I try to pull away, more interested in finishing my work than following whatever scheme she’s involved in. But Gouta is nothing if not persistent. Her grip on my sleeve tightens, and she pulls me along like a child leading a reluctant parent.
“If you want treats, I’m not falling for it. I bet you’ve been in the house all this time getting fed by Mom,” I tell her, though we both know it’s a lie. I’ve never been able to resist her when she gets like this: determined, focused, and mischievous.
But even as I protest, my feet follow her guidance. The broom leans forgotten against a stall as Gouta leads me toward the barn door.
We emerge into cold air that catches in my lungs, making each breath sharp and clear. Gouta pulls me toward Mom’s small orchard, where her cherry and pear trees are ready to face the Vermont winter.
Her pace never falters, though she does glance back occasionally as if checking that I’m still following.
The orchard approaches slowly. Mom loves this place, tends it with the same care she gives to her family. The trees know her touch, respond to her gentle guidance year after year.
As we approach the orchard’s center, Gouta slows down. And there, perfectly positioned between the trees, sit two wooden boxes that definitely weren’t there yesterday.
My steps falter as recognition hits. The boxes are familiar in shape and size, and even from this distance, I can see the care that went into their placement. The perfect angle to catch the morning sun.
Beehives.
Gouta releases my sleeve, her job apparently complete. She moves to sit beneath the cherry tree, watching me with what looks suspiciously like satisfaction.
I approach the boxes slowly. As I draw closer, details become clearer: the smooth wood, the careful joints, the small entrance holes positioned exactly as they should be.
A small tag dangles from one of the boxes, its paper curling slightly at the edges. I reach for it to read the message clearly written in Taylen’s handwriting.
These girls don’t sting, unlike some people we know.
Even though I know this is meant to piss me off, I’m unable to stop the curl of my lips into a smile.
“Clever, Taylen,” I say softly. “Very clever.”
Gouta bleats from her spot beneath the cherry tree, sounding entirely too pleased with herself. I turn to find her watching me with what can only be described as smug satisfaction. “You knew about this all along, didn’t you?” I ask, but she just settles more comfortably into her chosen spot.
I run my hand along one of the hive’s edges. “Game on, Taylen.” Because this forces me to make a choice. “Game. On.”
I stare at the waiting hives, my decision forming with unexpected clarity. “If this is how you want to play it, I’m game.” Because two can play this game. This dance of gestures and meanings, this way of saying things we’re not ready to voice directly.
“Come on, Gouta,” I call, turning back toward the barn. “We’ve got work to do.” She rises with elegant grace, falling into step beside me as we leave the hives. Behind us, afternoon light will soon give way to dusk.
On the walk back, each step feels lighter, more purposeful, as plans form in my mind. Taylen wants to communicate through elaborate gestures? Fine. I can work with that. Can match him gesture for gesture, meaning for meaning, until we find our way to words that don’t need translation.
Winter air fills my lungs with each breath. Somewhere across the property line, Taylen is probably wondering if I’ve found his gift yet, if I understand what he’s trying to say. The thought makes my smile grow wider, more determined.
Because this is a language I’m finally starting to understand. And if this is how we need to start, how we bridge the distance between us, then I’m ready to become fluent.
16
TAYLEN
My boots dragagainst each porch step like they’re coated in cement, muscles screaming from hours of work on top of supervising the move of the fences to make sure the festival doesn’t encroach on land that it’s not supposed to.
The only thing that makes it all better is that I’ve had two full days without having to see Bastian’s face or deal with the electricity that crackles between us whenever we’re forced to occupy the same space.
The satisfaction of avoidance dissolves instantly when I spot a small package propped against my door, wrapped in brown paper. No shipping label or return address. Just my name written in a familiar hand that makes my stomach clench.
“No,” I mutter, fumbling with my keys. “Whatever game you’re playing, I’m not interested.” But my fingers betray me, already reaching for the package even as I push through the door.
Inside, I remove my mud-caked boots before I drop onto the couch. The paper crinkles as I turn the package over, studying it like it might detonate. Knowing Bastian, it might. He’s playingmy game now, and I’m suddenly not sure I want to keep participating.
The wrapping comes apart easily, revealing a small box that still carries the faint scent of cedar. My heart kicks against my ribs as I lift the lid. Inside, nestled on a bed of soft fabric, lies a single key attached to a leather keychain stamped withProperty Managerin elegant script.
