Chapter 3
THREE
WEIRD . . .
VAL
I never thought our old Volvo could look brand-new again, but that was before I saw it parked beside the rusted red Chevy sitting next to us. The thing looks like it survived three tornadoes and a divorce. Something about it feels familiar, though I can’t place why.
One look at the farm and I’m pretty sure nothing within twenty-five miles counts as new.
Three massive barns lean around the main house like they’re trying to hold it upright.
The barn paint has faded so much it’s turned a sickly pink, giving the whole place a cursed Candy Land vibe.
I half expect Gloppy to ooze past on his way to Molasses Swamp.
Mom rolls down the window and waves like she’s dropping me at summer camp instead of a farm held together by hope and peeling paint.
“Morning, Fred!” she calls.
A white-haired man in faded overalls shuffles out from one of the barns, wiping his hands on a rag that used to be white sometime around Y2K. Farmer Fred waddles toward us, his trucker hat crooked, his face a roadmap of wrinkles that all lead to the same landmark: grumpy.
“Ms. Andrews,” he says with a nod. “Is Valerie ready to work?”
“Of course.”
Fred squints at the field behind him. “Could use as much help as I can get. Busy time of year. Trying to fancy the place up. Draw a big crowd.”
Fancy. Right.
Mom turns to me. “I’ll pick you up at eight tonight.” She hands me a brown paper bag. “Your lunch. Don’t forget to eat.”
“Sure thing, Ma,” I say, even though we both know I’ll probably forget. Must be the depression. Yay.
Fred clears his throat. “I’ll make sure they all eat. Need to have their strength. Got a lot to do,” he says before hacking and spitting a wad into the dirt.
Mom beams like I’m in excellent hands instead of being dropped into a Craigslist horror scenario.
I unbuckle and swing one leg out, but her whisper pulls me back.
“Remember what I said, Valerie.” Her eyes lock on to mine, freckled face tight, one hand gripping the steering wheel while the other fusses with her thermos. “You better have plans for your future when I come get you tonight.”
I give her a mock salute and step out, slamming the door harder than necessary. The Volvo coughs to life and rolls away in a cloud of dust. I watch it shrink until the fog swallows it.
When I turn back, Fred’s polite smile has already slipped into mild annoyance.
“Come on,” he grunts. “Don’t just stand there. Lot to do. Not much time to do it.”
I fall in step behind him down a gravel path, each crunch under my shoes sending a little jolt up my legs. The air carries dirt, hay, and something sour lurking underneath—a rot that doesn’t match anything I’m seeing.
I scan the fields. No blackened plants. No moldy hay. Nothing that explains the rancid edge in the breeze.
Weird . . .
Then I see it.
A new pumpkin field sprawls across the far end of the farm, vines thick and tangled.
The leaves glow a bright, unnatural green, and the soil looks darker than the rest—damp and glossy, like it’s holding its breath.
The pumpkins pop with bright orange color, every size and shade lined up like they’re posing.
“Is that new?” I ask, nodding toward it.
Fred doesn’t even glance over. “You don’t need to worry about it.”
“Well that’s not shady,” I mutter.
He sighs, like talking to me drains his life force.
“Added a new attraction this year. My show pumpkins. Used a new fertilizer from a buddy at Smiling Seeds—three towns over. Said it’d grow the best crops.
I’m hoping to win the state fair, bring some attention back to Blandville.
Not let Mayfield hog all the glory with that monstrosity they call a farm. Happy?”
I shrug. “Then maybe rename your festival.”
He stops so fast I almost smack into his back. His bushy eyebrows pull together. “And why should I do that?”
“Pumpkin spice is cinnamon, nutmeg, clove, and ginger. No pumpkin.” I gesture toward the glowing field. “So technically your Pumpkin Spice Festival advertises . . . no pumpkins. Which is weird, since you clearly have a lot.”
My bracelets clink when I motion, and for a moment Fred just stares at me like I sprouted a second head.
The ground hums under my feet.
A soft vibration pulses up my legs, subtle but steady. The air buzzes too—an almost electric thrum, like the earth’s heartbeat rising to the surface.
Like something is watching me.
Fred huffs, turns, and stomps off. “Come on,” he calls. “The others are waiting, smartass.”
Note to self: do not go into consulting.
I follow, but my eyes keep drifting back to that pumpkin field. Something in the soil almost glows from this distance. Something in it feels awake. Not in a charming fall-festival way. More like a sleeping bear you hope stays asleep.
We reach the barn in a heavy quiet. The big doors groan as Fred pushes them open, and the moment the light spills inside, every conversation shuts off.
I catch sight of Drew Craig’s messy blond mop and bright red Blandville letterman jacket leaning against a hay bale with that easy smirk. It widens more at the sight of me and there is a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
Super.
Sandie Sampson sits next to him, scrolling on her phone like the barn air offends her. Her sleek blond hair falls over one shoulder, perfect as ever. She pops her gum, sharp and echoing, exactly the way she did in school hallways and during track practice.
Across from her sits a skinny high schooler—junior, maybe—near the feed sacks. Nervous energy in human form. Thick, black frames swallow most of his face. He looks like he wants to be anywhere else.
And then my eyes land on him.
Sitting on a hay bale beside Drew, long legs in faded jeans, a worn green tee stretched across broad shoulders. His lucky number 13 sits on his chest like it’s a beacon calling to me.
Shaun MacReady.
He lifts his head and our eyes collide. His brown eyes go sharp, warm, startled. His shoulders tense. Heat blooms low in my stomach, sudden and unwelcome.
My mind snaps back to senior year.
A quiet library corner.
His face inches from mine.
The hint of spearmint gum.
The soft brush of his breath against my lips.
One second from kissing him. One heartbeat from everything.
Then his buddy barged in, and Shaun shot away from me like I had a contagious disease.
The humiliation burned for months. I spent the rest of the year pretending I didn’t care, drowning myself in homework and college applications while he avoided me like the plague.
I told myself I moved on.
Buried the crush.
Buried the girl who waited for him to look her way again.
Yet here I am, staring at him as my pulse kicks up and my mouth goes dry.
Shaun’s gaze drags over me. Slow. Careful. Almost like he’s trying to figure out if I’m real.
This barn feels smaller with him in it. Warmer too. My skin buzzes like I’m standing too close to an electric fence.
Fantastic. A surprise high school reunion at the world’s saddest farm.