Chapter 27 Bastian
BASTIAN
“Tay?” I call again.
The food box burns against my palms as I stare at Taylen’s empty driveway, his truck conspicuously absent from its usual spot beside the barn. Mom’s lasagna still radiates heat through the box, the small opening on top allowing for steam to rise into the freezing air.
My knuckles rap against the wooden door. No response, no footsteps, no call of acknowledgment, just emptiness that worries me with each passing second. I try again, louder this time, but the house remains stubbornly silent.
The porch boards creak beneath my feet as I shift my weight, anxiety building in my chest. I set the food on the porch chair and pull out my phone. The call goes straight to voicemail.
“Hey,” I say after the tone, trying to keep worry from bleeding into my words. “Just stopped by with some food from Mom. Call me when you get this?” The message sounds casual enough, but my heart pounds harder as I end the call, memories of our conversation at Jackson’s grave coming back to me.
The wind picks up, sending dead leaves skittering across the porch.
I try texting next, my thumbs moving quickly.
Bastian:
Where are you? Mom sent food.
The message shows as undelivered, suggesting his phone is completely off rather than Taylen just ignoring me.
Something twists in my stomach. Taylen would never have his phone off.
There are a bunch of workers on our farms at any given time.
We need to be available all the time, especially in case of an emergency.
Another call goes straight to voicemail. Another text fails to deliver. The steam coming out of the box dwindles as the food cools, but giving Taylen cold food is the least of my worries.
Is he avoiding me? The thought burns like acid in my throat. Did sharing those memories about Jackson push him too far, break the fragile trust that was building between us?
The orchard stretches away from the house, bare branches reaching as far as the eye can see. No movement, no workers checking trees, no equipment being moved, no signs of life at all.
“Come on, Tay,” I mutter, dialing his number again, although I know it’s futile. “Where are you?”
The voicemail greeting feels like mockery now, his recorded voice cheerful against the growing knot of worry in my stomach. I hang up without leaving a message this time.
One more circuit of the porch brings me back to the front door, where I try knocking again, although I know it’s pointless. My watch shows that nearly an hour has passed since I arrived. The food is cold now, and wherever Taylen went, he hasn’t returned.
“Fuck this,” I decide finally, grabbing the box and turning back toward my truck. The food box lands on the passenger seat with less care than Mom’s cooking deserves, but my hands are already moving to a different task. Finding Finn’s number in my phone contacts.
Finn is Taylen’s best friend, so I can only hope that he offers some answers before I start calling hospitals and the police department.
The ring sounds impossibly loud in my truck’s quiet cab as I wait for a response. Just as I’m about to hang up, the line connects with a familiar click that makes my heart skip a beat.
“Hey, big brother.”
Finn’s voice comes through the speaker with a warmth that usually calms me instantly. But today my nerves are too raw, my fingers drumming against the steering wheel as I try to keep anxiety from bleeding into my voice.
“You busy?”
“Never too busy for you,” Finn responds, though the sound of rustling papers suggests he’s in the middle of work. “What’s up? You sound weird.”
“Have you heard from Taylen?” I aim for a casual tone but probably miss by a mile, given the way Finn’s silence stretches for a moment too long. “Mom sent a box with lasagna for him, but he’s not home.”
“Ah,” Finn says finally, a single syllable that makes my chest tight. “Yeah, he’s in Burlington. It’s a trip he does every year.”
The information makes me sit straighter in the driver’s seat.
“Burlington?” My voice comes out sharper than intended. “What’s in Burlington?” Besides bars and clubs and people who aren’t me, my brain helpfully supplies. The steering wheel creaks slightly under my tightening grip.
Finn’s sigh carries a clear note of exasperation that would normally make me defensive. “Bastian,” he starts, using a tone that suggests he’s choosing words carefully. “What exactly are you worried about here?”
“I’m not worried,” I lie automatically. “Just…curious. About why he’d suddenly disappear without telling anyone.” The words sound pathetic even to my own ears.
“Right.” Finn draws the word out like he’s trying not to laugh. “You’re definitely not sitting somewhere having completely rational thoughts about why Taylen might be in Burlington.” The accuracy of his assessment makes me wince slightly.
“He could be hooking up with someone,” I blurt before I can stop myself, voicing the fear that’s been building since learning his location. “Trying to sabotage…because he’s scared or uncertain or—never mind.”
“Oh my god,” Finn interrupts, laughter finally breaking free. “You’re actually being serious right now. You genuinely think Taylen drove to Burlington for a random hookup?” The question makes heat rise in my cheeks despite being alone in the truck.
“Well, what else would he be doing there?” I demand, anxiety making my voice rougher than intended. “He’s not answering his phone, didn’t tell anyone where he was going—”
“First of all, I know where he is, so someone knows where he is. And second, since when are you so worried about someone you can barely stand?”
The question hits hard. “We don’t…” I start, then stop, because what am I even trying to say?
That we hate each other? That would be easier if it were true.
“Something’s happening between us,” I admit quietly, the words feeling heavy in my mouth.
“I don’t know…but it’s not nothing. And it sure as hell isn’t us barely standing each other. ”
“He’s getting a tattoo,” Finn cuts in, his words clear and certain enough to stop my spiral mid-sentence.
“He does it every year around this time for Jackson. He stays overnight, so he’s not on the road when he’s feeling upset.
Turns his phone off for those two days. I don’t like it, but it’s the way he processes the anniversary of Jackson’s death.
He just needs some time alone away from home and all the memories, you know? ”
The information takes a moment to process, relief washing through my system so strongly it makes my hands shake slightly. “The tattoo,” I repeat stupidly. Of course it’s the tattoo. Jackson’s anniversary was last week. “That’s…? That’s all?”
“That’s all,” Finn confirms, voice gentler now. “Though the fact that you immediately jumped to ‘he must be hooking up with a stranger’ suggests you two need to have an actual conversation about feelings at some point.”
The observation hits uncomfortably close to home, making me shift in my seat as memories of our talk at Jackson’s grave surface again. “We’re working on it,” I mutter, though the truth is we’ve been avoiding any real discussion of what’s building between us.
“Work faster,” Finn suggests dryly. “Because this whole assuming worst-case scenario thing isn’t healthy for either of you. And he’s as guilty,” he says. “If you’re serious about him—”
“I am,” I interrupt quickly, surprised that I said it aloud. “I’m completely serious about this. About him.” The admission feels terrifying and freeing at the same time, like jumping into a lake without knowing its depth.
Silence stretches between us for a moment, broken only by the soft sound of Finn shuffling papers again. “Then tell him that,” he says finally, his voice carrying a mix of exasperation and affection. “Stop dancing around the edges and actually say words aloud.”
“I’ve got to go,” I tell Finn, already checking the mirrors to back out of Taylen’s driveway. “I need to stop by the cabin for a few things before heading to Burlington.” The statement draws a fresh laugh from my brother, though this one holds no mockery.
“Of course you do,” he agrees easily. “Because driving three hours to deliver cold lasagna is a completely normal response to learning someone’s getting a tattoo.” But I hear his approval under the teasing tone, encouragement that makes me happy.
“Shut up,” I mutter without heat, making him laugh again. “And…thanks. For talking me down from the ledge. Can you send me the address of wherever he’s staying?”
“Anytime,” Finn says simply. “Just…be careful, okay? Not just with driving. I’m sending you the address.”
I end the call with a promise to update him later. My hands are now steadier on the wheel as I point the truck toward home. The anxiety that gripped me earlier has transformed into determination and hope.
Because Finn’s right, we need to have a real conversation about what we’re doing. And if that means driving three hours to deliver cold lasagna and finally say the words aloud, then that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
The hotel hallway stretches endlessly before me, each step toward Taylen’s door feeling too slow.
The food box remains clutched in my hands like a shield or a poor excuse, although the lasagna inside has long since gone cold.
My pulse slams my chest when I finally spot the correct room, hunting for courage I lost somewhere between Winterberry and Burlington.
My knuckles rap against the door before I can talk myself out of it. Time stops between one breath and the next as I wait, my ears straining for any movement from the other side. Just as I’m considering whether to knock again, the lock clicks and the door swings open.
Taylen stands in the doorway like an apparition from my dreams, hair slightly damp like he’s recently showered. His eyes widen as they find mine, his mouth opening slightly in a surprised expression that transforms his whole face. “Bastian? What are you doing here?”