Chapter 11 Bastian
BASTIAN
What the fuck is wrong with me?
One moment, my brain is thinking hell no to Finn’s ridiculous plan to host the town’s Christmas celebrations here, and the next, it’s like someone pulled the power cable attached to my brain. I’m no longer able to put together words in an order that makes sense.
Because I’m remembering all over again how blue Taylen’s eyes are. And how the short stubble on his face makes him look older. Or how the shape of his nose is just like Jackson’s, as is the curly brown hair.
Because when he looked at me and I didn’t see the usual hate, I saw something else.
But the longer I stare into Taylen’s beautiful blue eyes, the more his expression changes into something I recognize more. He’s pissed off.
“It’s a ridiculous idea,” I blurt out, finally finding my voice.
But Finn is already on his feet, his excitement practically vibrating through the air as he gestures toward invisible maps only he can see.
“Think about it. The access road from our property connects directly to Route 7, and Taylen’s service road could handle overflow parking.
We remove the fence temporarily, set up the market stalls on the flat area by the orchard… ”
I watch in growing dismay as my bandmates lean forward, caught up in Finn’s enthusiasm. Stone’s eyes light up with that particular gleam that usually precedes our most questionable decisions. Nikko’s already pulling out his phone, like he does when we’re brainstorming tour schedules.
My gaze keeps drifting to Taylen, waiting for him to object, to point out the hundred ways this could go wrong.
But he sits there with his jaw set in that stubborn line I’ve come to recognize, deliberately nodding along as Finn details where the Christmas tree could go.
The defiant gleam in his eyes makes it clear he’s agreeing just to spite me, and my stomach twists with something that isn’t entirely dread.
“The views of Mt. Philo would make it all feel magical,” Finn continues, punctuating each point with increasingly dramatic hand gestures. “The natural amphitheater effect of the valley would be perfect for the carol singers. And imagine the lighting opportunities with all those apple trees!”
“It would solve the vendor space issue,” Taylen adds quietly but with confidence. “The terrain’s actually ideal for temporary structures.”
I sit there, my turkey growing cold, as my sanctuary transforms into a festival ground in their collective imagination.
The chair scrapes against the floor as I push back slightly, needing some distance from their enthusiasm. I press my hands flat against the table as I gather my thoughts, forcing my voice into the calm, reasonable tone I’ve perfected over years of band meetings and contract negotiations.
“There are serious concerns we need to consider,” I begin, measuring each word carefully. “The media attention alone could be devastating. One tweet about Hall of Fame hosting a Christmas festival, and we’ll have fans descending on the farm from every state.”
Stone waves this off with a casual flick of his wrist. “Please, we’ve managed bigger crowds.”
“Not here,” I counter, my frustration leaking through. “The farm’s infrastructure isn’t built for that kind of traffic.” This is our sanctuary. Don’t they get that once this comes out, it’ll be impossible for us to blend in with the locals like we’ve done for years? Everything will change.
I glance at Taylen, silently pleading for support, but he just gives a small shrug that sends rage crawling up my neck. “The orchard handles harvest festival crowds,” he offers, and I have to clench my jaw to keep from snapping at him.
“That’s different, and you know it,” I say between gritted teeth. “We’re talking about insurance liability for hundreds of people on active farmland. What happens when some kid decides to climb over the fence and get into the equipment barn? Or someone breaks into the barn and lets the cows out?”
Nikko’s already typing on his phone. “I can have our insurance guys look at temporary event coverage. We’ve done similar things for outdoor concerts.”
The betrayal of my own team stings, but it’s Taylen’s continued thoughtful silence that really gets under my skin. He should be backing me up on this, should understand the risks to both our properties.
“And the timing,” I press on, desperately. “Christmas is weeks away. The festival is supposed to start on the second weekend in December. There’s no way we could coordinate something this big that fast.”
“That’s literally my job,” Finn interjects, his excitement apparently immune to my concerns. “Give me two days to draft a proper plan. We can make this work.”
I look around the table at their eager faces, feeling increasingly cornered.
Even Mom’s watching me with that particular expression that means she thinks I’m being unnecessarily difficult.
Only Fox remains neutral, methodically finishing his dinner like we’re discussing the weather instead of upending my entire life.
“I’ll think about it,” I finally concede, though the words taste bitter on my tongue. But from the triumphant gleam in Finn’s eye, I suspect this battle was lost the moment he burst through the door with his crisis.
Mom stands with the same energy she’s used all her life to break up our arguments. “Why don’t you all retire to the living room? Bastian and I will clean up here before we have dessert.”
“That sounds like a great idea,” Dad says, sharing a look with Mom.
Everyone drifts away from the table until it’s just Mom and me left in the kitchen.
Even though I know what’s coming, I still have hope that the only reason she asked me to stay behind is because I didn’t help with the dinner prep.
When I see the way she looks at me like she’s considering what to say, I know I’m right.
“How are things going between you and Taylen?” Mom asks softly, as if she has no agenda.
“Fine,” I manage, focusing intently on drying a serving plate that’s already bone dry. “Why wouldn’t they be?”
She hums thoughtfully as she loads the dishwasher, her movements efficient but unhurried. The silence stretches until I have to fill it. “We’re neighbors. We’re civil. That’s all there is to it.”
“Jackson would have wanted you two to get along,” she says quietly, and the mention of my best friend hits me like a physical blow. “He always said you were more alike than either of you would admit.”
My grip tightens on the dish towel until my knuckles turn white. “Mom, don’t.”
“Don’t what?” She pauses, turning to face me with that gentle persistence that’s impossible to escape. “Don’t mention your best friend? Don’t notice how you’ve been avoiding Taylen for years? Or don’t point out that you’ve been carrying guilt that doesn’t belong to you?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” The words come out sharper than intended, but she doesn’t flinch.
“I know you left for a tour the same week Jackson died,” she says softly. “I know you couldn’t make it back for the funeral. And I know you’ve been punishing yourself for it ever since.”
The plate in my hands becomes suddenly fragile, and I set it down carefully before I can drop it. “I should have been here.”
“You were living your dream, and you had a job to do. Jackson was so proud of you, Sebastian. He wouldn’t have wanted you to give that up, and he certainly wouldn’t have wanted you to carry this around for twelve years.”
“But I wasn’t here,” I repeat, my voice barely above a whisper. “When he needed me most, when Taylen needed—”
“Taylen had his parents, had us, had the whole town.” Mom’s hand finds my shoulder, warm and grounding. “What he didn’t have was you torturing yourself from afar, unable to grieve properly because you were so busy feeling guilty.”
I lean against the counter, the fight draining out of me. “I don’t know how to be around him without seeing Jackson. Without remembering.”
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” she suggests. “Maybe remembering Jackson together is exactly what you both need. But you can’t do that while you’re keeping Taylen at arm’s length.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Isn’t it?” She turns back to the dishes, but I can feel her attention still focused on me. “Or are you afraid that if you let yourself get close to Taylen, you’ll have to admit there’s more there than just shared grief?”
The observation lands too close to home, and I busy myself with wiping down the counters. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Sebastian Hall, I raised you. I’ve seen the way you look at that boy.”
“He’s not a boy anymore, Mom.”
“No,” she agrees, a knowing smile playing at her lips. “He’s not. And that’s part of the problem, isn’t it?”
But she’s already turning to face me, her eyes soft with an understanding I’m not ready for. “You can’t keep holding yourself apart from everything that reminds you of him. And you can’t keep pretending there’s nothing between you and Taylen except old grief.”
The words settle in my chest like stones, heavy with a truth I’ve been avoiding. I focus on folding the dish towel, buying time I don’t really need. We both know she’s right, but admitting it feels dangerous, like opening a door I’m not sure I can close again.
Not to mention, he doesn’t trust me and seems to hate my guts. Both things I can’t entirely blame him for.
When we finish, she excuses herself and goes upstairs to freshen up. The noises coming from the living room should be inviting. My bandmates and my family are watching football on TV on Thanksgiving, just like any other regular family.
But I’m wound too tight to join them.
The hallway offers a temporary escape. I lean against the wall, letting the solid structure take my weight as everything else threatens to collapse around me.
My chest feels too tight, each breath a conscious effort against the pressure building inside.
I close my eyes, but that only makes the images clearer.
Market stalls sprawling across my fields, crowds trampling paths through the snow, music and laughter drowning out the quiet I’ve fought so hard to protect.
The farm has always been my sanctuary, the one place I could just be myself without the weight of public expectations.
Even during the height of our fame, it remained untouched, preserved like a photograph of simpler times.
Now Finn wants to throw open the gates, invite the whole town in, and transform our private space into a public celebration.
I clench and unclench my fists, hoping the motion will help me calm down.
The logical part of my brain understands why Finn wants to do this.
The town needs this. The community that’s sheltered and protected us all these years is asking for help.
Refusing would mean watching small businesses struggle through the winter, seeing holiday traditions wither like unpicked fruit.
But it’s not just about the festival. Mom’s words echo in my head, mixing with memories of Jackson’s laugh and the way Taylen looked at me in the studio this afternoon.
Footsteps approach from the living room. I don’t need to open my eyes to know it’s Nikko. He’s always had a knack for finding me in these moments of retreat.
“Hey,” he says, his voice carrying that particular tone that means he’s about to offer an escape route. “Local band’s playing at Joe’s tonight.” He pauses, letting the information settle. “Could be interesting.”
“Interesting how?”
“Well,” he drawls, leaning against the opposite wall, “they might need some expert advice. And Joe’s has that new winter ale you like.” His smile turns knowing. “Plus, it’s somewhere that isn’t here.”
The offer tempts me. A few hours away from family expectations and Taylen’s unsettling presence, lost in music that has nothing to do with my own complicated history. But I hear movement from the kitchen, the soft pad of familiar footsteps approaching.
“You should go.” Taylen’s voice comes from behind me, startling us both. “I need to head home anyway. Early morning with Elvis.”
I turn to find him watching me with an expression I can’t quite read, exhaustion and something else playing across his features. The mention of the rooster brings an unexpected smile to my lips.
“You started it,” I remind him, and for a moment, the tension between us shifts into something lighter.
“Come on,” Nikko interrupts, clearly sensing an opportunity. “One drink. We can talk about anything except Christmas festivals and farming.”
Maybe a few hours’ distance is exactly what I need to face all this tomorrow.
“All right,” I concede, pushing off from the wall. “One drink.”