“Is that new?” I ask, nodding toward it.
Fred doesn’t even glance over. “You don’t need to worry about it.”
“Well that’s not shady,” I mutter.
He sighs, like talking to me drains his life force. “Added a new attraction this year. My show pumpkins. Used a new fertilizer from a buddy at Smiling Seeds—three towns over. Said it’d grow the best crops. I’m hoping to win the state fair, bring some attention back to Blandville. Not let Mayfield hog all the glory with that monstrosity they call a farm. Happy?”
I shrug. “Then maybe rename your festival.”
He stops so fast I almost smack into his back. His bushy eyebrows pull together. “And why should I do that?”
“Pumpkin spice is cinnamon, nutmeg, clove, and ginger. No pumpkin.” I gesture toward the glowing field. “So technically your Pumpkin Spice Festival advertises... no pumpkins. Which is weird, since you clearly have a lot.”
My bracelets clink when I motion, and for a moment Fred just stares at me like I sprouted a second head.
The ground hums under my feet.
A soft vibration pulses up my legs, subtle but steady. The air buzzes too—an almost electric thrum, like the earth’s heartbeat rising to the surface.
Like something is watching me.
Fred huffs, turns, and stomps off. “Come on,” he calls. “The others are waiting, smartass.”
Note to self: do not go into consulting.
I follow, but my eyes keep drifting back to that pumpkin field. Something in the soil almost glows from this distance. Something in it feels awake. Not in a charming fall-festival way. More like a sleeping bear you hope stays asleep.
We reach the barn in a heavy quiet. The big doors groan as Fred pushes them open, and the moment the light spills inside, every conversation shuts off.
I catch sight of Drew Craig’s messy blond mop and bright red Blandville letterman jacket leaning against a hay bale with that easy smirk. It widens more at the sight of me and there is a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
Super.
Sandie Sampson sits next to him, scrolling on her phone like the barn air offends her. Her sleek blond hair falls over one shoulder, perfect as ever. She pops her gum, sharp and echoing, exactly the way she did in school hallways and during track practice.
Across from her sits a skinny high schooler—junior, maybe—near the feed sacks. Nervous energy in human form. Thick, black frames swallow most of his face. He looks like he wants to be anywhere else.
And then my eyes land onhim.
Sitting on a hay bale beside Drew, long legs in faded jeans, a worn green tee stretched across broad shoulders. His lucky number 13 sits on his chest like it’s a beacon calling to me.
Shaun MacReady.
He lifts his head and our eyes collide. His brown eyes go sharp, warm, startled. His shoulders tense. Heat blooms low in my stomach, sudden and unwelcome.
My mind snaps back to senior year.
A quiet library corner.
His face inches from mine.
The hint of spearmint gum.
The soft brush of his breath against my lips.
One second from kissing him. One heartbeat from everything. Then his buddy barged in, and Shaun shot away from me like I had a contagious disease. The humiliation burned for months. I spent the rest of the year pretending I didn’t care, drowning myself in homework and college applications while he avoided me like the plague.
I told myself I moved on.
