Chapter 7 Bastian
BASTIAN
I slam the post driver down with a satisfying thunk, sending vibrations up my arms. Each impact drives the fence post deeper into the frozen earth. This is the kind of back-breaking work I know I’m going to feel for the next few days.
I’ve picked the farthest corner of our property for this morning’s work, where the tree line borders Mt. Philo State Park. As far from Taylen’s orchard as I can get without actually leaving Hall land. The irony that I’m running away while trying to prove I’m here to stay isn’t lost on me.
Sweat trickles down my back despite the November chill, my flannel shirt sticking uncomfortably between my shoulder blades. The physical strain feels good, necessary, and my muscles burn with each lift and drop of the driver.
“You know, you could help instead of just lying there judging my technique,” I say to Gouta, who’s sprawled across a bale of hay like she’s holding court. Her red ribbon is somehow still perfectly attached in place despite her active morning of following me around the farm.
She bleats in response, shifting to a more comfortable position but making no move to actually assist.
“Right, I forgot. You’re management now, not labor.” I pause to wipe my forehead with the back of my glove. “Must be nice having job security while the rest of us actually work for a living.”
Gouta’s answering sound is distinctly unimpressed. She fixes me with those smart eyes that seem far too knowing for a goat, like she can see straight through all my pretenses to whatever’s really driving me to work myself into the ground this morning.
“Don’t give me that look,” I mutter, returning to the fence post. “Some of us process things by doing actual work instead of lounging around looking judgmental.”
Speaking of judgmental, Taylen’s words—the ones I’ve been trying to drown out with heavy work for days—come back to me. His claim that I’m filling my days with farm work while plotting my escape in the evenings.
I laugh at that. My “escape route.”
Thump
“If you’d bothered to ask questions instead of jumping to conclusions, you would have found out that those mugs are the result of too many late nights listening to demo recordings from local musicians who can’t afford studio time.”
Thump.
“Kids who dream of making it, just like I once did.”
Thump.
“The scattered papers aren’t contracts for my next tour, or sheet music, for that matter. They’re notes about sustainable farming techniques I’ve been researching.”
Thump.
“But you don’t want explanations. You want me to be the villain in whatever story you’ve been telling yourself about me.
It’s easier for you to believe I’m just playing at being a farmer than to consider that maybe, just maybe, the hurt you feel, I’m feeling it too, dammit.
” I’m just too much of a coward to reach out.
I put the post driver down and stretch my back, staring into the Adirondack Mountains in the distance, and wondering if I have it in me to be the bigger person and reach out to Taylen to talk. An actual conversation kind of talk.
The crunch of tires on gravel pulls my attention from the view. A car weaves down the access road like the driver’s either lost or is past the age when one should be driving.
I recognize Stone’s driving style before I see him. No one else would treat a rental with such care. The car comes to a slow stop, and even Gouta bleats her disapproval. Stone emerges first, his designer boots instantly coated in mud.
“Shit,” he mutters, staring down at his feet. “These boots cost more than most people’s rent. Why does the countryside have to be so fucking messy?” He looks up at me, replacing his scowl with his trademark grin. “Surprise!”
Behind him, Nikko unfolds from the passenger seat.
“You’re early,” I say, but I’m already moving to meet them, the post driver forgotten in the snow. Stone pulls me into a hug that smells of expensive cologne.
“Mom’s redecorating again,” he explains, grimacing. “And you know I’m not compatible with dust. And this one”—he jerks a thumb at Nikko—“was wearing a hole in his apartment floor.”
Nikko shrugs. “Empty calendar makes me twitchy. Plus, your mom’s cooking beats takeout any day.” Then he points at Gouta. “Who’s that?”
“That’s my new workplace supervisor. Pretty useless. Has an attitude and a fashion sense more exquisite than Stone’s,” I joke. Stone leans over to mock-punch me in the gut. “But she’s cute, I guess. Her name’s Gouta.”
As if summoned, Gouta descends from her resting place and comes over like the lap dog she thinks she is.
“Oh my god, she’s adorable,” Nikko says.
Stone gets one look at Gouta and takes a deliberate step backward. “Nope. Absolutely not. I don’t do farm animals. They’re unpredictable and they smell.”
But Gouta has already zeroed in on him like a heat-seeking missile. She trots right up to his expensive boots and begins investigating them with the thorough interest of a customs agent.
“Get it away from me,” Stone says, his voice climbing an octave. “These are Italian leather.”
“She’s just being friendly,” I say, trying not to laugh as Gouta starts nibbling at Stone’s bootlaces. “She has excellent taste in accessories.”
Nikko crouches and extends his hand. Gouta immediately abandons Stone’s boots in favor of Nikko’s attention, nuzzling against his palm like she’s known him for years.
“Traitor,” Stone mutters, then looks around at the scattered fence posts and tools. “So this is what you’re getting busy with these days?”
“I am a farmer,” I say, sounding more defensive than intended. “This is my life now.”
“Right. Well, your life now needs coffee and central heating, so can we go inside? Or even better, let’s hit Joe’s. I can feel my extremities going numb.”
I pick up the post driver and throw it into the back of my truck. “Where’s Fox?”
Stone looks at Nikko and then back at me. “We thought he was here.”
“Here?” I laugh. “Why would he be here?”
“He left California two weeks ago,” Nikko says, his usual swagger dampened by concern. “Like he had ants in his pants that were busier than mine. Just packed his bags and took off.”
The uneasy feeling in my gut grows. Fox is many things, but unpredictable isn’t one of them. Twenty-five years of touring together, and I’ve never known him to make an impulsive move. Everything he does is calculated, considered.
“Did he say anything else?” I press, watching Nikko’s face for a tell.
“Just that he’d see us at Thanksgiving,” Nikko admits. “So he should be arriving any time now, I guess.”
“I bet he’s hooking up with someone,” Stone says.
Nikko snorts. “My brother?”
“Just because he doesn’t talk about the guys he fucks, like the rest of us, doesn’t mean he’s not getting any,” Stone says, and I nod my agreement. Some people just happen to be private about their sex lives.
“Weren’t we going to Joe’s?” Nikko asks, changing the subject.
“Man, I’m starving. You know I don’t do plane food, and the thought of Joe’s wings is giving me a boner,” Stone says, heading back to the rental. “We’ll drop this at the house first. No way I’m paying the insurance deductible if someone dings it in Joe’s parking lot.”
I leave Gouta in my cabin, much to her protest, but I tell her it’s the warm cabin or the barn, so she soon settles on the pillow that now lives on my couch just for her Goaty Highness. I drive over to pick up Stone and Nikko from the farmhouse.
I haven’t been in town since the night I ended up bringing Taylen home, so I’m surprised to see Main Street’s Christmas lights already strung between lampposts, despite it not even being Thanksgiving yet.
A figure near the bookstore catches my eye. Tall, lean, with a distinctive black leather jacket. My heart jumps before my brain catches up.
“Did you see—” I start, but when I look again, the sidewalk is empty.
“See what?” Nikko asks.
“Nothing. It was probably my imagination.” Because there’s no way Fox would be in Winterberry without telling us. Where would he even stay, if not at the farmhouse?
I pull up at Joe’s and push Fox’s non-sighting from my mind.
When we get inside, Joe greets us with his familiar wave.
“Pick a booth,” he calls out, already reaching for glasses. “I’ll bring over some wings and your usuals.”
“Make mine nonalcoholic,” I add. “I’m driving.”
We slide into our usual corner booth, the vinyl seats creaking in welcome.
Stone immediately pulls out his phone, grimacing at whatever he sees on the screen.
“Daisy’s at it again,” he says, and I already dread what our agent is up to now.
“Three emails just today about studio time. The woman doesn’t understand the concept of a break. ”
Nikko leans over to peek at the screen. “What’s she pushing for now?”
“A studio album.” Stone scrolls through the messages. “Apparently, we ‘don’t want to get forgotten.’” His air quotes drip with sarcasm.
Joe arrives with our drinks and a massive plate of wings.
“We’re not deciding anything without everyone here,” I say firmly, reaching for a wing. “That includes Fox and Mik.”
Stone sets his phone face-down on the table. “Agreed. But Daisy won’t wait forever.”
“She’ll wait,” Nikko says with unexpected firmness.
The certainty in his voice surprises me, but he’s right. We’ve earned the right to take this break, to figure out what comes next on our own terms. If only we could figure out what those terms are.
“The farm comes first right now,” I admit, the words feeling right on my tongue. “Dad needs help with the transition, even if he won’t admit it.”
Stone nods understanding, but Nikko’s look reminds me that this wasn’t his choice.
“Anyway, what about Winterberry’s holiday events?” Stone asks, clearly trying to change the subject. “This is my favorite season here. I don’t want to miss the markets.”
“You’ll have to talk to Finn about that,” I say, grateful for the shift in topic. “He’s got his finger on every pulse in town. Pretty sure he knows what color underwear the mayor’s wearing on any given day.”
Stone’s eyes light up with genuine interest. “Is he still running the winter festival? Because last year’s mulled wine was incredible.”
“Still running everything,” I confirm.
“Can’t wait for Thanksgiving,” Stone says. “I’ve upped my workouts and been living on air to prepare for your mom’s food.” But then he picks up a chicken wing and sucks on it until he pulls out just the bone from his mouth.
“Course you have.” I laugh. “Don’t worry. Mom’s making enough food for twenty people.”
Nikko perks up. “The sage stuffing?”
“And Dad’s smoked turkey,” I add, watching them both light up like kids. “He’s already prepping the wood chips.”
“God, I’ve missed real holidays,” Stone sighs. “LA Thanksgiving is all about who can serve the most pretentious organic free-range whatever. Give me Sylvie’s cooking any day.”
The warmth of their enthusiasm feels good. This is what we needed, a chance to remember who we are beyond the music, beyond the fame. A chance to just be us again.
The door to the bar swings open, letting in a burst of cold air and Taylen Howard. He pauses when he sees me, his expression freezing like the winter wind outside, before deliberately turning toward the bar.
He hands Joe some paperwork. Their conversation is too low to hear over the bar’s usual noise.
A moment later, Taylen disappears back outside, returning with a box full of glass jars, probably the apple butter or the chutney Mom raves about so much.
Joe takes the box toward the kitchen with an approving nod, and a moment later, Joe’s wife and bar chef, Barbara, comes out and gives Taylen a hug.
Taylen’s gaze sweeps over our booth again as he turns to leave, but this time, his eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that makes the air between us crackle. The look he gives me is arctic, his light-blue eyes holding mine a beat too long. Probably cursing my presence in this world.
When I look away, Stone’s eyes are on me.
“Well,” Stone drawls once the door swings shut. “That was interesting.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, but Nikko’s already leaning forward with a gleam in his eye that means trouble.
“Want to tell us what that was about?” he asks, his instincts clearly sensing a story.
“Nothing to tell.” I drain my ginger ale, wishing it were something stronger. “Just neighbor stuff.”
“Uh-huh.” Stone smirks. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”
Their teasing is familiar, comfortable, but it can’t quite ease the tension Taylen left behind.
Maybe that conversation needs to happen sooner rather than later.
When I get home to another one of Taylen’s “well-intended” gifts, I’m of two minds about barging into his place and giving him a piece of my mind.
The only problem is that first I need to figure out where to keep the two heritage chickens in the fancy coop in the middle of my kitchen.
The label on the roof reads: These ladies will teach you about responsibility.
I turn to Gouta, who’s staring at me like she’s innocent in all this and slightly scared of our new roommates.
“This is your fault. You let him in, didn’t you?”