I huff and nudge her shoulder. “Shut up.”
She snickers and rolls onto her back, hands tucked beneath her head of wind-tousled curls.
My face feels hot, blood simmering beneath my skin, though I can’t tell if it’s from the sun or from openly talking about my taste in men. Probably both. To be safe, I grab the sunscreen and smooth a thin layer across my cheeks.
As I rub the lotion into my arms, Luke’s voice pipes up behind me as he chats with his friends, volleyball tucked under his arm.
“Yo, do you see that guy?” one of them snorts. “Dude has his nails painted. Bright pink.”
I don’t turn around, but I recognize that low, gravelly voice as Ethan’s. He’s between Luke and me in age, and the three of us have been friends since we met in Boy Scouts.
“Yeah, what the hell is up with that?” another one of Luke’s friends chimes in. “Wearing that crap out in public… it’s confusing for kids.”
“Right?” Luke says, laughing. “Like, nobody wants to see that at the beach.”
A knot tightens in my stomach. My hands freeze where they’ve been rubbing sunscreen into my shoulders, arms still crossed over my chest, the lotion half-absorbed. Their words cut through me like a blade—which is ridiculous, because none of this is new. Luke and his buddies have made comments like this before. I’ve spent yearstrying to shrug it off, chalking it up to the same recycled ignorance they inherited from their families.
Luke especially. He’s so much like our dad—stubborn, blissful in his ignorance, charming only when it benefits him.
I like to think I took after Mom instead. She’s gentle and timid in a way Dad never was. Growing up, I secretly wished they’d get a divorce. I actually prayed for it sometimes in church, begging God to set her free. My father never treated her with the decency she deserved.
Over the years, his coldness smothered her spark. Now she’s a shadow of the woman she once was—dimmed, quiet, tucked beneath him like she’s forgotten she was ever allowed to shine.
Dad used to call me amama’s boywhenever I messed up or cried or didn’t act tough enough for his liking. He meant it as an insult. But honestly? If being like her is the alternative, I’ll take it.
At least I didn’t end up like Luke.
Phoebe must notice the agony on my face. Her fingers slide across the towel and close around my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. When I look over, she’s already watching me, her expression gentle and steady.
“They’re idiots,” she says quietly. “Ignore them.”
I nod, but my throat feels tight. God, I wish it were that easy.
No matter how hard I try, their voices manage to burrow under my skin. Every narrow-minded comment is another reminder of why I never let myself explore any of this—why I buried it so deep it almost felt fictional. Letting the truth surface never felt like a real option.
I love Luke. He’s not just my brother—he’s my best friend. The thought of him learning the truth about me and hating me for it is unbearable.
Phoebe squeezes my hand again, grounding me, but the ache in my chest lingers long after.
Chapter Eleven
Ashton
Ihatesmalltalk,but unfortunately it’s a huge part of running a business. All day at the farmers market, I’m trapped behind a folding table while customers line up in an endless stream. They sift through pints of cherries and comment on the weather, and I agree that yes, it’s hot. They ask about my dad, and I tell them he’s doing fine. They ask about the harvest, and I say it’s going well.
The answers come automatically, delivered with a tight-lipped smile as I try not to look as miserable as I feel.
The street itself is bursting with life, stalls packed shoulder to shoulder and overflowing with produce so bright it looks painted. Tomatoes still warm from the sun. Cucumbers stacked neatly in woven baskets. Leafy greens glisten under a fresh mist of cold water. The stand beside mine is loaded with fresh-cut herbs and flowers, the scent of lilacs and roses drifting over me.
It’s a perfect summer day—warm, but not enough to be uncomfortable—and the market hums with locals and tourists alike. Kids lick ice cream cones that melt faster than they can keep up. Couples wander hand in hand, canvas totes bumping against their hips.
As a kid, the farmers market was always my least favorite part of cherry season. Luke loved it. He’d charm customers with his boyish grin and gap-toothed smile, standing on his tiptoes to offer samples. I stayed in the background, stacking crates, avoiding eye contact, hiding wherever I could.
But now, I can’t hide anymore. I’m the owner, and I need to start acting like it.
It’s a scorcher today, and I’m grateful for the lemonade I bought from one of the stalls—even if it was outrageously overpriced. Seven dollars for a small plastic cup of what I’m pretty sure is powdered mix? Ridiculous.
Still, it hits the spot. The cool sweetness slides down my throat, easing the hoarseness from hours of forced conversation. I give the cup a shake, listening to the last few ice cubes rattle at the bottom, then slurp down the watery remnants. The sound disappears into the easy, constant chatter of the market, and for a moment, I let myself blend into it.
