Chapter 15 Bastian
BASTIAN
The barn smells like winter. Hay dust and frost-tinged air mixing with the earthy warmth of sleeping animals. Most people would shy away from this, but for me, this is home. On stage, when I’m singing, I feel like I’m flying, but this place, the animals, they ground me.
Years ago, the band accepted the offer for a documentary to be made about us and our rise to being one of the most successful bands in the country. I had only one condition: there would be no filming on the farm. Winterberry was and still is our sanctuary.
We rented a farm in Pine Ridge, Colorado, and thankfully, the owner wanted to keep his anonymity. The NDA we had to sign was more ironclad than the one we had him sign.
In addition, he joined us when we donated the proceeds from the making of the documentary to a charity that helps young people gain the skills and knowledge to not only find employment in farming but also thrive by using sustainable farming methods.
Every day that I wake up before sunrise and walk to the farmhouse to share an early cup of coffee with my parents, I know I made the right decision.
I make my way down the center aisle, pitchfork balanced against my shoulder. In the corner, Gouta watches with her usual regal disinterest. She seems to have taken issue with the cows and no longer wants to join them in the pasture.
My arms protest as I lift the first forkful of fresh hay, muscles reminding me that I’m not as young as I used to be. Or maybe it’s just that I barely slept last night, too busy replaying moments I should probably try harder to forget.
“This is ridiculous,” I announce to the empty barn. Gouta’s ears twitch slightly—the only indication she’s listening. “He can’t just keep avoiding me.” The pitchfork strikes the floor with more force than necessary as I gather another load.
The physical work should help clear my head, but each movement just seems to wind me tighter. “What did he expect?” The words echo off the wooden beams, coming back to me like accusations. “That we’d fall into bed straight away without talking about it first? Especially when I was half-drunk?”
I pause mid-motion, remembering how Taylen looked this morning. As if last night never happened. As if I hadn’t crossed the space between our properties with my heart in my throat and whiskey burning in my blood. As if his lips hadn’t met mine with seven years of pent-up want.
“And now he won’t even look at me.” The hay scatters wider than intended, my movements growing less steady as frustration builds.
Gouta bleats softly from her corner. I can’t tell if it’s sympathy or judgment. I lean against the pitchfork, letting its solid weight ground me in this moment instead of the ones I keep circling back to.
“You know what the worst part is?” I ask her, not expecting or waiting for a response. “He kisses me back. Every time. In Burlington. Last night. He kisses me like he means it. Like he wants it as much as I do. Then he refuses to talk and acts like I’m the one who did something wrong.”
Last night comes back to me with too much clarity considering the alcohol in my blood.
Taylen’s body pressed between mine and the wall, his fingers tangled in my hair, the soft sound he made when I deepened the kiss.
More intense than that night in Burlington, more real somehow.
No interruptions, no groups of paparazzi around the corner ready to snap their next paycheck.
Just us and years of denied attraction finally breaking free.
“How long?” I say between gritted teeth. How long has he wanted me? Was that night in Burlington the start? Was it because he missed Jackson and, like me, wanted to connect with someone? Or did he feel it before?
I think back to when I turned thirty-two.
Jackson fucking drove to a gig in Toronto and went as far as buying VIP tickets that included the meet and greet.
When I’d gotten pissed off at him for spending the money when I could have gotten him in backstage for free, he said I could pay him back by coming home and having a good old birthday party at Joe’s.
By the time we arrived back home the next day, there was a crowd at Joe’s ready to celebrate my thirtieth, two years late. In the crowd was Taylen, who’d turned twenty a few days before my birthday.
For the first time in my life, I’d stopped seeing the little kid who grew up chasing us.
Stopped seeing the twelve-year age gap. Because Taylen was all the way grown up and looking at me like he knew exactly what to do with his grown-up body.
I’d taken a flight out of Vermont the day after the party to join the band in Montreal.
My excuse was that we had a meeting with the producers of the new album.
I definitely wasn’t running away from the way my eyes had seemed to find Taylen everywhere at the party, or at how wrong it was that I was feeling this way for my best friend’s younger brother.
If Jackson knew, he’d have kicked my ass because if there was one person he was protective of other than me, that was his younger brother.
I drive the pitchfork into a fresh bale with enough force to make the handle vibrate.
“And now we’re supposed to work together on this festival.
Coordinate everything. Be professional.” The last word comes out like a curse.
“How exactly am I supposed to do that when he won’t stay in one place long enough to have a conversation? ”
The physical labor grows more aggressive as my frustration builds. The hay flies into stalls with increasing force, scattering wider with each toss. Part of me knows I’m just making more work for myself, but the satisfaction of the movement outweighs my concerns.
Sweat begins to gather at my collar despite the chill in the air, but I welcome the discomfort. It’s better than the ache in my chest when I think about how Taylen looked at me this morning, chillier than the November frost.
“What was I thinking?” I continue. “Showing up drunk at his door and kissing him without warning?” The words taste bitter, like truth usually does. “Should have waited. Should have talked first. Should have done anything except what I actually did.”
My hands throb from gripping the pitchfork so tight.
“God, I want him,” I admit.
But his anger runs deeper than just one abandoned kiss in Burlington or one whiskey-soaked one. “What happened to you, Tay? When did you start carrying so much anger? And how much of it is really about me?”
The silence that answers makes me look up, scanning the barn’s shadows for my usual audience.
But Gouta has disappeared, probably bored with my romantic crisis or off seeking more interesting entertainment.
“Great,” I mutter, returning to my task with renewed determination. “Now even she can’t stand me.”
How do I get him to talk to me?
How do you fix what’s broken when you’re not even sure where the cracks started? The questions pile up like the hay I’m spreading, each one adding weight to an already heavy load.
“One thing at a time,” I tell myself, putting down the pitchfork and grabbing the broom to brush off the hay dust. “Finish the stalls. Feed the animals. Figure out how to make him listen.” The list grows as I work.
Gouta returns when I’m almost done, trotting through the barn door with her usual determination. She doesn’t pause to inspect the quality of my work or sit on her throne. Instead, she makes a beeline straight for me.
She grabs my shirt sleeve between her teeth, her grip firm.
“What do you want?” I ask, but she just tugs harder, backing up with purposeful steps that clearly mean I’m supposed to follow.
I try to pull away, more interested in finishing my work than following whatever scheme she’s involved in. But Gouta is nothing if not persistent. Her grip on my sleeve tightens, and she pulls me along like a child leading a reluctant parent.
“If you want treats, I’m not falling for it. I bet you’ve been in the house all this time getting fed by Mom,” I tell her, though we both know it’s a lie. I’ve never been able to resist her when she gets like this: determined, focused, and mischievous.
But even as I protest, my feet follow her guidance. The broom leans forgotten against a stall as Gouta leads me toward the barn door.
We emerge into cold air that catches in my lungs, making each breath sharp and clear. Gouta pulls me toward Mom’s small orchard, where her cherry and pear trees are ready to face the Vermont winter.
Her pace never falters, though she does glance back occasionally as if checking that I’m still following.
The orchard approaches slowly. Mom loves this place, tends it with the same care she gives to her family. The trees know her touch, respond to her gentle guidance year after year.
As we approach the orchard’s center, Gouta slows down. And there, perfectly positioned between the trees, sit two wooden boxes that definitely weren’t there yesterday.
My steps falter as recognition hits. The boxes are familiar in shape and size, and even from this distance, I can see the care that went into their placement. The perfect angle to catch the morning sun.
Beehives.
Gouta releases my sleeve, her job apparently complete. She moves to sit beneath the cherry tree, watching me with what looks suspiciously like satisfaction.
I approach the boxes slowly. As I draw closer, details become clearer: the smooth wood, the careful joints, the small entrance holes positioned exactly as they should be.
A small tag dangles from one of the boxes, its paper curling slightly at the edges. I reach for it to read the message clearly written in Taylen’s handwriting.
These girls don’t sting, unlike some people we know.
Even though I know this is meant to piss me off, I’m unable to stop the curl of my lips into a smile.
“Clever, Taylen,” I say softly. “Very clever.”
Gouta bleats from her spot beneath the cherry tree, sounding entirely too pleased with herself. I turn to find her watching me with what can only be described as smug satisfaction. “You knew about this all along, didn’t you?” I ask, but she just settles more comfortably into her chosen spot.
I run my hand along one of the hive’s edges. “Game on, Taylen.” Because this forces me to make a choice. “Game. On.”
I stare at the waiting hives, my decision forming with unexpected clarity. “If this is how you want to play it, I’m game.” Because two can play this game. This dance of gestures and meanings, this way of saying things we’re not ready to voice directly.
“Come on, Gouta,” I call, turning back toward the barn. “We’ve got work to do.” She rises with elegant grace, falling into step beside me as we leave the hives. Behind us, afternoon light will soon give way to dusk.
On the walk back, each step feels lighter, more purposeful, as plans form in my mind. Taylen wants to communicate through elaborate gestures? Fine. I can work with that. Can match him gesture for gesture, meaning for meaning, until we find our way to words that don’t need translation.
Winter air fills my lungs with each breath. Somewhere across the property line, Taylen is probably wondering if I’ve found his gift yet, if I understand what he’s trying to say. The thought makes my smile grow wider, more determined.
Because this is a language I’m finally starting to understand. And if this is how we need to start, how we bridge the distance between us, then I’m ready to become fluent.