Chapter 8 Taylen
TAYLEN
The crow slices through my dreams, dragging me into consciousness.
“What the fuck is that noise?”
The clock on my bedside table reads three-seventeen a.m. The sound comes again, more insistent.
I fumble for the flashlight I keep by my bed, nearly knocking over my water glass in the process.
The room is cool without the central heat running.
I rely on residual warmth from the living room fireplace filtering through the old vents, but it’s not enough to chase away November’s chill completely.
I pull on sweatpants but don’t bother with a shirt, grabbing the heavy winter coat that hangs by the door and zipping it over my bare skin as another crow pierces through the pre-dawn silence.
The November air bites at my face as I stumble across the yard toward the barn.
When I see the door unlocked, my heart rate spikes.
We don’t get many break-ins out here, but it’s not unheard of.
Thieves looking for equipment, tools, and anything they can fence.
I curse myself for not grabbing something, a baseball bat or a wrench, before rushing out here half-dressed and defenseless.
But the crowing continues, louder now, more insistent, and burglars don’t usually leave livestock behind. Unless…
My suspicions are proven correct when I spot the note attached to the door of the closed-off section inside the barn where I keep my chickens during the winter months.
I snatch the note from the door, my relief at avoiding an actual break-in quickly replaced by irritation.
Meet Elvis. He’s got strong opinions about everything. You should get along like a hen house on fire.
Inside the enclosed area, my hens huddle together on their roosts, looking thoroughly unimpressed with their new roommate. And there, strutting across the floor like he owns the place, is the source of my rude awakening, a magnificent Barred Rock rooster.
Elvis tilts his head to study me with one beady eye before letting loose another ear-splitting crow. My jaw clenches automatically.
“You might want to fix your internal clock to this time zone, my friend. I need another couple of hours of sleep, and you might want to make friends with the girls because they outnumber you.”
Elvis raises his head in defiance, as though he couldn’t give two shits about what I’m saying.
I’ll admit this is a masterful counterplay. Perfectly legal, undeniably useful, and absolutely impossible to complain about without looking ungrateful.
“Well played, Bastian,” I mutter as Elvis struts past me to inspect his new domain. “Well played.”
A week later, my hands shake slightly as I arrange the last jar of apple butter, the glass catching the warm morning sunlight. Seven days of three a.m. wake-up calls have left me running on fumes and stubbornness, but I’ll be damned if I let it show at the biggest market day of the year.
The market fills the town square, vendor stalls arranged in neat rows radiating out from the central gazebo where the Winterberry Senior Brass Band plays Christmas music.
Steam rises from coffee cups, and breaths mingle with the crisp morning air.
I straighten my display of Honeycrisps to keep busy.
Whatever happens, I can’t stop, or I might just fall asleep on my feet.
“You look like death warmed over, dear,” Mrs. Whitaker observes as she inspects my cider selection. Her dark curls peek out from under a hand-knitted hat that probably predates my birth. “Not sleeping well?”
“Just pre-holiday preparations,” I lie smoothly as she picks two bottles of cider and places a bunch of apples in a bag. “You know how it is this time of year.”
She clucks her tongue, clearly unconvinced, but pays for her stuff and moves on.
Around me, the market pulses with its usual energy.
Kids darting between stalls, old-timers gathered by the mulled cider cart debating snow forecasts, vendors calling out their specials like carnival barkers at a county fair.
I stifle another yawn as I restock the empty spaces in my display.
My muscles protest every movement, a week’s worth of sleep deprivation settling into my bones like winter frost. But I maintain my professional smile, making change and small talk on autopilot while mentally calculating how many more hours until I can collapse into bed.
A young couple stops to sample my new spiced cider, and I launch into my practiced pitch about traditional mulling methods. My voice sounds strange in my ears, too bright and brittle, but they nod appreciatively and buy two bottles. Small victories.
The morning stretches on, marked by the steady stream of customers and the gradually emptying displays. I focus on each transaction with fierce determination, refusing to let Bastian’s revenge tactic impact my business.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Sylvie bustling around her stall next to mine, her hands quick and efficient as she weighs out cheese, restocks milk bottles, and wraps squares of her famous home-churned butter.
Her garden produce, winter squash, root vegetables, and preserved goods from her summer allotment create a colorful display that draws a steady line of customers.
Every few minutes, I feel her concerned gaze drift my way, but the constant flow of people buying her dairy products and vegetables keeps her too busy to come over and interrogate me properly.
Fuck, I’m tired. So tired that the coins in my cash box start to blur together, forcing me to count each transaction twice.
So tired that I catch myself swaying slightly between customers, my body seeking rest even while standing.
Still, I persist. Because that’s what I do.
I endure, I adapt, I overcome. Even if overcoming means surviving a week of pre-dawn wake-up calls courtesy of an overly enthusiastic rooster named Elvis.
I’m rearranging my display after running out of apple butter when my ears pick up a name mentioned by someone in passing.
I look up and spot them easily, thanks to Bastian’s height.
Mik is talking to him and holding hands with a guy who must be his boyfriend Tyler.
Ahead of them, Kay greets the locals she knows from years of coming to Winterberry with her father.
My stomach does an uncomfortable flip that I blame on lack of sleep rather than the way Sebastian’s expensive-looking coat stretches across his shoulders in a perfect fit. And it definitely has nothing to do with the way his permanently ripped jeans draw my eyes to the skin beneath.
Kay reaches my stall first, her face lighting up with genuine warmth. “Taylen!” She practically vibrates with excitement, her hands already reaching for the sample cups of cider. “How are you? Nan said we had to come try your new spiced cider. She says it’s the best.”
My exhaustion lifts slightly in the face of her enthusiasm, and I love how she calls Sylvie Nan, even though they’re not blood-related. I’ll give it to Bastian. He’s created a tight-knit family with that rock band of his.
“You’ve grown at least three inches since I saw you in the summer,” I tell her, pouring a sample of the spiced cider. “Pretty soon you’ll be taller than your dad.”
“Not likely,” Mik laughs, catching up with his daughter. “Taylen, I don’t think you’ve officially met Tyler yet,” he says. “Tyler, this is Taylen Howard. He grows the best apples in Vermont. His farm is next to Bastian’s.”
Tyler reaches out to shake my hand. “Nice to meet you, Taylen. Will you be at Thanksgiving tomorrow?”
“Sure will,” I reply with a smile that turns into a yawn I manage to stifle.
“Oh my god, this is amazing. Dad, Tyler, you have to try this!” Kay says, pointing at the nonalcoholic cider.
I pour more samples, careful to avoid meeting Bastian’s gaze as he hangs back from the group. But I can feel his eyes on me. The weight of his attention feels like static electricity on my skin.
Tyler asks about the cider-making process with interest and buys a couple of jars of my spiced-apple chutney.
“Can we see the honey stand?” Kay asks. “I want to get some for Grandma’s Christmas box.”
As they move away, Sebastian remains behind. The dark circles under my eyes suddenly feel more pronounced under his scrutiny, and I fight the urge to either snap at him or simply collapse in exhaustion.
“Elvis working out for you?” Sebastian’s voice carries that particular tone that makes me want to either punch him or kiss him. A combination that’s becoming distressingly familiar the longer he keeps not leaving Vermont.
I force my expression into one of casual appreciation, ignoring how his proximity makes my skin prickle. “He’s great, actually. Really whipped the flock into shape. Egg production is up fifteen percent.” The lie rolls off my tongue smoothly, though my bloodshot eyes probably tell a different story.
“I appreciate the thoughtful gift,” I continue, unable to stop the word vomit. “Shows you know your poultry. Although, I’ll take some credit for that. Moira and Myrtle have clearly been good teachers.”
Sebastian’s knowing look tells me he sees right through my act. I swallow dry as he steps closer, and his scent—hay, leather, and pine—fills my nose, making it hard to maintain my composure.
“Glad to hear it,” he says, his voice dropping lower. “He’s a champion Barred Rock. Thought you might appreciate his…strong leadership qualities.”
Our eyes lock, and the market noise fades into the background. The air between us crackles with the kind of energy that turns sand into glass. I grip the table edge harder, my knuckles tight with the effort of not reaching for him.
We stand there, locked in a standoff, neither willing to break first. His eyes drop briefly to my lips before snapping back up, and I feel the look like a physical touch. The market could burn down around us, and I’m not sure I’d notice.
“Taylen Howard, you look absolutely exhausted!” Sylvie’s voice cuts through the tension, and as if I’ve been electrocuted, I take a step back, unsure of how I came to be so close to Bastian. “I promised your ma I’d keep an eye on you. Do I need to watch you more closely?”
Her hand touches my arm, gentle but insistent, as she studies my face with the kind of attention that makes lying futile. “I’m fine, Mrs. Hall,” I say, straightening my posture and forcing energy into my voice. “Just busy.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but shifts topics with practiced grace. “You’re still coming for Thanksgiving tomorrow, right?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I reply, watching Bastian’s expression. His jaw tightens slightly, the only tell in his otherwise perfect poker face. “Can’t wait to have your apple pie. I hope there will be leftovers.”
As they leave—Sylvie with a maternal pat on my arm and Sebastian with one last loaded glance—I’m left wondering how I’ll survive Thanksgiving dinner on minimal sleep with both Elvis and Bastian in my life.
Finn appears twenty minutes later, making his usual rounds with his tablet in hand and that harried expression that’s become his permanent feature during festival season.
He stops at each vendor stall, checking that everyone is okay and taking any feedback we might have.
When he reaches my table, I’m down to my last few jars of apple chutney and maybe a dozen apples.
“Good day?” he asks, eyeing my nearly empty display with satisfaction. “Looks like you’ll sell out completely.”
“Best market day I’ve had all season,” I admit, grateful for something positive to focus on. “Should be completely sold out within the hour.”
Finn makes a note on his tablet and then glances at his mom’s stand.
Something feels off. Usually, he’d comment on my obvious fatigue. The dark circles under my eyes are impossible to miss, and my best friend has never been one to ignore when something’s out of whack with me.
“You still up for dinner and drinks after I pack up?” I ask, watching his face carefully. “Joe’s? I could use the company after the week I’ve had.”
Finn glances around the market square with visible discomfort, his eyes darting around, clearly avoiding mine. “I can’t tonight. Got a bunch of work to catch up on. Rain check?”
The excuse feels hollow, especially coming from someone who’s never missed our post-market tradition unless he was literally dying.
“Sure,” I say slowly. “Rain check.”
Under normal circumstances, I’d press him for details, demand to know what’s really going on.
But exhaustion weighs heavy on my shoulders, and I’m too tired to argue with my best friend about whatever secret he’s keeping.
If Finn wants to be mysterious about his sudden unavailability, that’s his choice.
“Besides,” he adds, “I’ll see you at Thanksgiving.”
And with that, I’m left alone in my almost-empty stall.
As the market winds down around us, everyone packing up their remaining stock and customers drifting away, I find myself looking forward to just one thing: going home and sleeping until Elvis forces me awake tomorrow morning.