3
BASTIAN
My yawn is silencedby the familiar creak of the third floorboard.
Home.
I could get it fixed, but I’d miss the sound as much as I hate hearing it every time I step on it, especially in the morning when every sound is amplified.
I move through to the farmhouse kitchen, ignoring the expensive coffee maker I bought for my parents last Christmas in favor of the old percolator. Stone is the only one who uses the machine to make all kinds of fancy coffee when he’s around, which is reason enough to keep it.
The percolator gurgles to life, the coffee’s aroma already beginning to chase away the lingering ghosts of sleep, when the floorboards announce my parents’ approach. Mom’s gentle footsteps, then Dad’s slower, more measured tread. The change in his gait reminds me that he’s one of the reasons I’m here.
“You’re up early again,” Mom says, like she has every day for the last two weeks.
“Farm schedule,” I reply, reaching for three mugs without being asked. “Some habits stick with you for life.”
Dad eases himself into his chair at the kitchen table, trying to hide the wince that crosses his weathered features. I pretend not to notice, just like I pretend not to see the way Mom’s hand brushes his shoulder in silent support.
“That’s not what you used to say when I had to drag you out of bed as a teenager,” Dad says, accepting the coffee I place before him.
I sit at the table across from him with my own steaming cup. “It’s been a while since I was one of those.”
“I suppose that crazy schedule when you’re on tour has kept you on your feet.” He pauses and then looks straight at me. “Speaking of which, when’s the next one?”
My jaw tightens. I wrap my hands around my own mug, feeling the heat seep into my palms. “The band’s on hiatus. I told you.”
“Hiatus isn’t the same as finished, Sebastian.”
I hate it when he full names me like I’m thirteen and need to be reminded that tractors aren’t toys, like I’ve ever not fully respected the farm and our way of living.
“The farm needs consistency. Regular hands, regular schedule,” he continues.
“Which is exactly what I’m offering.” The coffee burns my tongue, but I welcome the sharp sensation.
“Honey,” Mom starts, her voice gentle in that way that always precedes difficult truths. “We just want to make sure you’ve thought this through. The spotlight, the music… They’ve been your life for so long. We can always hire?—”
“I’ve been a part of this family and this farm for much longer. The farm, the animals, the land, it’s in my blood. The music was a dream I never expected to happen. I’m grateful for the life I’ve had, but it’s okay to want a change.” To need a change.
Dad’s grunt tells me exactly what he thinks of that statement. I catch the look my parents exchange, heavy with years of complicity and love.
“I’m here to stay,” I say, softer now but no less determined. “I know you have doubts. But this isn’t temporary.”
“If you’re sure, son,” Dad says.
“It’ll be nice having you here for the holidays,” Mom adds and then stands, placing her cup in the sink and walking toward the pantry. “Time to let out my frustrations on bread dough.”
I laugh. “Mom, you’re the most chill person I know.”
“That’s because I bake every day.”
My dad raises his cup to drink his coffee, hiding his smile.
“And I should get going.” I stand and place my mug next to Mom’s in the sink. “Dad, I’ll see you in the office later, okay?”
“Sure thing, boss.”
I grab my coat and head outside, trying to remember that this change must be hard for him too. Even though he knows he needs to slow down, it’s not easy breaking the habits of a lifetime, especially when he’d expected me to join him in running the business much earlier.
