Dad eyes me as he passes the plate of salmon. “What?” he asks.
I shake my head, put a piece on my plate, and pass it on to Mama beside me. “Nothing.”
But clearly, I didn’t do a good enough job leaving it all outside.
I hate that this run-in with Ashton is still bothering me. I hate that I ran into him at all, and that he was in a place that I never thought I would see him, ever.
I fuckinghatewhat he said…
And I hate that it’s all true.
Mama’s hand closes gently over mine, and I blink as I shift my eyes to her, realizing I just zoned out.
She just gives me a small smile, squeezes my hand again, then spoons asparagus onto my plate.
“Oh, I was able to pull the moisture readings from the northeast field this afternoon,” Dad says as he spears a potato with his fork. “I compared it to the stand count data from last season, and the lightest readings match almost exactly where the emergence was thinnest.”
Papa nods, setting his beer down with a thoughtful hum. “Hopefully that’ll explain why those rows came up patchy.”
Dad chews and nods again. “I think we should till deeper this year and work in more compost before we replant. Might be too compacted in the lower section.”
I take a bite of salmon and stare at my plate. When I walked that field last, it had a low spot that was holding moisture longer. But I thought we sorted that out with drainage…
“Hm,” Papa says, wiping his hands on his napkin. “You’ll probably want to offset the next planting row by a few inches, too. If the water’s pushing down slope, spacing will be off.”
My brow furrows, and I look up at him. “But… what? Aren’t we fixing the drainage issues?”
“We are,” Papa says. “But we still have slope pushing runoff east, so unless we correct the planting direction, it’s going to keep drifting that way.”
I nod slowly, but it still doesn’t make sense. East? That’s not where the runmarks were… and wait. What about the drainage? We’ve shifted planting direction before, but… I don’t know why we’re doing this now. Thoughts layer over each other in my head as I try to make sense of it and catch up, but it all just blurs together.
“I’ll remap the field for the drill, then. The GPS lines are still set from last year,” Dad says.
I squeeze my eyes shut and grip my fork tight. Why can’t I get this…
“Make sure the soil is dried out enough first so you don’t risk packing it down again,” Papa adds.
Suddenly, I slam my fork down on my plate. “Fuck!”
I stare at my plate as my ears ring, my chest heaves, and anger rolls through me. And I’m surprised at how easily it arrived.
“Silas,” Mama says gently.
I rub my hands hard over my face and sigh. “Sorry,” I mutter.
“What’s wrong, bud?” Dad asks.
“Nothing,” I say, more sharply than I intended. Even though that’s a lie. But I don’t want to get into it. I don’t want to talk about what happened tonight at the farm supply store, and the anger flooding my veins at the reminders of how I’ve failed and just continue to fail.
There’s silence around the table for a moment, and I know they’re all sharing glances, deciding who’s going to take this one.
“You know,” Mama says eventually. “I’ve been waiting for a new drawing.”
My eyes shift to meet hers, and she smiles warmly.
“My wall is looking a little bare,” she adds. “It’s been months since you gave me the last one.”
I keep my eyes on her as she just smiles, like she has all the time in the world for me. She just calmly waits as I let my breaths even out and the anger fade. My mind starts to clear, and my thoughts begin to sort themselves out.
