I hold my breath when the door squeaks under my touch, chancing a glance back at Linden. He’s still breathing quietly, curled up on his side. His blond hair appears silver in the moonlight, fanning out around his head like a halo, his pale skin glowing mysteriously. He looks otherworldly, almost fae-like, and for a moment, I wish I could capture his picture and show it to him whenever he reaches for one of his oversized sweatersto hide in. Shaking my head at my thoughts, I turn to the dark hallway, closing the door behind me with a softclick.
I take a moment to orient myself, then slink past the row of closed doors behind which Linden’s sisters and their husbands are probably fast asleep.
I feel like an intruder when I carefully make my way down the wooden stairs, trying to avoid the creaky spot we hit earlier, but, of course, still stepping on it. I stop, holding my breath as I listen for movement and wait for someone to switch the lights on and confront me, but nothing happens.
A few toys are littered across the floorboards of the hallway, which I carefully step over on my path to the door. Somewhere in the dark, a pair of green eyes blinks at me.
“Hush,” I hum when the orange cat meets me halfway, weaving around my ankles, then rubbing against my legs with a soft meow. I bend down, hesitantly petting its back and scratching between the perky ears, which earns me a soft purr. I smile at the sound, spending a few minutes longer in the hallway than intended. The little furball protests with a loud meow when I finally slip into my sneakers, making me cringe.
“I’ll be back in a bit,” I promise in a hushed voice as I reach for the door handle, blinking in surprise when I find it unlocked. For a second, I think back to the deadbolts my father installed in our home—three in total, with a thick chain lock on top. I used to lie in bed, asking myself if I could get them open fast enough if I had to escape.
Because in my father’s world, there’s always something to escape from.
A fire. A robbery. A group of secret agents.
Meanwhile, on the Woodrow farm, a whole family is sleeping peacefully behind an unlocked door.
I take a deep breath as I stretch my arms out, groaning when a satisfying pop comes from my neck, then another as I turn myhead from side to side. The air is still warm, but not as stifling as it is in Bonham. Out here, my senses are almost overstimulated in the softest way possible. Everything around me is alive: the leaves of a tree rustle in the courtyard as a soft breeze travels over from the forest, bringing the sweet scent of ripe fruit and dried grass with it, mixing with the smell of the nearby barn. Out in the fields, crickets are chirping, and insects are buzzing. Now and then, a muffled moo breaks the silence. I narrow my eyes to slits, trying to spot where the sound comes from, when an insistent meow behind me makes me jump.
“Hey, you aren’t supposed to be out here!” I tell the little orange devil who snuck out behind me. This is a farm, so I guess it’s free to come and go as it pleases, but I also don’t want to be the dumbass who loses the only indoor cat the Woodrow family owns before even properly meeting them! So when it hops down the porch steps to disappear into the dark, I follow hot on its heels across the courtyard. I catch up to it in front of the barn, but before I can reach out, it ducks under the wooden door and slips inside through the gap, leaving me standing there like an idiot.
“Shit,” I curse, clasping my hands together at the back of my head as I pace up and down on the dusty gravel. I don’t dare to follow it inside, but I also don’t want to leave it out here and pretend nothing has happened.
Just as I’ve worked up the courage to push the door open, a loud bark has me freeze in my tracks. From behind me, I hear the unmistakable crunch of gravel beneath paws. The fine hairs at the back of my neck stand, my heart thumping in my chest as I slowly turn around. Just a few yards away, I can make out the silhouette of ahuge guard dog staring me down with malicious intent. A guard dog that Linden definitely failed to mention when we arrived.
I instinctively raise my hands as if confronted by a police officer, trying to placate it with a stammered “I just meant to get the cat!” when a calm but commanding voice rings out.
“Oak!”
The dog visibly relaxes at the order, even though his retreat is slow, darting a few suspicious looks back at me.
“Thanks,” I breathe out in relief, only to turn away quickly when the beam of a flashlight hits me.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
The voice sounds oddly familiar, even with the sharpness laced into it, when talking to me instead of the dog. It reminds me of Linden, who should still be sleeping in his bed.
Instead, I’m confronted with a scowling farmer who appears to have just returned from work. He’s wearing dirt-streaked jeans and a frayed shirt that’s coated in a thin layer of dust. A B-Tech hat, similar to mine, is drawn deep into his forehead, but I can still spot the contours of a familiar mouth and jawline. I’ve seen this man before—in a picture framed on Linden’s shelf.
“I’m sorry, sir, I…couldn’t sleep, and when I wanted to get some fresh air, the cat…I wasn’t sure if it was supposed to go outside, and it ran right into the barn.” I gesture behind me, then breathe a sigh of relief when the flashlight’s beam drops from my face to the ground between us. Little black dots dance in front of my eyes, and I blink rapidly to chase them away.
“My name’s—” I start, but he interrupts me with a rough huff and a wave of his hand.
“You’re that Carolina boy, right? The footballer who cooks and sings.”
I cringe, wondering what Linden told his family that made it so easy to identify me, yet I still give a small nod. Better this than getting mistaken for a burglar and having the police called on me.
“Yeah, that’s…that’s me, I guess. Linden said you had trouble with the harvest this year, and I…I thought I could help with that,” I answer lamely. I suddenly feel incredibly dumb, standing out here in my shorts and B-Tech football shirt, my presence so obviously out of place.
“Brandon,” he introduces himself, offering me a hand. I quickly wipe my sweaty palms on my shorts before taking it. Even though he’s a few inches shorter than me, his hand seems massive. His grip is firm and rough, and when he lets go, my fingers are coated in grease.
“Lind didn’t mention he’d bring help,” he comments as he pushes the barn door open, then hands me the flashlight. I take it, confused about what to do.
When the barn light flickers to life above our heads, I turn the flash off and follow hesitantly. A German Shepherd with shiny fur—Oak, I assume—weasels his way in before me, his dark eyes meeting mine. My stomach clenches with a sudden burst of nerves, and I tighten my grip on the flashlight.
“You a city boy?” Mr. Woodrow asks. He doesn’t even turn to look at me; he just continues walking down the rows of stalls. They’re wider than I expected, each of them housing several of the black-and-white cows Linden told me about on our pretend first date. Some are lying down; others are standing and coming to the front to greet Mr. Woodrow, happily tilting their heads into his hand when he pets and scratches them. The air is filled with the scraping of hooves and the soft rustle of hay, disrupted by rare moos and comfortable huffs. I expected the stench of cow shit, but it's surprisingly not too bad, mixing with the scent of dried grass. I let my gaze travel up to the high ceiling in search of the orange cat, then tense when I feel Mr. Woodrow’s eyes settle on me, quietly waiting for my answer.
“Uhm…kinda,” I murmur, my free hand coming up to rub the back of my neck. I wouldn’t describe myself as a city boy, but it probably fits fine by his standards.
