Dad steps back, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Farmers market starts in a couple weeks,” he says, eyeing me cautiously. “Think you’re ready?”
His words settle heavy in my chest.
To many small businesses in Claremont Shores, the farmers market is a big deal. Every Saturday during harvest season, I used to tag along behind Dad, watching him charm the public with a smile that never once appeared in my direction. He’d shake hands, hand out samples, tell the same jokes I’d heard a thousand times while I quietly stacked pints of cherries and tried not to get in the way.
This year, it’ll be me. Alone. My first chance to prove to the town—and to him—that I’m not some screwup waiting to happen.
I swallow hard.
Dad keeps talking. “You’ll need to prep the booth. Make sure the signage is cleaned up. Customers need to know they can rely on you.”
My hand flexes around the wrench in my hand, the cool metal digging into my flesh. “I know,” I say quietly, forcing my voice not to shake. “I’ll be ready.”
Dad huffs quietly, unconvinced. “Well,” he mutters, subtly checking his watch, “I should get back home before it gets dark. Don’t forget to put everything back where it belongs.”
Without another word, he walks out of the barn, his boots crunching loudly across the gravel. He climbs in his truck and leaves, dirt clouding behind his tires.
I let out a long breath and start cleaning up. Oil rags into the bin. Caps twisted back onto empty containers. Wrenches wiped down and returned to their designated hooks on the pegboard. Dad’s system. And God forbid anything ever be an inch out of place.
I’m reaching for the funnel when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
My heart jumps. I fumble the phone out, pulse pounding, only for my stomach to sink when I see the name.
Of course it’s not Phoebe finally returning my dozens of missed phone calls. It’s Luke.
I swipe to answer. “Hey.”
“Hey!” Luke’s voice booms so loud I have to hold the phone away from my ear. “How’s it going?”
“Fine,” I say automatically. “Just working.”
“Shocker,” he snorts. “You got any plans tonight?”
“No.” I shut the toolbox, the metallic click echoing in the barn. “Why?”
“Was just thinking we should have a bonfire to kick off the start of cherry season—y’know, like the old days.”
A flicker of nostalgia tugs at me. My brain conjures up images of June nights. A dozen reckless teenagers sneaking into the woods behind the farmhouse with backpacks full of stolen booze. Cheap beer, warm whiskey, music from someone’s dented Bluetooth speaker bouncing between the trees. Lying on our backs in the clearing and staring at the stars while bonfire smoke curled into the sky.
Luke’s voice crackles through the line. “So what do you think? You in?”
I hesitate, rolling Luke’s offer around in my mind. Bonfires used to be Phoebe’s favorite. She’d tag along even when she pretended shewas only coming to “supervise our stupidity.” Maybe the nostalgia would be enough to get her to show up.
“Yeah,” I say slowly, dragging out the word. “Okay. Sure. Let’s do it.”
“Hell yeah!” Luke cheers.
“But we’re doing it at my place,” I cut in quickly. “Dad would kill us if he found out we snuck into the woods again.”
Luke snorts. “Obviously. I’m not trying to get grounded at twenty-two.” He snickers.
I shake my head, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips.
“I’ll text people,” he continues. “Let ’em know it’s on. I’m thinking Keaton, Brooke, Phoebe, maybe the Peterson twins… oh, and Troy.”
I freeze mid-step. “Troy? Why?”
Luke laughs. “Free booze, dude. Duh.”
