Chapter 4
Asher
I wake up in pain.
Not the dull ache of sleeping wrong, or the stiffness from too many hours at my desk. This is sharp, burning, radiating from my ankle with every small shift of my body. For a confused moment I can’t remember why, and then it all comes flooding back.
The woods. The girl. The fall. Eva driving me home, and my pain-addled self almost asking her to stay. Thankfully, I caught myself in time. I think.
I squeeze my eyes shut and contemplate never leaving this bed.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I reach for it, squinting at the screen.
Lia
Heard you got your foot amputated in a tractor accident??? Please tell me you’re not using Ethan’s machinery. Call me.
Despite everything, I almost laugh. The Fork Lick rumor mill works fast. I type back with one thumb.
Me
Ankle broken, not amputated. No tractor involved.
Her response is immediate.
Lia
CALL ME
Me
Later. I’m fine.
Lia
I’m coming home.
Me
Don’t. I’m handling it. Stay with Ethan. Drink a daiquiri, or whatever.
I silence my phone before she can argue and stare at the ceiling. The boot is heavy and foreign—a constant reminder that I’ve lost control of my own body. Six to eight weeks. That’s almost two months of being useless.
I can’t afford to be useless. Not when I barely deserve this job in the first place.
I was twenty credits short of my degree when Lia’s illness took a turn for the worse. By then I’d already been missing class for a few semesters to care for her as she was bleeding internally. I dropped out, didn’t tell her, and my roommate founded Meow Mobile and hired me as a favor.
Clayton doesn’t care I don’t technically have the credentials of a computer engineer, as long as I can get the results he needs.
He schmoozed himself in with some startup accelerator called Trede over in Climax, and they gave him funding to bring fast internet out here.
Clay says his whole shtick is rural connectivity, but the money guys obviously like being able to stream video from their vacation homes.
At any rate, I spent almost a decade building Clayton’s vision from Fork Lick.
Lia is stable and healthy, I still have a pity job, and I’m about to be drugged out on painkillers, unable to work for two months.
How long until Clay realizes he will need someone with actual training to keep the Catskills connected?
I have to figure something out.
Getting to the bathroom takes twenty minutes and most of my dignity. The crutches are awkward, and my armpits ache from last night’s trip from the car to the house. Every hop sends a jolt of pain through my ankle, despite the cast. I have to sit on the edge of the tub just to catch my breath.
Really great, Thorne.
I make it downstairs by sitting on each step and sliding like a child, the crutches clattering beside me. By the time I reach the kitchen, I’m sweating and my hands are shaking.
Coffee. I need coffee.
I prop the crutches against the counter and hop to the cabinet where I keep my beans. Fresh-ground dark roast is one luxury I allow myself.
College in New York City got me hooked on the good shit—the one good thing that came from those years—and I import it in bulk.
I don’t think about the rest of it. The half-finished degree.
The frantic phone calls from my sister. The spreadsheets I made to track Lia’s symptoms instead of my coursework.
Our parents worked a lot, and I looked out for Lia.
It made sense that she turned to me when she was sick.
I never imagined how much her illness would change us both.
And now she’s healthy and I’m hurt, and I will make myself this pot of coffee, so help me.
The grinder is, of course, on the top shelf because I’m tall, and I never considered I might one day be functioning on one leg.
I stretch for it, balancing on my good foot, and grab it by the cord. I set it on the counter and reach for the bag of beans, but my hand is shaking from the effort of staying upright, and the bag slips.
Coffee beans scatter across the counter, onto the floor, bouncing and rolling into every corner of the kitchen.
“Fuck,” I mutter, staring at the disaster.
I can’t bend. Can’t balance on one foot like a flamingo and sweep. Can’t do anything except stand here like an idiot in my own kitchen, defeated by caffeine beans.
I grab the edge of the counter, breathing hard, trying not to think about how I’m going to make it through this. Trying not to think about my company’s product launch in two days, which requires me to be sharp and focused and not foggy with pain medication.
Speaking of which…
The prescription bottle sits on the counter where I left it last night after Eva dropped me off. I’m not ready to think about Eva right now.
So I stare at the Oxycodone. Take one every four to six hours as needed for pain. I tap the bottle, knowing I need it, knowing I can’t take it if I want to function and stay here all alone with no one to notice if I slip and fall.
I shove the bottle aside. I’ll take ibuprofen. It won’t be enough, but it’ll take the edge off.
I hook the bag of beans with my pinky while doing a split squat. There’s an inch or so left in the bag, so I grind myself an extra-big helping of coffee. Tomorrow won’t be as fresh as I like, but I can’t be doing this every day on one leg.
When I try to scoop the brown splendor into my coffeemaker, my shaking hands spill half of it on the counter, into the sink, onto my shirt. The spoon clatters to the floor, and I just stare at it.
I think about Lia, about how fiercely I took care of her when she first got sick.
How I researched every treatment option, tracked her symptoms in spreadsheets, went to every doctor appointment, demanding answers until we got her Crohn’s diagnosis.
Then I helped her learn to cook bland foods that wouldn’t upset her stomach.
I’d have done anything for her. Would still do anything for her.
But I can’t even make myself coffee.
The thought sits heavy in my chest. I just want to work on my product launch and be left alone in my office where I don’t have to think about other humans.
I close my eyes and try to breathe through the frustration, the pain, and the bone-deep exhaustion of simply existing in this body right now.
A knock at the door makes me jump.
For a wild moment I think it might be Lia, that she ignored my text and came home, anyway. But Lia would just let herself in. And there’s no way she and Ethan would cut their getaway short—they haven’t had a night alone since Porter was born.
Anyway, I know who’s at the door before I even haul myself onto the crutches. I’m too tired to hide, so I crutch to the door and open it.
Eva stands on my porch, holding a large paper bag from the Quick Lick, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing jeans and an oversized hoodie she apparently bought from the Udderly Creamy Dairy.
She looks younger in bright daylight, softer somehow, and my traitorous brain immediately catalogues how gorgeous she is before I can stop it.
She waits comfortably, unburdened and smiling, like showing up with breakfast for an injured neighbor is the most natural thing in the world.
Like she’s never had to calculate the cost of kindness.
I want to be the kind of person who can accept this.
Who doesn’t immediately wonder what she wants in return, what angle she’s working, what will happen when she finds out I’m not worth the effort.
I saw it all the time when Lia was sick…
creeps trying to manipulate her while she was vulnerable. Instead, I grunt and frown.
“Morning,” she says, holding up the bag. “I brought breakfast. I wasn’t sure what you like, so I just got a lot of things.”
I stare, my brain struggling to process why she’s smiling at me like we’re friends, why she cares.
“Can I come in?” she asks when I don’t move.
I step back awkwardly, nearly tangling my crutches, and she slips past me into my house. Eva looks around with obvious curiosity, taking in the sparse furniture, the dark walls, the general monk aesthetic I’ve cultivated over the years.
“Your house is nice,” she says, setting the bag on my counter. “It, uh, looks like you had an adventure in here this morning, though.”
“Adventure is one word for it.” My voice sounds mean even to me, but to be fair, I’m in pain and have not had coffee.
To my horror and relief, Eva smiles, that berry-red mouth curving up to reveal teeth that are slightly crooked. She has freckles on her nose, too, and I want to count them just as soon as my leg stops throbbing.
“Well, sir, I’ve got something that will cheer you up.
” She pulls items from the bag—breakfast sandwiches, hash browns, and a large coffee.
“The cashier at the Quick Lick was kind of weird,” Eva continues, conversationally.
“She kept asking questions about you. Whether you were okay, how bad the injury was, if you needed help… I think the whole town knows.”
Great. Exactly what I wanted.
Eva pushes a coffee toward me. “Here. You look like you need this.”
I do need it. Desperately. I take a sip before my brain engages enough to check if it’s full of sugar or cream, and—
It’s perfect. Black, strong, hot.
Eva watches me with an amused expression. “You just drank that immediately. Like, didn’t even check it. Does that mean you drink it black?”
“Yes.”
“Gross.”
I take another sip.
“Most people add something,” Eva continues, pulling out a breakfast sandwich and unwrapping it. “Sugar, cream, honey in my sister Eden’s case, which is basically dessert.”
“Sugar invites extra trips to the dentist.”
“That’s a very practical way to avoid admitting you’re bitter.” She grins. “Unlike me. I’m a sweet little thing.”
Despite everything—the pain, the exhaustion, the humiliation of my current situation—I almost pop a boner at her words. Almost.
And that just makes me feel like a pervert. She’s probably half my age. Fresh out of college with a degree she actually finished, a career she built through legitimate channels, a life unmarred by the kind of choices that leave permanent gaps in your résumé.
Eva pushes a sandwich toward me. “Eat. You need food with pain meds, right?”
I take a bite, but Eva notices the bottle of pain meds tipped over behind the coffee mess on the counter.
“You have the look of a man trying to power through,” she says around a bite of sandwich. “My sister Eliza is like that. Esther, too. My brother-in-law once slipped her some weed honey to get her to sleep after her bar caught on fire.”
I blink at her, and she flushes. “I’m rambling, aren’t I? But you will feel better if you eat, regardless of the meds.”
I take another bite of sandwich. I do need food, and it gives me something to do other than stare at her.
“So,” Eva says, settling onto one of my stools as if she belongs here. “I’m going to be at Pierce Acres most of the day. Taking stock of everything, figuring out what I’m dealing with. I’ll check on you in a few hours. Bring lunch, maybe.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know. But I’m going to, anyway.” She says it so matter-of-factly, like she is in charge of me now. Like it’s not a burden or an obligation, but simply the obvious choice.
Maybe she pities me. Maybe this is some kind of misplaced caretaker instinct left over from parental neglect.
Or maybe—and this is the thought that makes my chest pinch—maybe she’s just genuinely kind.
I don’t know how to handle genuinely kind.
People like Eva—sunny, capable, helpful—they don’t stay around people like me. I learned that when my study group stopped inviting me places because I kept canceling. Learned it when my college girlfriend got tired of coming second to my sister’s emergency room visits.
Eva will figure out soon enough that I’m a loner.
“I should get to work,” I mumble.
“Right. I’ll get out of your hair.” She starts gathering the bag and trash. “But I’ll be back later. You need anything specific?”
“No.” I want a bottle of whatever your hair smells like, actually. “I said I’m fine.”
“Okay. Well, if you think of something, text me.” She pulls out her phone. “What’s your number?”
I give it to her because refusing seems more awkward than complying. She types it in, then frowns at her phone. “I still have lousy service. Can I get on your Wi-Fi, maybe?”
I ignore her question and explain, “Meow Mobile is the only provider with coverage up here.”
Eva laughs. “Meow Mobile? Because of the Catskills? That’s great.”
“They gave me a shot when nobody else would.” The words come out before I can stop them, more honest than I intended.
She tilts her head, curious, and I look away.
“I mean. They’re a good company.” I shrug and finish my sandwich, then gulp the rest of the coffee. I do feel better, but I’m not going to tell her that. Not right when she’s about to leave me alone.
“I’ll leave you to it, and I’ll investigate this kitty cell phone company.
” Eva pats my hand, and before I can respond, she heads for the door.
She pauses with her hand on the knob, looking back at me.
“Seriously though. If you need anything. I’m like five minutes away.
Maybe you have a dinner bell you can ring or something, and I’ll come running. ”
“I’ll be fine.” I close my eyes against the image of her running in those pants. I cannot spend the day fantasizing about this young, gorgeous woman.
“I know you will. But you don’t have to be fine alone.”
She slips out before I can point out that she never did give me her number. I stare at the closed door, realizing the house feels emptier without her.
I look around the kitchen; she cleaned all the spilled beans and coffee grounds. My counter shines, and I had no idea she was doing any of that.
Eva Storm blew in here like some sort of sunshine tsunami and cleaned my mess while I ate.
I should hate the intrusion, the disruption.
But as I hobble to my office, settling awkwardly into my ergonomic chair that’s all wrong for elevating a broken ankle, I find myself thinking about her grin when she called herself a sweet thing.
About the way she made bringing me breakfast seem easy and natural instead of awkward or pitying.
I don’t know if I actually hate that she’s not going away.
And that, more than anything else today, makes me nervous. Because wanting things—wanting people—has never worked out for me.