I meet his eyes and nod. “I miss you, Si.” I give him a half smile. “I’ll see you this summer.”
He nods, and I swallow down the emotion that’s fighting to come out. That feels like a long way away.
“Call me when you get home,” I say.
“I will.” He presses his lips together as he blinks and steps in to wrap me in another hug.
I squeeze him tight and blink away the tears threatening to spill over.
I do my best to hold it together as I watch him go through security and catch his final wave to me before he disappears. Then I let a tear fall as I keep my eyes on the spot my best friend left behind.
And my heart hurts.
I love him, and I miss him so much.
We had such a good time together this weekend. But it was also the first time something didn’t feel quite right.
And I’m scared of what that means.
NINE
WE WERE ALMOST TWENTY-TWO
I shiftthe tractor into park and jump down, flipping my hat around so the beak shields my eyes from the bright midday sun. It’s only spring, but I can tell this is going to be a hot summer.
I walk a few paces out on the field I just crossed, scanning the rows that were just planted last week. Everything looks… ok. But that’s the problem.
This was our problem field last year. It produced a high percentage of potatoes with hollow heart—the empty, brown cavities in the middle of the potato that don’t show themselves until they’re cut open at harvest. We figured it was from heavier-than-usual rain last year, and because this field sits lower than the others, sloping toward the tree line at the far edge of the property. But… I don’t know. I have a feeling there’s something else going on with this field.
We got some rain last night, so I let the soil settle this morning, then did a sweep of the entire field. And it’s not draining like it should. Water seems to be pooling in the southwest corner and draining faster on the other side. And overall, the soil is packed too tightly for the amount of rain we got. If uneven moisture continues in this field throughout thesummer, the tubers will grow too fast under stress, and we’ll end up with another field of potatoes with hollow heart. And the worst part is, it’s completely unpredictable. It doesn’t show up until harvest, when it matters most, and can ruin our contracts and reputation. We can do everything right… and still fail.
Maybe if we change the irrigation timing?—
“Still here?”
I look over my shoulder as Dad approaches, squinting out over the rows before me.
“Yeah.” I turn back to the field. “Why?”
“Well,” he stops to stand beside me, “Levi’s home.”
I nod, not looking at him. “Ok.”
But my chest tightens. I knew he was getting home today, but I didn’t know when.
“Going to go see him?” Dad asks.
I just shrug, staying focused on the row in front of me and letting my gaze follow the furrow all the way to the edge of the field, where the ground dips.
“Silas,” Dad says gently. “I’m sure he wants to see you.”
“I haven’t talked to him all week,” I say.
“He’s been busy. He was writing finals,” Dad says. He’s quiet for a moment, then releases a heavy breath. “I know you guys don’t talk or see each other as much as you used to. Things have changed. But… I know he still means a lot to you. And you mean a lot to him.”
I swallow hard and nod. Whatever it was that started to wedge itself between us over the past year has only grown. He has a whole other life in Toronto now, filled with concerts and parties and exams that I couldn’t even begin to understand. And I’m still here, setting my alarm for 4:30 every morning to plow fields and fix machines that break the same way every season. He comes home less and stays away longer, spending his breaks travelling or even staying at school. And last summer, when hedid come back, it was late, and he left early, like there was something else pulling him away.
“A lot has changed,” I say, dropping my gaze to the dirt before me. “There’s no reason for him to keep coming back.”
