Chapter 8 #4
Jake kissed him, slowly and deeply. Wes made a soft sound, melting into it.
When they broke apart, Jake said, “I’ll be back Saturday morning. Afternoon at the latest.”
“Okay.”
“And Wes? Think about what I said. About telling Henry.”
Wes’s expression shuttered. “I will.”
Jake wanted to push, but he could see the fear in Wes’s eyes—the same fear Jake had seen in a hundred mirrors growing up, bouncing between foster homes, never knowing which one would be safe.
So he just nodded. “I’ll call you tonight.”
“Drive safe.”
Jake kissed him one more time, then forced himself to walk away.
The drive to Atlanta took three hours. Jake spent most of it on the phone—first with his boss, confirming the Friday meeting, then with Wes, talking about nothing just to hear his voice.
By the time he pulled into his apartment complex, it was dark.
His place looked exactly as he’d left it two weeks ago: sterile, impersonal, and temporary–his whole life in a nutshell.
The furniture was rental. The walls were bare, and the only personal touch was a photo of his college roommate’s family—the closest thing he’d ever had to relatives.
He unpacked, showered, and called Wes again.
“Hey,” Wes answered. “You make it okay?”
“Yeah. I’m home.” The word felt wrong. “Well, my apartment.”
“How is it?”
“Lonely.”
Wes laughed softly. “I know the feeling.”
They talked until nearly midnight. When they finally hung up, Jake lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
Friday was a blur. Wes worked the farm–busier than any Christmas he could remember–counting the hours until Jake would be back.
They texted constantly—photos of Atlanta traffic, photos of cut trees and deer, stupid jokes and poignant messages, and the occasional dirty comment that made Wes flush and look around to make sure no one was looking his way.
Saturday evening, Tucker texted: Tavern tonight? I haven’t seen you in forever. Everybody knows. Ya’ll might as well come down and throw darts with the rest of us.
Wes almost said no, but Henry was having a good day. Miguel had offered to check in on him, and Wes needed to do something besides mope.
He showed up at Tucker’s around eight. The place was packed—holiday crowd, tourists visiting family, locals celebrating the weekend. Cal was at the jukebox, pumping quarters.
Tucker waved him over. “There he is. Thought you’d fallen off the face of the earth. Where’s Jake?”
“He’s in Atlanta, doing business things. And I’ve been a little busy—” Wes pinched Tucker’s cheek exaggeratedly. “—Sweet T.”
“Alright, alright. I get it.” Tucker’s grin was infectious, and also a perfect representation of his nickname. “How is he?”
Wes looked around. “Does everyone know?”
“Just the people who pay attention. So, yeah, everyone.” Tucker poured him a drink. “Relax. No one cares. Half the town’s been placing bets on when you’d finally make a move.”
“Jesus.”
“So? What’s going on?”
“He’ll be back on Saturday… hopefully.”
Tucker studied him. “You look miserable.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
Cal’s jukebox selection kicked in—George Michael’s Freedom ‘90, funky drums kicking into a Latin disco groove–every lyric of the first verse aptly describing Wes’s predicament, as the poetry of music is prone to do.
Tucker snorted. “Subtle, Cal.”
Wes drained his glass. “Gimme another.”
By the end of the night, Wes was buzzed, exhausted, and missing Jake so much it hurt. Tucker drove him home, pulling up to the farmhouse around midnight.
“You gonna be okay?” Tucker asked.
“Yeah.”
“For what it’s worth? I think you two are good together. Jake seems solid.”
“He is.”
“Then don’t let fear fuck it up.”
Wes nodded, climbing out of the truck. Inside, Henry was asleep. The house was dark and quiet. Wes checked the monitor, then climbed the stairs to his room.
His phone buzzed.
Jake: The meeting went well. Heading back to Spoon first thing in the morning. Can’t wait to see you.
Wes typed back: Me too. Miss you hard.
Miss you too. So much.
Suddenly, Jake’s phone rang. The screen read: McCoy. He answered immediately.
“Mr. Marley?” The man’s voice was rough, weary, and maybe a little drunk. “Sorry to call so late.”
“Alvin? No worries. It’s good to hear from you. I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I got your messages. I just—” A long pause. “I’m done. I can’t do it anymore.”
Jake’s stomach dropped. “What do you mean?”
“I sold the farm. A developer bought it. Signed the papers today. They're going to turn it into a subdivision. I just wanted to let you know so you could close out the file.”
“Alvin, wait. Let’s talk about this. We can—”
“It’s too late. It’s done. I’m seventy-three years old, Mr. Marley. I’m tired. My kids didn’t want the farm. My wife’s been begging me to sell it for years. It was time.”
Jake wanted to argue. Wanted to offer alternatives. But he heard the finality in Alvin’s voice.
When he hung up, he sat on his couch, staring into space.
Along with Diane’s orchard, the Whitlock vineyard, and Wes’s tree farm, Alvin’s soybean farm had been a fourth operation in the area that Jake had hoped to turn around.
Diane Crawford had survived by accepting and using his advice.
The Whitlock vineyard was blossoming through research, community, and the strength of their partnership.
Wes was fighting and beginning to turn things around, too. But Alvin?
Alvin had given up.
Jake thought of Wes, working himself to death alone. Thought of the fear in his eyes when Jake had suggested coming out to Henry. Thought of the way Wes kept saying, “I can’t.”
What if he couldn’t? What if the weight was too much, and Wes broke under it?
What if Jake drove back to Spoon and found another Alvin—someone who’d given up because the fight was too hard?
He called Wes.
“Hey,” Wes answered.
“I just lost a client.”
Wes’s tone shifted, concerned. “What happened?”
Jake told him about Alvin, about the farm being sold, about the exhaustion in the old man’s voice.
“I’m sorry,” Wes said quietly.
“He gave up, Wes. He just… gave up.”
“Sometimes that’s all you can do.”
“Is it?” Jake’s voice came out harsher than he intended. “Or is it what happens when you’re too stubborn?”
Silence.
“You’re not talking about Alvin anymore, are you?” Wes said finally.
“Are you going to end up like him? Working yourself to death until you’ve got nothing left?”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it? I know December’s your busiest season—I get it. But what about after Christmas? What happens in January when you’re exhausted and burnt out, and Henry still doesn’t know? What happens when the season’s over, and you’re still hiding?”
“I won’t be hiding.”
“Then what’s stopping you now?”
“The farm! The season! I can’t just—” Wes paused, then sighed.
“I don’t get to take breaks, Jake. I don’t get to step back and figure things out when I feel like it.
I have a father who depends on me, a farm that’s been in my family for three generations, and responsibilities you clearly don’t understand because you’ve never had to—”
He cut himself off.
Jake went cold. “Never had to what? Care about anyone? Have a family? Know what it’s like to belong somewhere?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.” Jake stood, pacing his apartment.
“You meant exactly that. And you’re right.
I don’t know what it’s like to have roots, or family, or a legacy to protect.
I’ve spent my whole life watching other people have those things while I moved from house to house, hoping someone would want me enough to keep me. ”
“Jake—”
“So, forgive me if I don’t understand why you’re so terrified of telling your father the truth. Forgive me if I think maybe, just maybe, the people who love you might actually want you to be happy.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It never is.” Jake’s voice was cold, exhausted. “I’ll be there tomorrow. We can talk then.”
He hung up before Wes could respond.
For a long time, Jake just sat there, phone in his hand, wondering if he’d just destroyed the best thing that had ever happened to him.
His phone buzzed. A text from Wes. I’m sorry.
Jake stared at it, then typed, Me too.
Another buzz—Are we okay?
Jake closed his eyes. I don’t know.
He turned off his phone and went to bed, knowing sleep wouldn’t come.