coming from the living room should be inviting. My bandmates and my family are watching football on TV on Thanksgiving, just like any other regular family.
But I’m wound too tight to join them.
The hallway offers a temporary escape. I lean against the wall, letting the solid structure take my weight as everything else threatens to collapse around me.
My chest feels too tight, each breath a conscious effort against the pressure building inside. I close my eyes, but that only makes the images clearer. Market stalls sprawling across my fields, crowds trampling paths through the snow, music and laughter drowning out the quiet I’ve fought so hard to protect.
The farm has always been my sanctuary, the one place I could just be myself without the weight of public expectations. Even during the height of our fame, it remained untouched, preserved like a photograph of simpler times. Now Finn wants to throw open the gates, invite the whole town in, and transform our private space into a public celebration.
I clench and unclench my fists, hoping the motion will help me calm down. The logical part of my brain understands why Finn wants to do this. The town needs this. The community that’s sheltered and protected us all these years is asking for help. Refusing would mean watching small businesses struggle through the winter, seeing holiday traditions wither like unpicked fruit.
But it’s not just about the festival. Mom’s words echo in my head, mixing with memories of Jackson’s laugh and the way Taylen looked at me in the studio this afternoon.
Footsteps approach from the living room. I don’t need to open my eyes to know it’s Nikko. He’s always had a knack for finding me in these moments of retreat.
“Hey,” he says, his voice carrying that particular tone that means he’s about to offer an escape route. “Local band’s playing at Joe’s tonight.” He pauses, letting the information settle. “Could be interesting.”
“Interesting how?”
“Well,” he drawls, leaning against the opposite wall, “they might need some expert advice. And Joe’s has that new winter ale you like.” His smile turns knowing. “Plus, it’s somewhere that isn’t here.”
The offer tempts me. A few hours away from family expectations and Taylen’s unsettling presence, lost in music that has nothing to do with my own complicated history. But I hear movement from the kitchen, the soft pad of familiar footsteps approaching.
“You should go.” Taylen’s voice comes from behind me, startling us both. “I need to head home anyway. Early morning with Elvis.”
I turn to find him watching me with an expression I can’t quite read, exhaustion and something else playing across his features. The mention of the rooster brings an unexpected smile to my lips.
“You started it,” I remind him, and for a moment, the tension between us shifts into something lighter.
