“Tommy, I swear if you—” I cut off when a wave of dizziness swamps me. My body rocks to the side and I slam my palm flat against the counter to steady myself.
“Whoa . . . what was that? Are you—”
“I’m fine,” I say when things level out. I point my finger at him. “Don’t say anything to them. Okay? They don’t need to worry about this.”My dad’s doctor was very clear about that.“The restaurant is going to succeed.”
And maybe then I can walk away for a few days and not think about harvest schedules, payroll, or whether the kale is curling too soon. One day I’ll get to rest. But today is not that day.
Tommy meets my eye, and I don’t see any hope mirrored back.“Maybe. Or maybe it’ll just make the collapse hurt worse. What I do know, that contract would give you more than a fighting chance. It would give you cushion and stability. It would give the restaurant time to grow into something great.”
Yes, to someone like Tommy who knows so little about the farming world, he would see it as a straightforward solution. But ever since I was a kid, I’ve listened to my dad and grandfather before him discuss the faults of taking a contract with a large food distribution company. The mission of Huxley Farm has always been to sell directly to consumers, putting the best produce directly into our neighbors’ hands. We care about the community, how we run our land, and growing for quality rather than quantity.
If I take this contract with AFD, I would be selling out. Something my dad and grandfather managed to avoid while the farm was in their hands.
“Since when do you give a shit about the well-being of this farm? I didn’t see you showing up when you were living at home, or even after Dad’s heart attack.” My voice has a quiet, menacing edge.
He’s silent.
“Right. I’m going to go get my shower. When Madison gets here, don’t start the meeting without me.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Madison
72 DAYS UNTIL I FAIL . . .
“When I die, I want to be buried with my truck,” I say, arms spread wide, star-fishing against the green steel hood.
Emily looks uncomfortable and intrigued at the same time. “What do you mean by ‘with’ your truck? Like, with the steering wheel in your hand?” We all have a morbid sense of humor. I imagine most people who have experienced tragedy at a young age do.
“I’m talking buckled into my driver’s seat and the whole thing lowered into the ground.”
She grimaces. “I was afraid that was what you meant. We’re gonna be digging for ages.”
I plant a big kiss on the hood and then peel myself up. “I’ve missed this old girl.”
“Really? I couldn’t tell,” Emily says with a grin, because nothing makes her happier than seeing one of us Walkers happy.
“You have no idea how awesome it is to decide to go somewhere,grab my keys, jump in the truck, put on whatever music I want, and hit the road. Literally whenever I please,” I say while performing each action like it’s revolutionary. But after constantly having to think ahead for the last couple years and consider train schedules, walking times, Uber prices, or whether Dan the Lock of Hair Guy is lurking outside the apartment when I’m going to leave or not, this is a dream. I just wish I didn’t feel so silly for loving this more than the city.
I slam the door shut and the familiar, heavy sound brings a wide smile to my face. Before I drive off, I roll down the window and reach my hand out for Emily’s. We intertwine fingers. Her reds against my chipped rainbow. “It’s so good to be home.”
“It’s good to have you home.” Her words are kind, but there’s something reserved in her expression. She looks like how I felt on Saturday mornings when I’d walk to my favorite bagel place but wouldn’t let myself get excited for the salted bagel because there was always a fifty percent chance that by the time I got there they’d have sold out.
And now I know what the look means.
“I’m here to stay, Em. This is real.” I say it, hoping to ease some of her fears. But my words bounce right off her flimsy smile. Emily is used to people coming and going from her life—and to be honest, I always thought I would be the person who left and never came back. I didn’t realize until I was gone exactly how much of my heart lived here and wasn’t willing to pack up and move with me.
After leaving Emily’s, I hang my arm out the window, letting it surf through the wind as I drive to Huxley Farm. I’ve been covered in winter frost, but I’m finally thawing and coming back to life. It would be nice, though, if I didn’t keep replaying the look on Emily’s face a few minutes ago. Does she think I’ll get restless and leave again? Or . . . that I’ll screw up and run away?
I’m not comfortable with how both options align with my character.
But not anymore! I’ve changed. This is going to work. Failure isn’t an option, and neither is running away.
When I turn off the main road, my breath catches. It doesn’t matter how many times I see this place, I’m still mesmerized by this land and the farmhouse positioned at the front of it. It’sparadise.
A large ivory house sits on sprawling green grass—powder-blue sky with happy little Bob Ross clouds dotted across it. Cornfields stretch out from the left of the house, and then behind it, as well as off to the right, are thriving crops and industrial greenhouses.
My dad used to work full time on this farm before he and my mom passed away. They were best friends with the Huxleys, and even though my mom worked at the Pie Shop with my grandma, she always dreamed of opening a flower shop of her own. She convinced Mr. Huxley to rent her a little plot of land—for practically pennies—so she could start growing her own flower crop.
