“You’re not talking about Alvin anymore, are you?” Wes said finally.
“Are you going to end up like him? Working yourself to death until you’ve got nothing left?”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it? I know December’s your busiest season—I get it. But what about after Christmas? What happens in January when you’re exhausted and burnt out, and Henry still doesn’t know? What happens when the season’s over, and you’re still hiding?”
“I won’t be hiding.”
“Then what’s stopping you now?”
“The farm! The season! I can’t just—” Wes paused, then sighed. “I don’t get to take breaks, Jake. I don’t get to step back and figure things out when I feel like it. I have a father who depends on me, a farm that’s been in my family for three generations, and responsibilities you clearly don’t understand because you’ve never had to?—”
He cut himself off.
Jake went cold. “Never had to what? Care about anyone? Have a family? Know what it’s like to belong somewhere?”
“I didn’t mean?—”
“Yes, you did.” Jake stood, pacing his apartment. “You meant exactly that. And you’re right. I don’t know what it’s like to have roots, or family, or a legacy to protect. I’ve spent my whole life watching other people have those things while I moved fromhouse to house, hoping someone would want me enough to keep me.”
“Jake—”
“So, forgive me if I don’t understand why you’re so terrified of telling your father the truth. Forgive me if I think maybe, just maybe, the people who love you might actually want you to be happy.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It never is.” Jake’s voice was cold, exhausted. “I’ll be there tomorrow. We can talk then.”
He hung up before Wes could respond.
For a long time, Jake just sat there, phone in his hand, wondering if he’d just destroyed the best thing that had ever happened to him.
His phone buzzed. A text from Wes.I’m sorry.
Jake stared at it, then typed,Me too.
Another buzz—Are we okay?
Jake closed his eyes.I don’t know.
He turned off his phone and went to bed, knowing sleep wouldn’t come.
Nine
Wes stood at the kitchen sink, staring at his phone. The last text exchange from the night before was glowing on the screen.
Are we okay?
I don’t know.
He’d barely slept, replaying their conversation over and over. The worst part was that Jake wasn’t wrong. Weswasexhausted. Hewashiding. Hewasterrified of what would happen if he stopped holding everything together through sheer force of will.
But Wes wasn’t wrong either. Jake didn’t understand—couldn’t understand—what it was like to be responsible for someone else’s life. To watch your father struggle with basic tasks. To know that one disruption, one spike in blood pressure, could trigger another stroke.
The sound of tires on gravel made him look up. Jake’s rental car was pulling into the drive.
Wes’s heart hammered as he dried his hands on a dish towel. Through the window, he watched Jake sit in the car for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, before finally getting out.
