Chapter 9 Bastian
BASTIAN
I pause before I enter the farmhouse through the kitchen, wondering when someone last used the front door.
Taking a deep breath, I prepare myself for the chaos I know I’m going to find inside. For over twenty years, I lived surrounded by people. My band brothers, crew, fans, the press, you name it.
In the last few weeks, I’ve gotten used to the solitude I only ever get when I hide in my recording studio, writing songs with Mik.
Do I miss the chaos? Yes.
Am I ready to face a whole day of it, which also includes Taylen Howard in very close proximity? Hell no.
Gouta nudges me on my leg.
“Yeah, yeah, we’re going in. You know, for a farm animal, you’re way too happy to not be on the farm part.”
She bleats her reply, trotting past me and going inside.
The farmhouse kitchen is filled with the sounds of clattering pots and familiar voices. Countless years of coming home for Thanksgiving, and I’ll never not be surprised by the controlled chaos of Mom’s Thanksgiving prep.
I stop in the doorway as I process the scene before me.
Stone is fighting with a potato peeler while Nikko dodges flying peels.
Kay perches on a counter, sorting fresh herbs, while Tyler and Mik work in perfect sync, chopping vegetables and trading secret smiles.
And then there’s Fox, looking relaxed and healthy, his silver-streaked hair longer than when I last saw him.
My feet carry me across the room, and I pull Fox into a tight hug, breathing in the familiar scent of leather mixed with his cologne. “When did you get in? Where the hell have you been?” The words come out rougher than intended, weeks of worry bleeding through.
Fox returns the embrace with equal force. “This morning. There was something I’ve wanted to pursue for a long time but never had the chance.”
“And has it worked?”
“It’s a work in progress,” he says, his amber eyes holding secrets I can’t quite read.
Before I can press further, Mom appears between us, brandishing a wooden spoon like a conductor’s baton. “Questions later, potatoes now!” Her tone means no argument.
I try flattery as a diversion tactic. “Is that a new apron? The color really brings out your—”
“Nice try. Your dad has trademarked that one, and look what that’s gotten him. A lifetime of turkey smoking outside in the cold.” She points the spoon at a mountain of vegetables awaiting prep. “You’re not getting out of kitchen duty that easily. It's bad enough that your brother is late.”
Movement through the window catches my eye. A familiar figure crosses the boundary between our properties, and my heart does that uncomfortable thing it always does whenever Taylen appears. He looks exhausted even from this distance, his shoulders slumped under the weight of sleepless nights.
Despite having to manage the farm, two chickens that refuse to live anywhere but my living room, and being constantly shadowed by a goat who thinks she’s a pet, things haven’t been too bad.
We have enough help around the farm that I can distribute the jobs and focus on what needs to be done by me, and despite my efforts to live independently, I know I wouldn’t hear the end of it if I didn’t have dinner with my parents every day.
Taylen doesn’t have those things.
Guilt gnaws at me, so before I talk myself out of it, and before my plan becomes too obvious, I turn back toward the door.
“We need more firewood,” I announce, perhaps too quickly. Mom raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment as I head out, grateful for the excuse to escape.
Gouta, who was curled up on top of the blanket in the basket my mom set up for her in the kitchen, stands up, bleats some sort of announcement, and then follows me out.
Despite my boots crunching in the snow, Taylen doesn’t notice me until I’m almost right in front of him.
He looks worse up close, the dark circles under his eyes like bruises against his winter-pale skin. He startles when he spots me, the curly waves of his hair falling slightly onto his eyes. Elvis has done his job too well. The thought brings me a lot less satisfaction than I expected.
“You look like hell,” I say.
He tries to straighten his posture, a futile attempt at his usual defiance. “I’m fine. Just busy with holiday prep.”
“Right.” I step close enough to catch the slight sway in his stance. “And I’m sure the three a.m. wake-up calls have nothing to do with it.”
A flash of his old fire sparks in those tired eyes. “Elvis is a great addition to the flock.” The stubborn set of his jaw would be more convincing if he weren’t clearly fighting to keep his eyes open.
“Come on,” I say, making a split-second decision. “We need to talk.”
I expect resistance, but he follows me without argument, his boots dragging slightly in the snow.
The path feels longer with Taylen beside me, our breath creating twin clouds in the cold air. He stumbles once, and my hand shoots out to steady him before I can think better of it. The contact sends electricity up my arm, even through layers of winter clothing.
“Why are we going to your studio?” His voice carries a thread of suspicion, but he doesn’t pull away from my steadying grip.
“Because,” I say, leading him toward the modern building that’s caused so much tension between us, “I want to show you something.”
The studio feels different with Taylen in it, smaller somehow. He stands in the center of the room, taking in the changes in the space. The coffee cups are now clean and stashed nicely next to the coffee maker, and the previously messy stacks of papers are now in a neat pile on the coffee table.
Gouta circles us a couple of times until she decides we’re not doing anything exciting and goes back out, probably back to the farmhouse where she knows my mom will feed her scraps.
I shake my head. One month, I’m singing to a crowd of thousands of people, and the next, I’m living with a spoiled goat that can outdiva Stone.
“What do you want, Bastian?” Taylen’s voice is filled with exhaustion and apprehension.
“Take a look,” I say, gesturing to the paperwork.
He sinks onto the couch and picks up the nearest folder. I watch his face as he reads, seeing the moment understanding begins to dawn.
“Bastian…”
“I’ve been developing these plans for over a year. Working with agricultural experts, studying successful co-ops across the country.”
The plans detail everything from sustainable farming practices to community involvement. In a nutshell, ways to combine traditional methods with new developments to create efficiency and lower costs.
“I…” He looks up at me, genuine surprise softening his features. “I owe you an apology.”
I sit beside him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body but not quite touching. “I didn’t show you this so you can apologize, Taylen. I just wanted you to…” I sigh. “Being a rockstar is only glamorous on paper.”
He looks up from the reports and raises an eyebrow.
“Okay, fine,” I relent. “It’s been pretty good. The money, the fame, doing something I know I was born to do. I’m luckier than most people. But all of that hasn’t come without the other side.”
“You mean being hunted by the press all the time? Screaming fans and all that?”
I shake my head. “Playing a full set for a full stadium, burning more calories than I can consume in a day, crashing, and doing it all over the next day for months. Coming home and finding I missed so much stuff, and trying to catch up while everyone else is on vacation somewhere sunny. Repeat that for two decades.”
Taylen looks so tired. He leans on the back of the couch, letting his head rest on the soft cushion. “You liked it though, right? You always looked so happy in the interviews.”
The thought that he watched our interviews or kept up with the band surprises me.
“I wouldn’t change it for the world. My point is, I know what commitment looks like, Taylen, and just like I didn’t quit on music, I’m not quitting on the farm.”
“You did quit music.” His lips curl into a smile, and with him looking so relaxed, I have to consciously keep my hands in my lap because I want nothing more than to touch him.
I don’t want to tell him that while we’re not touring, I can’t bear the thought that this is it.
Hall of Fame will never make music again.
I’m not sure I can be myself without music.
I just have to figure out how to do it without impacting my work on the farm.
And that’s not a conversation I’m ready to have right now.
Taylen glances again at the report. His fingers trace the edge of a detailed irrigation diagram. “These are good plans,” he admits. “Really good.”
“I want to help revitalize local agriculture while honoring traditional methods. Combine my business experience with practical knowledge like yours.”
Something shifts in his expression, a warmth I’ve never seen before directed at me. “You’re really serious about this.”
“I’m here to stay,” I promise, holding his gaze. “And it’s not just about succeeding. It’s about helping everyone succeed.”
He nods slowly, and I see the last of his defenses crumbling just before his eyes close and he falls asleep.
I grab the blanket that drapes over the arm of the couch and cover Taylen with it. He stirs a little, like he’s making himself comfortable.
“Thank you, rockstar.”
I pull my phone out and drop Fox a message to explain my absence. I don’t even care that he doesn’t seem to buy it. I’ll make it up to my mom, but right now, Taylen is the one I need to make up to.
Taking the reports from his hands, I get comfortable and continue reading through the new information I haven’t worked on yet. Eventually, my own early mornings catch up with me, and I fall asleep.
I’m jolted awake when the studio door flies open with teenage enthusiasm, Kay coming in with her bossy face on. I’ve known that girl since she was born. The only one who can maybe compete with Kay’s bossiness might be Gouta.
Gouta trots in behind Kay, red ribbon slightly askew, looking entirely too pleased with herself.
“There you are!” Kay announces, seemingly oblivious to Taylen sleeping beside me. “Nan says dinner’s almost ready, and Gouta was looking for you guys.”
As if on cue, the goat launches herself onto the couch between Taylen and me, her hooves narrowly missing the papers spread across the coffee table. She settles herself like royalty claiming a throne, butting her head against both of us in turn.
Taylen laughs at the rude awakening, his fingers finding that spot behind Gouta’s ears that makes her melt. “I’m still your favorite,” he mutters fondly. “But you were supposed to be teaching him about farming, not cuddling on his furniture.”
He yawns and rubs the sleep off his face. “Christ, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I promise the reports weren’t that boring.”
I laugh. “Sure, sure. Do you feel more rested though?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“We should head back,” I suggest, standing and offering him my hand. He hesitates for just a moment before taking it, his palm warm against mine as I help him up. The contact lingers a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Kay’s already bouncing back toward the door, Gouta trotting after her like an oversized puppy. Our conversation still feels unfinished. There are questions I want to ask, but with Taylen, I need to take baby steps.
“Coming?” Kay calls from outside, her voice carrying on the crisp air.
Taylen follows me out into the snow, and we walk toward the warmth of the farmhouse, our shoulders nearly touching with each step.