Chapter 3 Bastian
BASTIAN
My yawn is silenced by the familiar creak of the third floorboard.
Home.
I could get it fixed, but I’d miss the sound as much as I hate hearing it every time I step on it, especially in the morning when every sound is amplified.
I move through to the farmhouse kitchen, ignoring the expensive coffee maker I bought for my parents last Christmas in favor of the old percolator. Stone is the only one who uses the machine to make all kinds of fancy coffee when he’s around, which is reason enough to keep it.
The percolator gurgles to life, the coffee’s aroma already beginning to chase away the lingering ghosts of sleep, when the floorboards announce my parents’ approach.
Mom’s gentle footsteps, then Dad’s slower, more measured tread.
The change in his gait reminds me that he’s one of the reasons I’m here.
“You’re up early again,” Mom says, like she has every day for the last two weeks.
“Farm schedule,” I reply, reaching for three mugs without being asked. “Some habits stick with you for life.”
Dad eases himself into his chair at the kitchen table, trying to hide the wince that crosses his weathered features. I pretend not to notice, just like I pretend not to see the way Mom’s hand brushes his shoulder in silent support.
“That’s not what you used to say when I had to drag you out of bed as a teenager,” Dad says, accepting the coffee I place before him.
I sit at the table across from him with my own steaming cup. “It’s been a while since I was one of those.”
“I suppose that crazy schedule when you’re on tour has kept you on your feet.” He pauses and then looks straight at me. “Speaking of which, when’s the next one?”
My jaw tightens. I wrap my hands around my own mug, feeling the heat seep into my palms. “The band’s on hiatus. I told you.”
“Hiatus isn’t the same as finished, Sebastian.”
I hate it when he full names me like I’m thirteen and need to be reminded that tractors aren’t toys, like I’ve ever not fully respected the farm and our way of living.
“The farm needs consistency. Regular hands, regular schedule,” he continues.
“Which is exactly what I’m offering.” The coffee burns my tongue, but I welcome the sharp sensation.
“Honey,” Mom starts, her voice gentle in that way that always precedes difficult truths. “We just want to make sure you’ve thought this through. The spotlight, the music… They’ve been your life for so long. We can always hire—”
“I’ve been a part of this family and this farm for much longer. The farm, the animals, the land, it’s in my blood. The music was a dream I never expected to happen. I’m grateful for the life I’ve had, but it’s okay to want a change.” To need a change.
Dad’s grunt tells me exactly what he thinks of that statement. I catch the look my parents exchange, heavy with years of complicity and love.
“I’m here to stay,” I say, softer now but no less determined. “I know you have doubts. But this isn’t temporary.”
“If you’re sure, son,” Dad says.
“It’ll be nice having you here for the holidays,” Mom adds and then stands, placing her cup in the sink and walking toward the pantry. “Time to let out my frustrations on bread dough.”
I laugh. “Mom, you’re the most chill person I know.”
“That’s because I bake every day.”
My dad raises his cup to drink his coffee, hiding his smile.
“And I should get going.” I stand and place my mug next to Mom’s in the sink. “Dad, I’ll see you in the office later, okay?”
“Sure thing, boss.”
I grab my coat and head outside, trying to remember that this change must be hard for him too. Even though he knows he needs to slow down, it’s not easy breaking the habits of a lifetime, especially when he’d expected me to join him in running the business much earlier.
I might be twenty-five years late, but I’m here.
The snow crunches beneath my boots, each step leaving a print in the fresh powder. I fill my lungs with fresh air.
We’re mostly a dairy farm, so the closer I get to the barn, the less fresh the air smells, but there’s always an underlying scent of apple, thanks to the orchard next door.
The barn looms ahead, its familiar silhouette a darker shadow against the lightening sky.
I hum one of my favorite songs from our last album. One that’s about coming home. I wrote it with Mik before everything changed. It’s about finding home everywhere we are, as long as our people are with us. Little did we know.
A small shape materializes from a gap between the fence posts, and I stop short. A goat—a goat?—stands in my path, its white coat almost invisible against the snow except for a ridiculous red ribbon tied around its neck. The animal regards me with an expression that can only be described as smug.
“Where did you come from?” I ask, and it responds with a bleat that sounds suspiciously like laughter and trots forward to headbutt my leg with surprising gentleness.
That’s when I notice the tag dangling from the ribbon. I crouch, already narrowing the list of possible culprits to a single person.
Gouta—because every wannabe farmer needs a GOAT mentor.
“Very funny, Taylen,” I say to the empty air. The goat—Gouta, apparently—bleats again and presses against my hand like a demanding cat.
I stand, intending to continue my walk to the barn, but Gouta has other ideas. She follows at my heels, her tiny hooves leaving delicate prints alongside my boot tracks.
“Go home,” I tell her, trying to sound stern. She responds by skipping ahead of me, then turning to wait with what I swear is an expectant expression. “Your dad is on the other side of that fence,” I add, already knowing it’s pointless.
Despite myself, my eyes are drawn to her coat, checking for signs of neglect or poor health. She’s clearly well-fed, her coat thick and healthy for the winter weather. Trust Taylen to make even his pranks are impeccably responsible.
“Fine,” I sigh as we reach the barn door. “But don’t think this means you’re staying.” Gouta prances in place, her hooves leaving little dance steps in the snow. I fight back a smile, already knowing I’m fighting a losing battle. “And don’t tell Taylen I said that.”
The goat's answering bleat sounds like a promise she has no intention of keeping.
The barn door slides open with a familiar groan, releasing a rush of warm air scented with hay and livestock.
I remove my glove and run my hand along the nearest stall, feeling the worn wood beneath my fingers. The grain is smooth from years of use, but I notice spots where the finish has worn away, leaving the wood vulnerable to moisture. Another item for my growing list of things to fix.
Gouta follows as I move deeper into the barn, her presence oddly comforting in the quiet morning air. She pauses when I do, as if she’s conducting her own inspection.
“Water trough needs cleaning,” I murmur, more to myself than my small companion. The goat bleats in agreement. “And that hinge is going to need replacing before it gives out entirely.”
A soft cough draws my attention to one of the stalls. Inside, Buttercup, one of our younger calves, stands with her head slightly lowered. I approach slowly, speaking in low tones.
“Hey there, beautiful.” My hand finds the spot behind her ears that she loves, and she leans into the touch. “That doesn’t sound too good, does it?”
The cough doesn’t sound serious, probably just the dry winter air, but I’ll keep an eye on it in case it gets worse. Maybe I’ll call the new vet anyway. It’ll give me a chance to meet him.
Next door, Daisy pokes her head over the stall door, demanding her share of attention. Her sister Clover follows suit from across the aisle, and suddenly I’m surrounded by eager faces and hopeful moos.
“Yes, yes, I see you all.” I move from stall to stall, greeting each by name, checking water levels and feed supplies, and topping up where needed.
My body falls into the rhythm of the work, and I only pause when I remember to turn on the old radio my dad keeps in the barn because he insists the cows love the morning shows.
The insulation above the north stalls is showing signs of wear.
More items for the list. The draft isn’t bad now, but it will be once real winter hits.
I pull out my phone and start making notes: insulation, hinge replacement, water system cleaning.
The list grows, but instead of feeling overwhelming, it feels right. These are problems I know how to solve.
A soft headbutt against my leg reminds me I’m not alone. Gouta looks up at me with dark eyes that are too knowing for a goat.
“What do you think?” I ask, reaching down to scratch between her horns. “Think we can get this all done before Thanksgiving?”
She responds by leaning into my touch, her presence steady and unexpectedly reassuring.
“Yeah,” I say, patting her head one final time. “I think we can too.”
The morning light streams through the high windows now, casting long beams across the barn floor. It’s time to let the girls out into the pasture.
I unlatch the heavy gate that leads to the pasture and then swing it wide.
The cows file out in their usual order, Daisy first as always, followed by Clover and the rest. Gouta dances around their legs excitedly, clearly hoping for some playful interaction, but the massive animals barely acknowledge her presence as they lumber toward the frosted grass.
I see him before he sees me as I’m closing the gate. A dark figure leaning against the fence line, his posture too carefully casual to be accidental. The morning sun catches in his hair, turning the brown strands almost golden.
Gouta trots ahead of me, betraying our approach with an excited bleat. Taylen’s head turns, and I watch his expression shift from genuine warmth at the sight of the goat to something more neutral when his eyes meet mine.
“Didn’t expect to see you still here after two whole weeks,” he calls out as I approach. “You’re usually gone by now.”
The words sting more than they should, probably because there’s truth in them, but it’s also not a fair comment. I came home as often as I could, and definitely more than all of my band mates together, since the farm became the unofficial Hall of Fame safe retreat from the public eye.
I stop a few feet from the fence, close enough to see the stubble on his jaw, the way his light-blue eyes catch the sunlight.
“Things change,” I say, aiming for casual but hearing the defensive edge in my voice.
“Do they?” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Or do they just look different for a while before going back to how they’ve always been?”
Gouta headbutts my leg before trotting over to Taylen’s side of the fence. Traitor.
“This goat’s probably got more farming experience than you do,” he says, reaching down to scratch behind her ears before picking her up like she’s a baby. The movement pulls his Henley tight across his shoulders, and I force my eyes away. Why is he not wearing a coat like a sensible human?
“You don’t know anything about my experience,” I counter, stepping closer to the fence. The air between us feels charged. I know why, but regardless of what's in the past, we used to sort of be friends.
“I know enough.” His voice drops lower, and something in his tone makes my skin prickle. “I know farming takes more than money and good intentions. It takes staying power.”
“You think I don’t know that?” The words come out sharper than intended. I take a deep breath to stop myself from saying something I’ll regret later.
He looks up then, and for a moment, our eyes lock. The morning sun casts shadows across his face, highlighting the stubborn set of his jaw, the slight part of his lips. Heat that has nothing to do with anger coils in my stomach, and I have to remember who he is.
“I’m not going anywhere, Taylen. Get used to seeing me across this fence.”
His eyes narrow slightly, and I see something flash across his face. Frustration, maybe, or something else entirely. The moment stretches between us, taut as a wire.
Gouta’s sudden bleat breaks the tension. Taylen puts her back on the ground, and she bounces between us, head held high as if proud of her intervention. Despite everything, I find myself fighting back a smile.
“Keep the goat,” Taylen says, pushing off from the fence. “She’s got good instincts about people. Usually.” He turns to leave, then pauses. “Try not to prove her wrong.”
I watch him walk away, my weak eyes noticing the way his jeans frame the perfect shape of his ass from his narrow waist to the thickness of his thighs.
“I didn’t mean it like that, J,” I whisper, looking up at the sky, hoping that wherever he is, my best friend won’t start haunting me for appreciating what years of hard work have done for his brother.
Gouta presses against my leg, and I reach down to pat her head absently.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her, my voice carrying across the silent field. “I won’t prove you wrong.”