Chapter 30 Taylen
TAYLEN
The festival lights pierce the darkness like stars. It’s a particularly cold night, but this is Winterberry. We don’t have winter in the name for nothing.
As the temperatures go down, our spirits go up, especially in the face of such an important event.
In the twenty-five years of the band’s history, Hall of Fame has never played in Winterberry because they haven’t wanted to attract attention to the place they’ve called home, even for those in the band who aren’t actually from here.
“I still can’t believe they’re actually doing this,” a woman says beside me, clutching her husband’s arm with barely contained excitement. “Twenty-five years of following them to Boston, New York, even that time we drove all the way to Montreal, and now they’re playing right here at home.”
“And at Christmas,” her husband adds. “It’s like a gift to the whole town.”
Mrs. Stanton from the general store appears at my other side, practically bouncing on her toes.
“Did you hear it’s just going to be a short set?
Five, maybe six songs? They’re opening for our local boys.
” Her eyes shine with pride. “That’s what makes them special, you know?
They could headline anywhere in the world, but they’re here supporting local musicians. ”
“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Old Jim chimes in from behind us. “Must be something in the water around here to grow all this amazing talent. And they’re so generous too.”
“Sebastian helped me fix my fence last week,” someone else adds. “Didn’t even mention it. Just showed up with tools and got to work.”
“And Stone overheard my Bonnie talk about her college application at Noelle’s and spent an hour talking to her about how to make it stand out,” another voice joins in. “Wouldn’t even accept a pastry for it either.”
The crowd presses closer as show time approaches.
I maintain my position near the sound booth, far enough from the stage to watch the show while keeping an eye on Eleanor. With the crowds today, she might need my help, although she threatened to kick me out, saying she’d recruited her grandson to help.
Nikko moves between monitors, checking everything but touching nothing. As the band’s tour manager, he must know the jobs of the supporting crew inside out.
When Bastian steps onto the stage, the audience’s response is immediate and electric. His presence fills the space with his easy confidence and natural charisma that draws every eye.
That’s my man, right there on the stage. Pride swells in my chest with the knowledge that the voice about to sing the songs that have made them famous, that have served as soundtrack to so many lives, is the voice that will talk into my ear until I’m asleep tonight.
Fuck, I’m way too sappy in love.
“Evening, Winterberry,” he says into the microphone.
The crowd responds with an enthusiasm that makes me wonder how many are locals versus tourists drawn in by the news that Hall of Fame would perform tonight. “Thanks for letting us crash your festival.”
The crowd laughs, but I know exactly how hard Finn worked to convince them to play this small set.
As if conjured, my best friend shows up beside me. “I believe the words used were blackmail, old school photos, and the video recording of a song he wrote when he was ten.”
I laugh. “Nothing like a little encouragement.”
“They would have done it anyway, but it was fun seeing Bastian squirm and then sit back as he convinced the rest of the band.”
The first notes of their opening song get the crowd screaming. Bastian’s voice carries the rough warmth of aged whiskey, deepened by years of singing and shouting over stadium crowds.
I fall for him a little more as I watch him work the crowd, pointing at familiar faces and making eye contact with fans who probably haven’t slept since hearing Hall of Fame would perform.
This is his element, the place where Sebastian Hall becomes more than just a dairy farmer’s son who got a lucky break.
The next song shifts into darker territory.
One of their newer pieces that explores themes of leaving and returning, of trying to balance opposing forces in one life.
They wrote the song for their last album, before Mik announced he wanted to settle down with Kay in Stillwater, but the irony of the lyrics isn’t lost on me as I watch Bastian pour himself into the performance.
His hands move over the guitar strings with the same grace they showed when touching my skin earlier today.
When they launch into their biggest hit, the audience’s response drowns out the first few notes completely.
I lean into Finn so he can hear me. “Hey, I’m going to grab a hot drink and then check in on Eleanor. Be back in a bit.”
The excuse sounds as I intended it, but the truth sits heavy in my stomach as I claim an empty space near Joe’s counter. I need time to process what loving Bastian really means, what sacrifices might be required from both of us.
Because watching him perform tonight has reminded me of a fundamental truth I’ve been trying to ignore: Sebastian Hall belongs to more than just me, more than just this town.
And loving him means accepting that his heart will always be divided between worlds that sometimes feel impossibly far apart.
“Taylen, you look like you need some hot cider, am I right?” Joe says.
“You are. Bring it on,” I say, using the smile I’ve practiced over the last twelve years whenever people ask me how I am but don’t really want to know that I’m dying inside.
It’s always easier for everyone if I look happy.
The cider burns my tongue as I take a too-large sip, desperate for the warmth that might chase away the chill.
“Careful there,” Joe warns as he slides a fresh napkin across the counter. “Just made that batch. Still pretty hot.” His attention shifts to new customers before I can respond, leaving me alone with a scalded mouth and racing thoughts.
A flash of an expensive coat catches my eye, and I recognize its owner immediately. Daisy, the band’s agent, stands partially turned away from the crowd, her perfectly manicured hand pressing her phone closer to her ear.
“No, listen,” she says, voice carrying barely contained excitement.
“The timing is perfect. We’ve got momentum from the Christmas show.
You should see the crowd here tonight.” Her free hand gestures despite the fact that the person she’s talking to can’t see the movement. “Nikko has worked his magic on them.”
My fingers tighten around the paper cup, heat seeping through the cardboard.
But the cider doesn’t burn as much as her next words do.
“You know how it is, he could never be idle. Six months max before we start recording.” She laughs at whatever response comes through the phone. “Trust me, I know my boys.”
The cider turns bitter on my tongue as implications sink in.
Six months. Recording. Words that carry promises about to be broken.
A future I’ve barely allowed myself to imagine is crumbling before it can fully form.
Because Bastian swore he was staying this time.
He promised me the farm and his family come first now.
“The label will be thrilled,” Daisy continues, oblivious to the way her casual conversation is shattering my world into sharp-edged pieces. “Nikko’s already got a preliminary tour schedule worked out.”
Of course he does. Nikko’s efficiency is legendary. After all, his efforts combined with Finn’s have made this year’s Christmas Festival a success. But the knowledge that he’s been plotting this while we’ve all believed Bastian’s promises about staying burns like acid in my throat.
“No, they’re all on board,” Daisy assures whoever she’s talking to, the confidence clear in her tone.
The festival continues around me as I stand frozen with my cooling cider. Laughter and music mix with the scent of pine and cinnamon, creating a holiday atmosphere that feels like a joke now.
Because I know the truth now. I understand with a clarity that burns like winter wind against exposed skin. No matter what promises Bastian’s made, no matter how sincere his intentions might be, Sebastian Hall will always choose performing over everything else. Over farm, over family.
Over me.
I don’t know how much time has passed while I’m deep in my thoughts, but I notice a shift in the music. Hall of Fame has a particular sound they’ve honed over the years. I’d recognize it anywhere.
“Hey, you disappeared,” Bastian says as he slides into the space beside me. His face glows with post-performance energy, a slight sheen of sweat still visible at his temples. When his hand brushes mine, his touch feels like a brand against skin that’s suddenly too sensitive.
“I needed a drink,” I manage, my words coming out steadier than I feel.
His smile shows no sign of guilt or hesitation, no indication that he’s planning to shatter everything he’s promised. The realization makes something twist sharply inside me.
“Come on,” he says, his fingers lacing with mine. “Let’s watch from a better spot. These guys are incredible live.”
His enthusiasm appears genuine. How does he manage to compartmentalize so effectively?
The crowd shifts to accommodate us as he guides me closer to the stage, his hand steady against my lower back in a way that used to feel comforting, but now it makes me want to curl up and disappear. We end up near the sound booth where I was before. Finn is no longer here.
“Watch their drummer,” Bastian says, leaning close enough that his breath stirs the hair near my ear. “She’s amazing.”
When the song ends, the lead singer launches into a speech about the importance of community and connection, but all I can focus on is the weight of Bastian’s presence beside me.
The way his body moves unconsciously to the music in a rhythm he probably doesn’t even realize he’s matching.
Because music is his natural habitat, not quiet mornings in a barn or stolen moments between farm chores.
My head begins pounding in earnest as minutes stretch endlessly before me.
Each song blends into the next, creating a soundtrack to thoughts that won’t stop circling—six months, recording, tour plans already being made.
The pressure builds behind my eyes until the lights blur into meaningless patterns.
“You okay?” Bastian asks suddenly, concern clear in his voice as he studies my face. His hand finds my cheek. “You look pale.”
“Just a headache,” I tell him. “I think I’m going to head home.”
“I’ll come with you,” he offers immediately because, of course, he does. Because he’s still playing the role of devoted partner perfectly, even while planning his escape from promises he’s made. “I can have Nikko handle—”
“No,” I cut him off sharper than intended, drawing a slight frown that I force myself to ignore. “Stay. Enjoy the show.” My voice softens slightly as I add, “Spend time with your friends.”
“You sure?” His concern appears genuine, making everything hurt worse somehow. Because he probably does care, probably means every sweet word and gentle touch. Just not enough to choose this life over the call of the spotlight that’s already drawing him away.
“I’m sure,” I manage, already pulling away. “Just need some sleep.” The excuse sounds weak even to my ears, but he accepts it with a nod.
“Text me when you get home safe?” he asks, hand reaching for mine one last time. I let him capture my fingers briefly, then I pull away, turning toward the exit before he can see the truth written across my face.
The crowd parts around me as I move with a single-minded determination toward the festival’s edge, the music following me home. My vision blurs slightly as I finally cross the threshold into my house, allowing the first tears to fall.