“Why not?” He pulls back enough to meet my eyes, his pupils blown wide with a desire that matches my own. “Give me one good reason why we can’t have this.” His thumb strokes my cheek with gentleness that hurts worse than any roughness.
“Because you’ll leave.” The words escape before I can catch them, carrying more truth than I mean to reveal.
“What do I have to do?” His voice drops lower, rougher. “What do I have to do to make you believe I’m not goinganywhere?” His hands frame my face, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Tell me what you need, Taylen. I’ll do it.”
But I can’t find words to explain how this fear feels like a second skin, how twelve years of barely seeing the only person who would have understood my grief left scars. I can’t voice how wanting him feels like falling without knowing where the ground is, like driving too fast on icy roads, like every reckless choice I’ve ever tried to stop making.
“I have to go,” I manage, pushing against his chest with hands that shake slightly. He steps back immediately, giving me space I’m not sure I actually want. The cold rushes in where his warmth was, making me shiver.
I go back inside the bar, make a quick excuse to Finn, and grab my coat.
My lips burn from Bastian’s touch all the way to the farm. It’s not until I park in front of Bastian’s cabin that I realize I have no control anymore. I’m not the one in charge. I’m not the one making the decisions here.
I stare at the front door, knowing I need to turn around and go home, but my feet make a different decision. Suddenly, I regret keeping that goddam key he made for me.
Gouta greets me at the door with enthusiasm. The chickens follow her lead, Moira and Myrtle investigating my boots with curiosity.
“What the hell am I doing here?” The question falls into empty air, drawing no response except Gouta’s gentle headbutt against my leg.
I drop down on the couch and hold my head in my hands. Why am I running? Why am I so afraid that he’ll run? And why the fuck am I here if I’m running? Am I running toward him or away from him?
The photos on the walls catch my attention when I look up. The band throughout the years and family moments. Jacksonappears in several, his smile preserved forever. He looks exactly like I remember, forever young while the rest of us keep aging without him. This is the Bastian no one sees.
The eager paparazzi, the press, the fans. They get rockstar Bastian. Out here, we get real Bastian. The farmer. The local boy who grew up to achieve amazing things.
“He’ll leave again,” I tell Gouta, but I’m pretty sure I’m just trying to convince myself. Because everything Bastian is doing indicates otherwise.
In the end, my fear rules as I stand and leave.
21
BASTIAN
It’sfunny how a place that used to bring excitement now just makes me feel suffocated.
The record label’s conference room is all glass and chrome and filled with expectations.
Here, from this fortieth-floor Manhattan view, Vermont seems impossibly far, like some dream I had about simple things like dairy cows and farm work.
Beside me, Stone’s jaw works like he’s chewing on words he can’t quite swallow. His fingers tap nervous rhythms against his thigh. On my other side, Mik maintains his professional mask, but I can see tension in how straight he’s holding himself.
“Q3 is our optimal release window,” the exec—Bradley or Braden—leans forward with practiced aggression. “The market analysis supports?—”
“We need time to get the songs right,” I interrupt, keeping my voice level despite the frustration building in my chest.
Bradley-or-Braden’s face reddens slightly, but before he can respond, his colleague, a younger, hungrier version of him, jumps in. “The numbers don’t lie, Mr. Hall. Summer touring season is crucial for maximizing?—”
“We understand that. But as we discussed at length, the band is on hiatus.” Maybe I need to pull out the definition of the word for him. “We’re still writing songs, but we reserve the right to decide when we’re ready to release.” After twenty-five years of loyalty to the label, we’ve earned every second of time off.
The air feels thick with unspoken tension as Bradley-or-Braden leans back, his chair creaking slightly. Behind him, Manhattan’s skyline stretches endlessly, glass and steel monuments to commerce that make me ache for Vermont’s gentle hills.
“Perhaps,” Daisy interjects smoothly, “we should take a brief break. Give everyone a chance to review the proposals more thoroughly.”
The executives file out with poorly concealed irritation. As soon as the door closes behind them, the tension breaks like a summer storm.
“Corporate vultures,” Stone mutters. “Did you see them? Like sharks circling bloody water.” His hands spread wide, mimicking the exec’s aggressive posture. “Fuck the market analysis. We’ve earned a fucking break.”
I move to the window, pressing my palm against the cool glass. Forty stories below, people move like insects, oblivious to the deals being brokered in the buildings that surround them. “Remember when making music was about music?”
