Chapter 18 Taylen
TAYLEN
The bells above Noelle’s Bakery door chime as I shoulder my way inside, arms straining under stacked delivery boxes. As soon as I’m through, I’m met with the scent of Christmas spices: cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice, and orange.
“Taylen!” Noelle’s voice carries over the hiss of espresso machines and murmur of morning customers. “Can you drop those in the kitchen for me, honey?” She emerges from behind the counter, her floral-patterned apron dusted with flour. “Let me finish with this customer, and I’ll give you a hand.”
“I’ll swap your help for a coffee,” I say, moving around the counter toward the kitchen at the back.
“Sure thing, honey.”
It takes three back-to-back trips to my truck to offload the boxes Noelle has on a regular order. With every journey, my stomach reminds me it would be a good idea to have one of Noelle’s amazing pastries.
“You look terrible,” she says, inspecting the delivery boxes. “When’s the last time you slept properly?” Her eyes narrow as she studies my face, probably cataloging the dark circles and stubble I couldn’t be bothered to deal with this morning.
I force a smile that feels more like a grimace. “Been busy with festival prep. Anyway, I got you the usual applesauce and preserves,” I add quickly, gesturing to the boxes before she can press further. “Plus some of the experimental cider varieties you wanted to try.”
“You are the bestest,” she says, already lifting lids to inspect the contents.
But her eyes keep darting to my face. “The Christmas Festival relocation must be keeping you running,” she says carefully.
“Such short notice, having to coordinate with the Hall property…everyone in town is talking about it.”
My belly churns at her mention of the Hall name. “Something like that.” The words come out clipped, earning another worried look from Noelle.
“Sit,” she commands suddenly, pointing to an empty table. “I’m making you coffee. And you’re taking a spiced bun too.” When I start to protest, she adds, “On the house. You look like you need it.”
Before I can argue, the bell chimes again. My stomach drops as Finn enters, his usual energy somewhat subdued this morning. He spots me immediately. “Tay.”
“Finn, your usual?” Noelle asks. “Why don’t you two sit over there by the window, and I’ll get you both taken care of in no time.”
I sink into the indicated chair, knowing resistance is futile when Noelle gets that tone. Finn hesitates only briefly before claiming the seat across from me.
“You haven’t been answering your phone,” he says quietly. The accusation carries notes of hurt I’m not ready to deal with.
“Been busy.” I study the scarred tabletop. “Festival stuff, you know how it is. After all, you made the list.”
“About that…” He leans forward, voice dropping lower. “I know it’s been chaotic. But I promise that as soon as the infrastructure is in place, we can handle most of it. I just want to make sure we don’t accidentally take up more space than was agreed on.”
“It’s fine.”
“Seriously, Tay. You don’t need to—”
“Not everything is about the damn festival, okay?” The words explode out of me, harsher than intended, but thankfully, no one overhears my little outburst. “Maybe I have other problems that don’t revolve around the fucking Christmas Festival.”
Finn’s expression shifts from concern to confusion. “Tay, what’s going on?”
I scoff. “What? You’re interested in being my best friend now?”
“Tay, that’s not fair.”
“Really? Because from where I’m standing, it seems you haven’t made space or time for the person you call a best friend in weeks.”
His face pales. “I’m—”
“Whatever.” I’m on my feet now, chair scraping back with an ugly sound.
The bakery has gone quiet, every eye on our corner table. Noelle stands frozen behind the counter, coffee pot in hand. Shame and anger war in my chest as I look at Finn’s stricken expression.
“Sorry, Noelle, I’ll take your coffee another time. Just remembered I have another delivery to make this morning.”
I move, shouldering past customers toward the door, taking a deep, cold breath when I’m outside again. I knew I should have gotten someone else to make the deliveries today.
My hands shake as I fumble with my truck keys, adrenaline making that simple task difficult. Behind me, I hear the bakery door open, but I’m already sliding behind the wheel. The engine turns over with a familiar growl, and I pull away from the curb.
In my rearview mirror, Finn stands on the sidewalk looking lost. The sight sends fresh guilt through my system, mixing with anger and confusion until I can’t tell them apart. I press the accelerator harder. The sooner I’m back at the farm, the sooner I can take this energy out on work.
Minutes later, gravel sprays beneath my tires as I pull up to my farmhouse, and I’m out of the truck before the engine fully dies.
The axe feels too light in my hands as I approach the woodpile.
The first log splits with a satisfying crack, pieces falling to either side like my composure at Noelle’s. I set up another immediately, not allowing myself time to think. The axe bites deep, sending vibrations up my arms that feel like the punishment I deserve.
I know I was a dick to Finn, and I’ll need to apologize. It’s not his fault I’m all torn up inside over his brother. But he’s not totally without fault. I would have talked to him if he’d been around. If he’d uttered any words to me that weren’t about the Christmas Festival.
Probably.
Sweat begins to gather at my collar despite the cool air. Each swing carries more force than the last, the wood giving way beneath the steel of my axe. The pile of split logs grows as the morning turns into the afternoon.
My shoulders burn, but I welcome the sensation. Physical pain feels cleaner than the mess in my head, simpler than remembering Finn’s hurt expression or Bastian’s hands on my skin. The axe rises and falls with increasing speed, my breathing growing ragged as I push harder.
A particularly aggressive swing sends splinters flying, one catching my cheek with a sharp sting. Blood wells, warm against my wind-chilled skin.
Fuck.
I need to stop before I get seriously injured, but I can’t just leave this mess, so I start hauling it into the barn.
The chicken coop needs cleaning. It always needs cleaning.
An endless task like trying to sort out my own mess.
When I’m done with the logs, I attack them with furious energy, scraping and scrubbing while Elvis watches from his perch.
The rooster’s occasional comments sound like criticism, but maybe that’s just guilt talking.
By late afternoon, I’m physically exhausted and starving. My muscles tremble with effort at each simple movement, but my mind feels clearer, like manual labor has scraped away some of the confusion clouding my thoughts.
Dusk paints the world in shades of apology as I trudge toward my house, my muscles screaming with each step. Finn’s silhouette on my porch stops me short. He’s sitting on the bench I have on the porch, hunched against the evening chill. The sight sends a load of fresh guilt through my system.
“You look like hell,” he announces as I approach, his voice carrying more concern than judgment. His eyes track over my disheveled appearance. Work-stained clothes, bleeding hands, the cut on my cheek I’d forgotten about until now.
“Yeah, well.” Words fail me as I reach the steps, body suddenly too heavy to move farther. I sink down beside him. “About this morning—”
“No,” he interrupts, turning to face me fully. “Let me go first.” His shoulders square like he’s preparing for something difficult. “I’ve been a terrible friend lately. You’re right. I haven’t been there when you needed me. And I’m sorry.”
The simple admission catches me off guard. “Finn…”
“I’ve been dealing with…stuff,” he continues carefully. “Things I’m not ready to talk about yet. But I let it affect our friendship, and that’s not okay.”
“You know you can tell me anything, right?”
His smile carries an edge of something I can’t quite read. “I know. And I will, when I’m ready. But right now, I miss my best friend. Miss knowing what’s going on in your life.”
The words break something loose in my chest. “I hooked up with someone,” I blurt out.
His eyebrows rise slightly, but he doesn’t seem surprised. “And?”
“And I should regret it.” My voice catches on the words. “But I don’t. Even though it’s complicated everything, even though it’s probably a huge mistake, I can’t make myself sorry it happened.”
“Why would you want to regret good sex?”
“It’s just…complicated.” The word feels inadequate to describe the mess I’ve made, but it’s all I have.
Finn has this knowing look that makes me wonder if he knows how I feel about Bastian.
Whenever he’s mentioned his brother in the past, I’ve always been so busy pretending I don’t care, so he won’t find out how I feel, that I’ve probably missed the fact that he’s provided the information voluntarily.
His hand finds my shoulder, squeezing gently. The gesture breaks the last of my defenses, and suddenly, we’re hugging properly.
“I love you, Tay.”
“Love you too, Finn.”
Movement catches my eye over his shoulder.
Bastian stands at our property line, watching us with an expression I can’t read from this distance.
Our eyes lock across the space between us, and for a split second, I want him to be the one whose arms are around me, but he turns away immediately, retreating with long strides that carry him quickly out of sight.
My heart hammers in my chest as I pull back from Finn’s embrace. The evening air feels suddenly colder. “Let’s get drunk,” I suggest impulsively. “Forget all the shit in our lives for one night.”
“God, yes.” He follows me inside, complaining dramatically about the house’s temperature. “Do you not believe in heat? Are we practicing for winter survival scenarios?”
I shove him playfully toward the thermostat while heading for the cabinet that holds Dad’s old liquor collection. The bottles clink together as I pull out likely candidates: whiskey for courage, vodka for honesty, rum for when things get really interesting.
“You’re going to freeze to death in your sleep,” Finn continues, fiddling with temperature controls. “They’ll find you perfectly preserved like those mountain climbers, except surrounded by apple crates instead of snow drifts.”
The familiar banter feels like coming home as I line up shot glasses on the counter. “You volunteering to keep me warm?” I tease, earning a snort of laughter.
“Not with you stinking like that. Besides, I’m pretty sure that job’s taken,” he returns without missing a beat. Before I can process that, he claims a bottle of whiskey and heads for the living room. “Come on, let’s see what truths we can extract from each other.”
“Let me grab a quick shower first. I wouldn’t want to harm your sensitive nose.”
“Honey, I love the smell of sweaty man like any other warm-blooded gay man, but I draw the line at chicken shit.”
I grab the nearest pillow from the couch and throw it at him. As I disappear to my room, I shout at him to order some food, which, depending on how lazy he’s feeling, means a call to order takeout or a short walk to his parents’.
The night stretches ahead, promising honesty or oblivion. But as the hot water relaxes my muscles, I find myself ready for whatever truths might surface. Some things can’t stay buried forever, no matter how deep we try to hide them.