Chapter 8 #2
The thought made his stomach twist.
Downstairs, Henry was buttering toast one-handed, his left side still weaker than his right. “You sleep okay?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Like a rock.” Henry settled into his chair, the one with the extra cushioning that made it easier for him to stand. “My appointment’s at ten. You still good to drive me?”
“Sure thing.”
They ate in comfortable silence—or what passed for comfortable. Wes kept sneaking glances at his father, trying to imagine how the conversation would go.
Dad, I’m gay.
Dad, I’m seeing someone.
Dad, you know that banker who’s been helping with the farm? Yeah, about that…
None of it sounded right.
Henry’s appointment went smoothly. The doctor was pleased with his progress, adjusted one of his medications, and scheduled a follow-up for January.
They had a late breakfast at IHOP in Milledgeville.
While they waited for their food, Wes kept scrolling through his phone, reading and re-reading Jake’s texts like a love-struck teenager.
On the drive home, Henry said, “You seem different.”
Wes’s hands tightened on the wheel. “Different how?”
“Lighter. Happier, maybe.” Henry studied him. “You’ve been smiling at your phone a lot.”
“I’ve been texting with Pedro. He’s been helping me brainstorm ideas for making money.”
It wasn’t a lie. Pedro had done this. But the smiles had nothing to do with Pedro or the farm.
Henry nodded, accepting the answer. “Good. That’s good.”
That night, Jake called again. They talked until nearly midnight—Wes lying in bed, phone tucked against his ear, Jake’s voice low and soothing.
“I’m coming over Tuesday,” he said. “No meetings, no paperwork. Just us.”
“Henry’s here.”
“I know. We’ll figure it out.”
“Jake—”
“I’m not asking you to come out to him before you’re ready. I just want to see you.”
Wes closed his eyes. “I want to see you too.”
They said goodnight, and Wes lay in the dark, heart pounding. He was terrified and exhilarated.
But for the first time in years, he didn’t feel like he was drowning.
Monday brought the vineyard visit—a young couple in their late twenties who’d bought ten acres of struggling land and were trying to turn it into something viable. Jake had restructured their loan last week, but today was about long-term planning.
He pulled up to the property around ten, parking near a modest house with a new roof and fresh paint. The vineyard stretched behind it, rows of bare vines staked and dormant for winter.
The couple met him on the porch—Sarah and Keith Whitlock, both wearing flannel and work boots, both grinning.
“Jake!” Sarah pulled him into an unexpected hug. “Come in, come in. We just made coffee.”
Their kitchen was small but bright, with windows overlooking the vineyard. They’d clearly been working: plans and sketches covered the table, along with soil samples and a stack of books on viticulture.
“We’ve been doing research,” Keith said, pouring coffee. “Talking to other winemakers in the region, figuring out what they do.”
“And we’ve got help,” Sarah added. “Keith’s brother is a contractor. My parents are investing. The community’s been incredible—people stopping by, offering advice, loaning us equipment.”
Jake watched them talk over each other, finishing each other’s sentences, completely in sync. It reminded him of Chuck and Brody—their easy partnership, the way two people could build something together that neither could manage alone.
“You’re doing everything right,” he said.
“It doesn’t always feel that way.” Sarah laughed. “Some days, I wake up and think, What the hell were we thinking?”
“Same,” Keith agreed. “But then we walk out there and see the vines, and we remember why we’re doing this.”
“Why are you doing this?” Jake asked.
They grinned at each other. Sarah spoke. “Because neither of us wanted to spend our lives in cubicles wondering what if. We figured we’d rather fail at something we loved than succeed at something that makes us miserable.”
“Plus, I like getting dirt under my fingernails,” Keith added. “I’d take the outdoors over indoors any day. And, most of all, we get to be—”
“—together,” Sarah chimed in with him. They bumped shoulders, beaming like kids in love.
Jake thought of Wes, working himself to death alone. Thought of Diane, nearly losing everything because she wouldn’t ask for help. Thought of himself, thirty-one years old and still chasing something he couldn’t name.
Maybe it wasn’t about finding home. Maybe it was about building it.
He spent the rest of the morning going over their business plan, offering suggestions, connecting them with additional resources. When he finally left, Sarah hugged him again.
“Thank you,” she said. “For believing in us.”
“You’re easy to believe in.”
Driving back to Spoon, Jake’s phone buzzed. Still good for tomorrow?
Absolutely. What time?
Afternoon? After lunch rush?
Perfect. I can’t wait.
The response came a minute later: Me neither.
Jake pulled into a gas station on the edge of town, filling up the rental car and grabbing a coffee from inside. The clerk—a kid who couldn’t have been older than twenty—gave him a knowing look.
“You’re the banker staying at the Hawthorne House, right?”
Jake blinked. “Uh, yeah?”
“Barb mentioned you. Said you’re helping a lot of folks around here.” The kid grinned. “That’s cool. We need more people like you.”
“Thanks,” Jake said, beginning to think he was in a 1950s sci-fi movie.
Small towns. Jesus.
Tuesday afternoon, Wes was a mess.
He’d showered twice, changed shirts three times, and was currently standing in front of the bathroom mirror wondering if he should trim his beard. Miguel had given him a look when he’d left early—“Hot date?”—and Wes had stared at him, mouth agape, then stammered something about a meeting.
Which was technically true. He was meeting Jake.
At the farm.
Where his father was also present.
Wes groaned, splashing cold water on his face. This was insane. He was thirty years old, sneaking around like a teenager because he couldn’t find the words to tell his father the truth.
I’m not ashamed, he reminded himself. I’m just… uncertain.
Downstairs, Henry was watching a game show, volume cranked up. Wes checked the monitor app on his phone and confirmed his father was settled.
Jake’s rental car pulled up at two-thirty, right on time. Wes met him at the door before he could knock.
“Hey,” Jake said, smiling. Blue eyes and teeth like something out of a toothpaste commercial.
“Hey.”
They stood there, grinning stupidly at each other, until Wes remembered himself and stepped back. “Come in. Henry’s in the living room.”
Jake followed him inside, professional and polite. “Mr. Dalton, good to see you.”
Henry waved from his recliner. “Likewise. You here for more paperwork?”
“Just a follow-up,” Jake said. “Making sure everything’s running smoothly.”
“It is. Wes has been working his ass off.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Up at four o’clock in the morning, and asleep before me!”
They made small talk for a few minutes—Henry asking about Atlanta, Jake asking about Henry’s recovery—and then Wes said, “We’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything, Dad.”
Henry waved them off, returning to his show.
In the kitchen, Wes leaned against the counter, exhaling. “Sorry. This is—”
Jake kissed him.
It was brief, soft, just a press of lips that tasted warm and sweet. When Jake pulled back, he was smiling.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” Wes breathed.
“I missed you.”
“It’s been two whole days.”
“I know.” Jake cupped Wes’s face, thumb brushing over his beard. “Practically unbearable.”
Wes wanted to pull him closer, wanted to kiss him properly, wanted to forget his father was twenty feet away, and the walls were thin and—
“We can’t,” he said, stepping back. “Not here.”
“I know.” Jake’s expression was understanding, patient. “I just wanted to see you. Touch you. Make sure this was real.”
“It’s real.”
They sat at the table, knees bumping underneath. Jake pulled out his tablet—”For show,” he said—and they talked quietly. About the farm, the vineyard, and Diane’s peach orchard. About everything except what they both wanted to say.
An hour later, Jake stood to leave. “I’ll call you tonight?”
“Yeah.”
At the door, with Henry still in the living room, Jake squeezed Wes’s hand. “We’ll figure this out.”
“I know.”
Watching Jake drive away, Wes thought, We have to.
Wednesday morning, Jake got the call he’d been dreading.
“Marley.” Harrison, his boss’s voice crackled through the phone. “We need you back in Atlanta. Reports are due Friday, and I need you here to present them in person.”
Jake’s stomach sank. “I’m in the middle of—”
“I know. Wrap up what you can this week and drive back tomorrow. You can return to Spoon next week if needed.”
“Right. Of course.”
He hung up and stared at his phone.
He texted Wes: I have to go back to Atlanta tomorrow. My boss wants reports delivered in person.
The response came immediately: How long?
Two days. Three tops.
Oh.
Jake stared at that single word, trying to decipher its meaning. Disappointment? Relief? Panic?
His phone rang. Wes.
“Hey,” Jake said.
“So, you’re leaving.” Wes’s voice was cold.
“Just for a few days.”
“Right.”
“Wes—”
“No, it’s fine. You have a job. I get it.”
“This doesn’t change anything.”
Silence.
“Wes, talk to me.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Wes exhaled. “I knew this was temporary. I knew you’d have to leave eventually. I just thought—I don’t know what I thought.”
Jake closed his eyes. “I’m coming back.”
“Are you?”
“Yes. I promise.”
“You can’t promise that. You don’t know what your boss will say, or if you’ll get reassigned, or—”
“I’m coming back,” Jake repeated, firmer. “For you. Not for work. For you.”
Another silence. Then, quietly: “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.” Wes’s voice steadied. “Sorry. I’m—I’m not good at this.”
“Neither am I.”
“Can I see you before you leave?”
“I was hoping you’d ask.”