Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
LIAM
T he morning after the Kick-Off party, I’m up before the sun, mostly because the farm is too quiet. Silence does nothing to smooth out the anxious thoughts bouncing around in my head.
When I first moved to Indianapolis, I had a hard time getting used to the noise. It’s not New York or Chicago, but it’s a city. A clean one. One with a walkable downtown and art installations and neat lines—but it’s still noisier than here.
I realize the bustle keeps me out of my head.
I pull on a sweatshirt and walk into the kitchen, where my mom is standing at the counter under the dim light of the oven hood, stirring something in a bowl.
I can smell the vanilla and cinnamon, and I’m instantly struck by a pang of nostalgia.
She looks up when she hears me and smiles. “Hey, sunshine. Lacey got in late, finally. She’ll probably sleep ’til noon.”
My younger sister is a self-proclaimed free spirit who has been traveling across the country for the last six months in an old van that she had outfitted into a living space. She works remotely, forages things if she needs them, and documents the entire experience on social media. She stops to interview people, and she’s found this whole community just like her, living in refurbished vehicles and camping on beach fronts. Somehow, she’s found a way to pay for this vagabond life.
To her credit, it’s kind of brilliant. Go see the world while you’re young and have nothing tying you down? Yes, please.
However, my parents think she’s running from something. Home? Responsibility? Love? All of the above? I’m not sure, but given her personality, I’m guessing she won’t stick around Pine Creek for long. She’s created this off-the-grid life for herself where she doesn’t have to think about the real world.
Must be nice.
“Did you tell her about?—”
Mom shakes her head and cracks an egg into a bowl. “Not yet.”
I make a face. The real world is coming for her. Because our parents are going to need her help. I’ve got a life and a condo and a job to figure out how to keep, and she’s got a van.
“Let me guess—” I nod at the bowl— “chocolate chip pancakes?”
My mom smiles. “Everyone’s favorite.”
I pour myself a cup of coffee then sit down on the barstool across from her.
She cracks another egg. “Are you okay?” She looks at me. “You never came back in last night.”
I know she thinks it was rude of me to walk out like I did, but I’ve got a lot on my mind. The farm. My sister. Work. It’s a lot. But all I say is, “I’m fine.”
“Good, because Olive is coming for dinner tonight, and I want you to be nice.” She briefly looks up at me and then quickly back down at the bowl.
“Okay, I’m going to stop you right there.”
She shrugs innocence. “What? I’m not doing anyth?— ”
“You’re trying to play matchmaker,” I say. “You need to give it up. I’m not interested.”
She frowns. “Why not? She’s adorable.”
That’s a fact. Olive is adorable. But I’m not the same kid I was all those years ago—the one who pined away for her like she lived on some balcony and I spoke in iambic pentameter.
“It’s not about Olive,” I say. “I’m not interested in dating anyone. I have more important things to worry about.”
She frowns. “You do? Like what?”
I start to reply but stop. I feel stupid talking about it. It’s too hard to explain anyway. I’ll just figure it out myself.
I look up and see her watching me. “You’re doing that thing where you don’t talk.”
I don’t respond.
“Well, I’m not going to apologize for pushing you to be nice to an adorable girl,” she says as she takes the bowl over to the stove. “And I’m not going to stop talking to you.” She narrows her eyes at me.
I give in and smile. As much as I’m not a fan of gushing about feelings or even talking about what’s bothering me, I do appreciate her not giving up on me.
I change the subject. “Selling this place is more important than finding me a date anyway. Getting it ready, fixing things, listing it so you can get the most money—all of that is way more important.”
She waves me off. “I’d rather sell it to someone who’s passionate about it.”
“Well, that’s not practical,” I retort.
She sighs. “I know. There aren’t many people who want to take on a Christmas tree farm.” She looks up at me. “But that won’t keep me from hoping.”
I sigh. Everyone always romanticizes this place, when they should see it for what it is—a money-sucking business that can barely make ends meet. This isn’t a rom-com. Nobody is going to swoop in and save this place.
“Besides,” she adds, “I don’t want to think about any of that until after Christmas.”
“That’s a mistake,” I say, certain I’m right. “Potential buyers could come out and see how things run. They could see the crowds of people and?—”
Mom grimaces.
“What?”
“It might be better if they don’t see that.” She cracks another egg in the bowl. “People aren’t exactly busting down the doors here.” She starts scrambling the eggs. “It’s just not like it was when you were kids. People have artificial trees. They spend less quality time with their families. The shop does okay, but most of the year it just collects dust.”
“So, this is a financial issue?” I ask, thinking about the times I tried to convince them to expand. The times my dad shot me down. The times I realized this legacy wasn’t one I wanted—not like this. Still, I hear myself say, “Because you could adapt and build a few?—”
She holds up the spoon to cut me off. “When your father agreed to move out here and take over the farm, he did that for me. Because this place was home to me. And because it was part of our family for so many years.”
“He didn’t want to move here?”
She leans against the counter. “This was never his dream.”
I frown. If that’s true, then why did he pitch it to me like it was? Why try to push it on me? To guilt me into taking it over? The day I switched my major from agriculture to game design was the first time I ever made a decision for myself, and I didn’t tell my parents for an entire year.
If you want to get technical, I didn’t tell him at all. He found out. Town gossip strikes again. Come to think of it, that probably hurt him in ways I didn’t intend it to .
My parents aren’t villains. I just don’t like hard conversations. Some things never change.
Mom goes on. “And when you and Lacey moved away, well, it just became clear that maybe it’s time to hand our legacy over to someone else. And to let your dad do what he wants to do.”
“Which is what?”
She shrugs. “We’re still figuring it out, but he has a friend who works for a baseball team in Colorado. They need a bookkeeper, and your dad is qualified, but we also want to travel. The money from the sale will allow us to do that, so . . .”
Colorado?
If they move to Colorado, there won’t be any reason for me to come back here. Why isn’t that thought more comforting?
I press. “But there’s no guarantee that whoever buys it will keep your traditions going.”
“No, there isn’t.”
“They could bulldoze the trees and build a—resort or something.” I’m so confused. This was always my father’s argument, or guilt trip, depending on which side of the conversation you found yourself on.
Has he forgotten? It doesn’t make sense. Am I really supposed to believe he’s done a complete one-eighty?
“And we’ll have to make our peace with that.” She picks up a knife, cuts into the butter, and drops a pat of it into the frying pan. She sounds resigned.
And the pang of guilt is back. I know that nothing would make my mother happier than for me, or Lacey, or both of us, to say we’d change our lives, move back here, take things over, just like they did. Just to keep this place going.
But I can’t. I won’t. There’s no way.
Unlike most people, my feelings for Pine Creek aren’t exactly warm with marshmallows on top.
Growing up, I noticed that most people came here for fun, or because it was an important part of their holiday traditions— or they just wanted a live tree. To me, Pine Creek was an anchor. Or a straitjacket.
First, it took me away from the home and friends and school I loved, and soon after, it became a burden. A responsibility. A have to , never a want to.
I take a drink, trying to figure out why my feelings are so conflicted. This is good news. Pine Creek will finally be off my shoulders. No more farm. No more legacy. No more guilt.
So, what is nagging at me?
Mom pours batter onto the skillet in a practiced, perfected motion. “We aren’t going to get into the sale of the farm stuff until after the New Year. We want to make this Christmas the best one we’ve ever had at Pine Creek. Really go out with a bang.” She smiles, but I see sadness in her eyes. “That’s why I’m meeting with Olive.”
I frown. “Why?”
“Because she’s brilliant and creative and I need her help,” Mom says pointedly, as if it’s obvious. “And you’re going to be nice to her.”
“I’m not not nice.”
Mom shoots me a look. “You weren’t nice last night.”
Guilt nips at the realization.
But I don’t feel like being nice. My mom thinks that because Olive and I have a shared history, ancient history at that, it makes her special somehow. It really doesn’t. I’m sure she’s a great person now, but she’s just a girl I used to know when we were kids.
At least that’s what I’m telling myself.
The image of a college-aged Olive enters my mind. It had been years since I’d seen her, but I recognized her the second she and her friends showed up at the farm for the party I’d thrown when my parents were gone for the weekend.
I was instantly drawn to her. I kept angling around the barn to keep her in my sightline. She almost made me forget that I was angry and had a giant chip on my shoulder.
Almost.
Being around her, even for a short time, made me forget that I’d turned down an internship because my dad needed me at home, working on the farm that summer.
It wasn’t even a conversation between him and me—he just said, “Oh, that won’t work. We’re counting on you.”
I was mad. Bitter. Frustrated. So I invited everyone I knew to come out to Pine Creek while they were out of town.
I didn’t expect Olive.
I didn’t expect preteen feelings for her to resurface so easily.
And I didn’t expect her to walk right up to me like no time had passed. Like we were still two kids, communicating through our own made-up Morse code using flashlights shone into our respective bedrooms, spending summer days that lasted forever in the treehouse, sheltered from the rest of the world.
She was exactly the same.
It was like I’d been given a second chance with my first crush—a real chance, because we weren’t kids anymore.
But things don’t often work out the way they do in your juvenile fantasies. My only saving grace was that my friends and family never knew the truth of how I felt or of how that night went sideways.
“Liam?”
I glance up and realize the memory took me away for a minute. I missed whatever question my mom now expects me to answer. “Yeah?”
“I asked how long you’re going to stay,” she says. “Can you stay through the holidays?”
Everything’s changed. My “quick weekend trip” turned into an open-ended stay the second my dad mentioned selling Pine Creek .
I might not love it here, but I’m not a total monster. I need to help if I can.
“Yeah, Ma,” I nod. “I’ll stay.”
“You can get the time off?” she asks. “I don’t want it to interfere with work.”
I’d already emailed my boss who agreed to my paid time off. After that runs out, I’ll work remotely until it’s time to go back.
I could tell her the truth about what I’m up against, but she’s got enough on her plate, so instead I say, “I’m good.”
She smiles. “Yay! Oh, that makes me so happy! Maybe we can actually catch up. You can tell me about your life. I’d love to hear how things are going. You aren’t great at keeping in touch.” She tosses me a look.
I know where she’s going with this. “Let’s talk about something else.”
She waves her spatula in the air. “There are things I’d like to know, you know. I am still your mother.”
Before I can protest further, Lacey opens the back door and walks in, sweaty and out of breath.
She jogs in place for a few seconds, looking at her watch. “Hey, Bill.”
She’s the only one who calls me that. Apparently, she feels entitled to shorten William however she wants, so long as it’s not predictable.
“Hey, Shoelace,” I say.
She puts her hands on her hips and inhales a deep breath.
“You’re up? And running? I thought you were still sleeping,” Mom says, turning toward Lacey.
“I am. And . . . I am.” My sister glances at her watch, checking her stats, I think.
“When did you take up running?” Mom asks. “And did you get any sleep? You came in so late, but you must’ve been gone before I was even out of bed.”
Lacey walks over to the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of water. “I slept. I’m good. I love the sunrise. Makes me feel grounded.”
I think Lacey was born in the wrong era. She’s the closest thing to a hippie that I’ve ever seen. She always did march to her own beat, but unlike me, she was given permission, praise even, to do so.
Nobody ever expected Lacey to be the one to take over the farm. As a result, she romanticizes this place like everyone else. To her, Pine Creek is a treasure.
“You should be careful if you’re running alone when it’s still dark out,” Mom says. “Do you carry pepper spray?”
Lacey looks at me, and I quirk a brow.
Instead of answering, my sister changes the subject, which is always the best course of action when our mom starts parenting us like we’re still children. “What are you making?”
Mom pulls the skillet out of the cupboard and sets it on the counter, her back to us. “I’m making pancakes. You do still eat pancakes, right?”
Lacey looks at me, and in a show of solidarity I scrunch up my face.
“Yes, Mother.” My sister does nothing to hide her annoyance. “I will eat a pancake.”
“And I will eat a stack ,” I say. “So make a lot.”
Mom spins around. “Okay, but save room because we have our Thanksgiving dinner tonight.” She says this as our dad strolls in from outside.
“Another dinner?” He closes the door behind him. “I’m still full from the first one.” He rubs a hand over his belly.
“Brant!” Mom says, half scolding. “It’s for our kids.”
“They didn’t ask for more turkey,” Dad says.
“I don’t even eat turkey,” Lacey says.
Mom sets down her spatula, her frown deepening. “Why not? ”
Lacey shrugs. “Stopped eating anything with a face or a mother.”
My mom freezes mid-pour.
I lean back and watch this familiar exchange. My sister dropping some new life choice like a grenade with the pin pulled, my mother reacting, clashing ideas ricocheting their way around the kitchen as my father ducks out of their way.
“Lacey! A face or a mother? Really?”
“What? It’s a perfectly acceptable way to eat.” Lacey’s eyes are wide, defensive.
Ah, family.
It feels normal.
I’ve missed normal .
The thought surprises me.
This could be one of the last times we’re all here, being “normal,” and it’s stirring up feelings I don’t like.