Chapter 2
TWO
HELP ME, SHANIA.
SHAUN
Drew’s truck rattles down the back road like every bolt’s begging for mercy. The cab shakes with each pothole, dust slipping through the cracked vents and settling on my jeans. The radio coughs out static before Shania Twain explodes through the speakers.
Drew lights up like someone flipped his switch. He smacks the steering wheel in rhythm, shoulders bouncing. “Man! I love this song!”
He butchers the first line without hesitation.
I press my forehead to the window. “You sound like Mrs. Lewellen belting ABBA during an English test.” Off pitch and super distracting.
He belts louder and flips me off without missing a beat.
Sometimes I wish I could be like Drew.
Carefree. Rooted. Solid in his own skin.
He sits there in his faded red farm shirt, the one with the cartoon tractor bed full of corn, smelling like dirt and cheap body spray.
Blond hair sticking up in every direction, a grin carved into his face like nothing in the world could knock it loose.
Even when he hits a note so bad the rearview mirror buzzes, he doesn’t blink.
I shut my eyes. Pointless. Drew could out-sing a tornado siren.
“You know you love me,” he croons before jumping into the next line.
“I’d love to hit you with a hammer,” I mutter, but a smirk sneaks across my face anyway.
For a second, it’s easy to pretend things are normal. Easy to pretend I’m not hanging on by threads while he sings his heart out beside me.
The second we rolled out of town, regret settled deep in my chest. Saying yes to this farm job felt stupid the moment the tires hit gravel. Drew pitched the idea at the diner two days ago, halfway through dipping his fries into a mountain of ketchup beside his greasy cheeseburger.
“It’ll help you get outside. Use your hands. Clear your head,” he said with a mouth full of food.
Yeah, right. He just wants a wingman for whatever girls show up to volunteer.
The truck vibrates under us, each jolt shooting straight into my shoulder. The ache starts up again, sharp and familiar, like a hot nail driven into the joint and left there to simmer. I grit my teeth and shift. Nothing eases it. Nothing ever does.
The doctor’s voice drags through my head, cold as a tile floor.
“I’m sorry, son. If you injure it again, you might lose function in that arm altogether.”
He didn’t need to finish. I saw the rest in his eyes.
You’re done.
One bad hit and my entire life collapsed.
No more football. No scholarship. No future that means anything. No escape from this town that suffocates me.
Every drill, every practice, every promise—all built on an arm that finally gave out.
Dad acts like I got injured on purpose just to piss him off. Like it was my choice to quit.
Mom’s silence slices deeper still. She has yet to even meet my eyes. To even look at her son. The failure.
The truck hums along the endless rows of corn. Each stalk looks the same, stretching forever. No bends. No turnoffs. No choices.
The view feels like a mirror. One long road I never picked, running straight into nowhere, and no way to turn off it.
“Hey,” Drew says, snapping me back. “You’re not crying over your arm again, are you?”
“Nope.” Total lie, and he knows it. His grin says so.
“You’ll be fine, man. Fresh air. Manual labor. Hot chicks in denim shorts. Doctor’s orders.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it. “Pretty sure that’s not what the doctor said.”
“Then you need a new doctor.”
He launches right back into singing, somehow even worse than before. I shake my head, but a smile pushes through anyway. Classic Drew. A walking disaster who stayed in Blandville after graduation, working shifts at his family’s farm, never looking past the edges of town.
But he’s also the one who texts me at midnight to check on me. The one who never misses a chance to make me laugh. The one who blocked linebackers twice his size just to keep me safe in peewee football.
He’s dense. He’s loud. He cares.
And right now, he’s the only thing keeping me from sinking straight into the dark.
Still, none of this gets better until I figure out what the hell comes next.
The truck slams over a pothole, jarring my whole body. I grab the handle with my good arm and mutter a curse under my breath.
Up ahead, a faded sign leans crooked at the edge of the gravel road:
FARMER FRED’S FANTASTIC FARM
A big chunk on the side of the sign is missing as though someone took a shotgun and blasted it off.
Fantastic, huh? I don’t know what kind of PR Fred thinks he’s spinning, but I’ve got a bad feeling this place won’t live up to the hype.
Not even close.
I sigh as Drew’s truck crawls toward the run-down barns ahead. Roofs sagging. Paint peeling. Rust chewing through every hinge.
“This place could use some work,” I mutter.
My only real memory of this farm is from junior high, sneaking off with Krissy Thompson during a field trip. We got caught kissing in the hayloft and the whole football team roasted me for months.
Ah, good times.
“That’s why we’re here,” Drew says with a wink. “Plus, it’s time for you to stop moping and get on with your life.”
I flip him off. He cranks the radio in response.
“See? You gotta be more like Shania,” he yells over the music.
He must be joking. “You want Shania to be my guide?”
He laughs. “Just listen to the lyrics, numbnuts.”
I catch the chorus. “So you want me to dedicate my life to improving my skills with women?”
“It couldn’t hurt.” He props his elbow out the window and shoots me another wink.
I give him a dead stare.
“I’m kidding,” he says, shaking his head. “What I mean is Shania knows what she wants. She asks for it. No hesitation. You just need to find the thing you want and go after it with the same fire you used to have with football.”
“That easy, huh?”
Drew shrugs, eyes forward. “No. But you’ve always been more than an arm, Shaun. You’ll find something that makes you happy and gets you out of this town.”
I drag my hand through my hair. I wish I believed that. I wish I believed in anything.
“You’re here,” I say. “It can’t be that bad.”
Drew’s grin fades. “I’m meant to be here. Help my folks. Keep the farm running. And I’m okay with that.” He pauses, then glances at me. “But you? You’re destined for more, my man. Trust me.”
His voice lands heavy. Not in a bad way. In a way that makes something deep inside me ache.
I hope he’s right.
I really do.
But what the hell am I supposed to be doing? What does “more” even look like?
Dust kicks up behind the truck as we roll to a stop a few feet from an old white farmhouse with chipped blue shutters. The wraparound porch dips in spots, boards loose enough to swallow a shoe. A rocking chair lies on its side like it gave up. The planter boxes hold more weeds than actual plants.
If this is how Fred treats his house, I don’t want to think about the rest of the farm.
Drew kills the engine. Silence drops over us so fast it’s suffocating. For a second, all I hear is my own pulse and the faint hiss of cooling metal.
His door creaks open and the smell hits me—manure, sweat, sunbaked dirt—strong enough to make my eyes sting. He grabs his red letterman jacket from between us, hops down, and then leans back through the open window.
“Besides, if you don’t get your ass out of this town by next semester, I’ll kick it out of town myself.” He flashes a wide grin, slams the door with a grunt, and heads toward the barn.
The funny part? He will. Drew fights like a pissed-off bull. The threat works better than any inspirational speech.
I climb out and close my own door, jogging to catch up before he reaches the door. He hooks an arm around my shoulders, casual and warm.
“Now,” he says, scanning the dusty yard, “let’s see what ladies have graced us with their presence.”
I roll my eyes, but the knot in my chest eases a little.