Page 90

“Daisy has always had your back. She’ll fight for what you want.”

“You know they’re going to push for an album, Nik.”

“Yeah. Probably.”

“Which is the one thing we all agreed we didn’t want.”

“I know.”

I stare out at the pond.

“So say we get to that meeting and the label pushes hard. Say Daisy can only hold them off for so long. What happens then?”

Nikko doesn’t answer right away.

“I don’t know, Fox. That’s what the meeting is for.”

“Right. And in the meantime, I’m supposed to walk into Finn’s apartment and tell him I want to be with him for real. That we’ll figure it out. That I know what my life is going to look like in six months.”

Nikko kicks a pebble into the pond and it slides onto the ice like a hockey puck, but he doesn’t answer my question.

“I don’t know what my life is going to look like in six weeks. I don’t know if I’m going to be in a studio for eight months next year or on a stage or on a beach somewhere or all three.”

“That’s what a relationship is, dude. You figure it out together.”

“He loves Winterberry and his job. He signs up for me, and I come with a label meeting that could put me on the road again for a year.”

“Or it could not.”

Nikko nudges my shoulder with his.

“When you move to Winterberry for good, you better buy a house with a proper guestroom. Because I’m going to be visiting a lot, and I refuse to sleep on a pull-out couch.”

I laugh.

“I mean it. King-size bed. Blackout curtains. A working shower.”

He grins and starts back toward the farmhouse with his hands in his pockets. I stand at the edge of the pond for a short moment, and then I follow him.

The mistletoe is still in my coat pocket. Brown and brittle now. I curl my fingers around it as I walk.

I won’t see Finn tonight, but for the first time in ten years, I don’t feel so alone.

My brother knows, and he’s okay with it. Maybe his brother will be too.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

FINN

I pull off the main road and turn onto the long track that leads to Taylen’s house. The trees on either side are bare and the sun is low enough that everything is painted in golden shades.

His truck is in the driveway, so I park, go straight up to the house, and knock. There’s no answer. I could go looking for him, but between the orchard, the cider mill, and anywhere else on his land, there’s no telling where he might be.

He has to come home at some point before it gets too dark, so I go to the wooden bench where his mother used to sit and shell peas in the summer. I sit and pull my coat tighter around me.

I’ve been rehearsing the apology in my head for hours, and it still doesn’t feel right because I can’t really tell him the truth. But I can be a better friend. There is another truth I can tell him: I know I’ve not been here for him, and I’ve clearly missed that he’s going through something.

My hands go numb in my coat pockets, and I’ve been sitting here long enough that I’m starting to think about giving up when I hear boots on the frozen grass.