Chapter Eighteen
Nate
The road wound down the mountain in sharp curves, sunlight glinting off snowbanks in hard, white flashes that made me squint. It was almost ten a.m., the kind of clear, brittle morning that looks clean until you realize it’s just cold.
I told myself I was fine. That the tightness in my chest was altitude. That leaving was the only logical response.
When I hit the lower roads, the sleigh bells from last night still echoed faintly in my head—an unwanted ghost of sound that faded only when the asphalt flattened and I passed the first sign of civilization: a strip mall with a plastic Santa and sleigh wired to the roof.
Christmas was everywhere. Every porch I passed had some kind of decoration—the leftover cheer of people who hadn’t yet noticed how tired it looked in daylight.
Deflated snowmen slumped against porch rails.
Wreaths hung, bold and tacky. I hadn’t noticed any of it on the way up.
But now every cheap bulb and crooked reindeer stabbed at me like a truth: the season looks different when the sun’s out.
I voice-texted Martin before I could talk myself out of it. “Hey, headed back to the city for work. Everything’s fine. Check in on Jo when you get a chance, all right? Make sure she’s doing okay.”
I added, “Don’t tell her I said anything,” then hit send.
The message whooshed away and I groaned. I shouldn’t care this much.
But I did.
My phone lit up on the console: Dad.
I almost let it go to voicemail, but muscle memory won. “Hey.”
“Nathan.” His voice had that practiced smoothness that always made me feel like I was interrupting a meeting. “You on the road?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” He paused before continuing in a confident tone. “You needed the closure, so it’s good that you went—but the sooner you put it to auction and move on, the better you’ll feel.”
“Will I?” I kept my tone neutral, like a man in control.
He went on, unbothered. “I heard Montgomery closed. Congratulations. That was an impressive win. I’m proud of you, son.”
The words should have landed like praise; instead they felt empty. “Thanks.”
“Keep your focus where it belongs. Forward. Productive. No distractions.” Then, like a man checking an obligatory box, “How was the farm?”
“It was what it was.”
“So nothing we need to dwell on.” He said it like he was erasing chalk from a board. “An agency can handle the household contents, and I’ll get the broker started on a listing. The money’s not coming to us anyway, but you know I can’t let it go for a steal.”
“I’ll handle it,” I said.
“No need,” he assured.
“Dad, I’ve got this.”
“It’ll be a hassle. I can only imagine the crap Silas collected over the years.”
My father hadn’t wanted me to go; now he didn’t want me involved in the sale. Whatever issue he’d had with his brother, it hadn’t ended with Silas’s death. “I’ll call you tomorrow. I’m tired and the roads are icy.”
“Be careful,” he said. “And I’m glad you went so you can put this behind you now.”
Right. Like it’s me who needs to do that?
“Talk to you tomorrow.”
Click. Gone.
It was then I realized the jazz I’d been streaming quietly as background noise was Christmas music. I changed to another channel and was greeted by the same holiday crap. I voice-activated my phone. “Play chill drive.”
A pop Christmas song began, and I immediately told it to stop and requested a classical selection. When Mozart’s Symphony No. 40 began to play, I gave up and turned the volume down.
My phone buzzed again, and this time I welcomed the distraction. Aunt Claire.
I picked up. “Hey.”
“Nate.” Her voice warmed the air instantly. “You were supposed to call me.” I could almost see her shaking her head, curls bouncing.
“I’m not even home yet.”
“How did it go? And don’t give me the investor version. Use adjectives and feelings.”
“It was . . . full of the unexpected.”
“Mmm.” The sound she made was disapproval wrapped in fondness. “In what way?”
I wasn’t about to tell her about Jo. Or how confusing it had been to be back at the farm. I also didn’t have the bandwidth to dig into old family wounds—especially since there was nothing I could do about them now. “I’ve decided to wait a bit before I sign off for it to go to auction.”
“Because?”
“Silas was . . .” My grip tightened on the wheel. “I discovered . . .” I stopped. “Everything there was different than I’d expected it to be.”
“In a good way?”
“Yes and no.”
“Wow, please stop gushing over all the details of your trip. I’m having trouble keeping up.”
That made me chuckle before I sobered. “I’d forgotten a lot about my time at the farm—and how different Silas was from how I remembered him.”
“Well, you had help framing those memories,” she said softly.
My father certainly had handled that department. “He wasn’t a broke recluse the way Dad described him.”
“No, he wasn’t.”
“I found the photos of me that you sent him. Along with my old bug-out bag.”
“He saw the summer he spent with you as a gift—and one he treasured.”
“Then why didn’t he send so much as a birthday card to me? We live in a world where communication is as easy as a text.”
“You’d have to ask your father about that, Nate.” She sighed.
That’ll never happen.
“Did he call you?” she asked.
“Yeah.” I almost laughed. “He offered to handle the sale for me.”
“Of course he did.” Her voice cooled.
“I told him no. I want to handle it myself.”
The highway widened. Traffic thickened. The air turned flat with exhaust, and the snowbanks were gone.
“Nate, you sound . . . different.”
“I’m not,” I said automatically.
“Mm-hmm.”
“It was a long weekend,” I amended. “And it left me thinking about a few things.”
“Like?”
I didn’t answer. I was stuck on a woman who’d smelled like car oil and courage, who’d looked at me like I was everything she’d ever wanted—then someone she couldn’t bear to be around. “Like patience,” I said finally. “And timing.”
“With who?” Not a question. A reading.
I made a frustrated sound. “With everyone, including myself.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” she said quietly.
“In fact, this time, maybe I don’t want to know.
” Then softer: “I’m tired, Nate. I’m tired of pretending you’re all okay.
I’m tired of hoping you’ll figure each other out.
I can’t keep pretending to agree with Ethan—or Silas—or the situation they both put you in. I’m done agreeing just to get along.”
I stared at the road until it blurred. “Since when have you agreed with anything I’ve ever said?”
Her laugh cracked, half exasperation, half affection.
“Exactly. That’s how you know I love you.
Because I’ve always been myself with you.
I can’t be that with your father. He has one version of the world, and it’s the right one.
He’s so wrapped up in how he feels he doesn’t even consider how others do. ”
“Am I like that?”
“Sometimes.”
I laughed under my breath. “Ouch.”
“Your father is a lonely man, Nate. I don’t want that life for you.”
The car crested a hill. Ahead, the interstate shimmered with motion—silver lines of cars, the illusion of progress. I merged in. “I don’t want that either.”
“Then don’t be like him. Listen—not just with your ears.
With your heart. People may say one thing but need something else from you.
Silas and your father let words come between them, when all they ever needed to do was stop talking and see how much they both wanted to find a way back to each other. ”
“I don’t really understand what you’re saying, Aunt Claire,” I said.
“I know.”
In an attempt to lighten the mood, I joked, “Besides, if I start listening with my heart, what the hell am I going to do with my ears?”
Claire huffed out a laugh. “Don’t make me laugh about this. None of this is funny.”
“Aunt Claire. I’m okay. Dad’s okay. You’re going to be okay too.”
“You sound like Ethan.”
That wasn’t fun to hear. “I love you.”
“Better,” she said softly. “I love you too. And I love him.”
“I know.” I smiled despite myself. “Dinner soon?”
“In a few days,” she said. “After I stop wanting to stab your father.”
“Deal.”
“Nate?”
“Yes?”
“I’m glad you’re not selling the farm yet. I want to see it again too.”
I swallowed hard. “I’ll make that happen. Talk to you later.”
The line clicked off.
By the time the skyline appeared, the city’s glass towers glowed orange with sunset, reflections of a thousand electric lights shimmering against them like fake stars.
Home.
Although that’s not how it felt.
The elevator doors slid open to my floor with their usual whisper. My apartment was immaculate: black marble counters, white walls, silver fixtures, everything placed with surgical precision. No scent of horse. No hint of dust. No trace of life.
This was what success looked like in daylight. Clean. Controlled.
Lifeless.
I set my keys on the counter and looked out at the skyline—each window lit, every street below lined with holiday banners. The view should have been a comfort.
I thought about calling Aunt Claire again, about giving her a restaurant name and then spilling everything about Jo. I thought about calling my father and asking him questions I was sure he wouldn’t answer.
I did neither.
I thought about the farmhouse—the smell of fresh air, wood and coffee, and the way Jo had said yes.
If I listened with my heart and not my ears, maybe Jo hadn’t been telling me to leave her alone. Maybe she was scared.
Or maybe that’s only what I wanted to believe.
Either way, I can give her space and still be there for her. Don’t push. Don’t fix. Just be supportive—patient, kind, solid. The man I should’ve been this morning.
I began to unpack my luggage when I realized something was missing.
Shit. I forgot my laptop at the farm.