“You good on your own for a minute?” Remy appears at my elbow, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He’s been manning the ticket booth, but the afternoon rush has slowed to a trickle. “I need a drink.”
“Yeah, go.” I gesture toward the lavender lemonade stand at the edge of the field. “Bring me one.”
He grins and takes off, leaving me alone with a dozen children squealing over rabbits, a pair of exceptionally patient sheep, and the more aggressive goats.
Rhys is somewhere in the crowd, probably trying to convince another kid that our chickens are small dinosaurs. He’s been going on and on all week about how Miss Rose taught them that birds are the closest descendants of those prehistoric giants and that velociraptors had feathers. Guess daydreaming about Faye is genetic.
I haven’t spoken to her since Tuesday evening, five days ago. Not that I’m counting. After Rhys got into that fight on Monday, she called the next day to pass along the contact of Dr. Sarah Agard, a renowned child psychologist with an office in Osage Beach. Rhys and I had our first appointment Thursday afternoon, and I have to admit—begrudgingly—that Faye was right.
Dr. Agard helped us navigate the topic of Abigail leaving safely. She gave Rhys language for feelings he didn’t know how to express, and she encouraged me to be honest and stop hiding harsh truths. We talked about absence and love and how sometimes people leave because of their own problems, not because of anything we did wrong.
Rhys cried. I teared up, too. And afterward, driving home with my son, chattering about how Dr. Agard had a fish tank in her office and could we please get one, I felt lighter than I have in years.
I owe Faye for that. For pushing me when I was too stubborn to see what I needed. For not letting me hide behind my pride.
But I still haven’t thanked her. I haven’t even sent a text or called her.
This week swallowed me whole. The therapy session lasted only an hour, but it meant leaving the farm in the middle of the afternoon, missing work I have to recoup some other time. I’ve been getting up earlier or working late into the night to keep everything running smoothly while also making space for this new priority.
No time for a woman in that equation. Maybe I was silly to think I could pursue someone and carve a slice of happiness for myself. I don’t get to date. I get to parent, run the family business, and collapse into bed at night, too exhausted to even?—
My train of thought derails as Faye walks past the gates of the fun farm in a floral dress that floats over brown suede boots. Her hair is loose. No complicated twists today. No severe bun. Just… her.
My exhaustion evaporates like water on hot asphalt.
She stops just inside the gate, looking around with an uncertain expression as if she’s not sure she should be here. Her arms are crossed, one hand rubbing her opposite elbow in a gesture that screams discomfort.
Why did she come so late? The festival started yesterday morning, and we’re down to the last hours. The final hayride is scheduled in twenty minutes, and then we’ll close up.
Is she into tulips? Did she want to pick the flowers?
But then Rebecca spots her and waves, jogging over with the boundless energy only my sister possesses at the end of a long day. They hug. Rebecca is talking—I can’t hear what she’s saying from this distance, but from her body language, she must be thanking Faye for something. For coming?
So Rebecca invited her.
That makes sense. They’re close, or as close as Faye is letting anyone be, and see each other at book club every week. Of course Rebecca would invite Faye to the festival.
My heart sinks. She came to see her friends: Rebecca and some of the other book club women who are wandering around, picking flowers, and taking photos for their socials.
She didn’t come for me. Why would she? I’ve acted like a jerk every other time I saw her.
Except Faye keeps looking over her shoulder. A glance to the side, a longer scan across the field, like she’s searching for someone. Her gaze sweeps the crowd, lingering on clusters of people, then moving on.
My pulse kicks into a higher gear.
Is she looking for me?
Hope flares hot and stupid in my chest. Dangerous hope. The kind that could get me hurt.
I want to go say hello. Hear her voice, even if just for a polite greeting.
But I hesitate.
I’m a mess. I have dirt under my fingernails. My scalp is itchy with sweat under my Bobcats cap. My jeans are streaked with mud and who knows what else from wrestling goats and hauling feed. My shirt is clean, at least, but the heat has glued it to my back.
I look like a hick who’s been working since dawn.
And Faye could’ve walked out of a ranch lifestyle photoshoot: country, but make it expensive. A hand lands on my shoulder, and I nearly jump out of my skin.
