Chapter Five
~ Carter ~
It was spring and the air in the barn was gold with dust motes swirling like tiny, aimless comets. I stood at the pen rail, wrist-deep in a bucket of goat chow, and watched Beyoncé stalk the perimeter with calculated malice.
The other goats hovered behind her, resigned to a social hierarchy that none of them would ever challenge. Out here, ten minutes after sunrise, the world felt like it belonged to us alone—the animals and me.
It didn’t last. It never did.
The door banged open and Macon ducked inside, tracking sunlight and a wind I could feel from thirty feet away. There was something off in the way he moved, a stilted urgency that didn’t match his usual deliberate calm. Even the goats noticed; three of them froze, tails pointed at the sky, and watched him like a pack of nervous mall cops.
“Hey,” I said, voice muffled by the hood of my sweatshirt.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he just looked at me—really looked, taking a full inventory from hairline to boots like he was expecting to find a missing piece. He still wore that battered flannel, now half-untucked over jeans that looked older than me. The hard lines of his face were softer in the morning, eyes ringed with the first hint of exhaustion, but he stood tall, hands curled into fists at his side.
He stared for another moment, then, without breaking eye contact, walked the length of the barn toward me.
I waited. The old version of me—the one who measured every exchange for traps and double meanings—would have filled the silence with sarcasm or a joke. But I was different now. I’d decided this morning, standing in front of the mirror and watching my stomach push against the drawstring waistband,that I wanted things to be different. That maybe I could survive letting someone else steer for a while.
So I just stood there and let him approach.
He stopped two feet from me. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that I could smell sawdust on his skin, a faint echo of whatever soap Jojo had bullied us into using.
“You okay?” he said, voice quiet but tight.
“Fine,” I said, because that was easier than explaining that my heart had spent the last hour fluttering against my ribs like a moth in a jar.
He nodded, eyes drifting down to my hands. “You got a second?”
I held up the bucket. “You want me to feed them or will you do the honors?”
He cracked a smile, faint but real, then shook his head. “Come with me.”
He offered his hand, palm open. I set the bucket down and then took it, letting him pull me gently out of the barn and into the sun.
The world outside was the color of honey. A chill hung over the grass, but you could feel heat coming, a slow build in the bones of the land. Macon didn’t say anything as we walked. He just squeezed my hand once, then set a pace that was cautious, but confident, as if he’d spent all night mapping out every rut and gopher hole on the property.
He led me past the house, past the chicken yard, and down the slope to the river. The river was fast today, the meltwater high and brash, throwing spray where it caught the rocks.
I loved this part of the land best—the way it felt like a secret even when you knew the whole town could see you from the highway if they cared to look.
Macon stopped at a flat patch of grass, close enough that the spray from the river might reach you if you sat longenough. There, already waiting, was a blanket—clean, folded with military precision—and a wicker basket so new the handles still gleamed.
He let go of my hand and gestured for me to sit.
It took more effort than usual. This far along in my pregnancy, my center of gravity had migrated to a zip code I didn’t recognize, and I had to do an awkward, crab-like maneuver to get both feet onto the blanket. Macon didn’t laugh. He just sat down beside me and started unpacking the basket with a solemnity that felt almost ceremonial.
“Did Jojo make you do this?” I asked, watching as he lined up containers, each labeled in blocky Sharpie: “CHICKEN SALAD,” “PASTA SALAD,” “OLIVES,” “TWO KINDS OF PICKLES,” and, inexplicably, “DILL-AND-SRIRACHA ICE CREAM.”
He shook his head. “Jojo thinks I’m in the shop fixing the broken latch on the freezer. This was my idea.” He set out two water bottles, then cracked open the chicken salad and handed me a fork. “You’ve been eating like a bird.”
I bristled, reflexively, but the tone in his voice wasn’t critical. If anything, it was closer to wonder. “You watch everything,” I said, not quite a question.
“Can’t help it,” he replied. “It’s the job.”
I took a cautious bite, then a bigger one. The chicken salad tasted like someone had made it while thinking very hard about me, which probably meant Jojo had interrogated Rawley about every food I’d ever liked in my entire life. I ate three bites in silence, then switched to the pickles. Macon just watched, not even pretending to serve himself, eyes locked on my mouth every time I took a bite.
“Stop staring,” I said, more embarrassed than annoyed.
