Chapter 14
Fourteen
December had arrived on the farm.
But the weather had second thoughts. The crisp air still carried a hint of autumn, as if the season couldn’t quite let go.
Still, as the days grew shorter, the shadows stretched longer.
Luke worked his way down the row, planting.
He paused, wiped his brow, and squinted up at the sky, watching the afternoon sun dip behind the trees.
Then he spoke. “Bonfire nights aren’t far off. ”
It hadn’t taken long for Luke to find his way out of the mess at the bar.
Spending some time in the Outlet had helped.
The events had left their mark, but the guys never openly talked about what had happened—at least, not in front of me.
Jackson worked out an arrangement with the bar owner, and the matter was settled.
Life went on, but there was a subtle shift in the air.
I still felt unsettled. I struggled to understand how Luke could go back to normal after something like that.
How easy it was for him to turn the page, especially with the knowledge that a similar occurrence could happen again.
That night held a lesson I had to learn on my own.
Healing wasn’t a destination, but a winding road that never truly ends.
I realized I couldn’t move on if I kept rereading the same page.
One bite of apple pie and a joke later, and it was over for Luke.
Because things can be nice too; Luke knew that.
He also understood that escaping wasn’t the brave thing to do.
Staying and facing yourself was. Luke, in his own way, helped me snap out of it. The only way out was through.
So, I began.
A little late.
A little scared.
I started telling Jackson everything I’ve told you up until now, starting at the beginning of my life.
I was a leaky faucet, my story dripping out.
I told him I was born off the grid, about my life in the trailer and as a nonentity.
I told him I had recently learned to read and write.
I told him about Mama and Daddy and their lack of parental guidance and participation.
I told him about Deacon Ridley and his involvement in our lives.
Lastly, I told him about Lila and her love for flowers.
And he listened, as he’d said he would. His head bowed, hands clasped behind his back, he said nothing as we walked and I spoke.
He knew not to, knowing that any interruption might stop the flow of words.
He asked the right questions—simple ones, like about the flowers that grew around the trailer, my favorite survival trick Daddy had taught me, and Lila’s favorite color.
There were things, of course, I couldn’t tell him: what had happened to them, that I was a convicted felon and a fugitive.
He had to know there was more to my story.
I spoke of them in the past tense, a detail he caught but didn’t mention.
He knew I would get there in my own time, in my own way.
With each story I shared, the weight lifted, my shoulders rounding back as I stood a little taller.
I had found my rhythm on the farm.
Finally, it was the night of the season’s first Bonfire, and I stood in front of my tiny closet, eyeing the few worn items hanging inside.
I’d never had to think about what to wear for something like this.
The thought made my chest tighten. It was my birthday too, though I hadn’t mentioned it to anyone.
I didn’t want the guys to feel obligated to do something or like I was expecting them to.
Growing up, birthdays were just another day, another reminder that we never had enough.
Especially with Christmas right around the corner, my birthday passed unnoticed, like everything else in my life.
And later, in prison, time lost all meaning.
The days blended into one, and birthdays became nothing more than a number on a calendar.
Now I wanted to look nice, just a little, to mark the night in some small way, even if no one else would.
But standing there with an open closet, choosing felt impossible, like trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces.
I knew I didn’t want to wear my usual work clothes.
I recalled watching Mama stand in the doorway of her closet, contemplating what to wear, dressing with care.
But even though I could now start to give thought to the things I liked, something I had never had the luxury of thinking about before—simple, little things, like what to put on, how to style my hair—my options were still sparse.
I settled on a pair of well-worn jeans with holes in the knees and Jackson’s navy sweater, which I had yet to return and which hung off my shoulder.
It still smelled of him despite the washing.
For my hair, I styled it half up in a ponytail and half down, allowing my curls to cascade down my back.
Two curls framed my face instead of being hidden in my usual bun.
Bonfire—no the, capital B, as Luke had informed me—was held away from the main house in a secluded area not far from the Outlet.
I smelled the smoke before I saw it, a tangy scent of burning wood, and then glimpsed its pale ghost billowing upward.
When I finally saw the fire, I understood what they did with all the wood from the Outlet.
I had assumed Bonfire would include people sitting around a small fire, roasting marshmallows and telling ghost stories.
I was wrong. This was something both grander and more intimate.
Bonfire was the stacking of wood into a pyre that reached up against the night, burning with flames that extended eight feet in the air and painted the dark.
The flames danced and twirled wildly. Sparks flew upward with a spirited cackle, soaring high into the darkness like a constellation of stars, illuminating the surrounding area and then disappearing into the sky.
I approached the small crowd, their faces bathed in the firelight, holding clear liquid in mason jars or bottles of beer.
I noticed Tibb and Luke, with his guitar, sitting on a log.
Luke was strumming quietly, a few notes, tuning here and there, waiting for the right song to come to mind.
Even as he fiddled around, I knew that Luke hadn’t started playing guitar yesterday.
That was evident in the way he held it, how he fingerpicked the chords so smoothly, as if it were an extension of himself.
Eventually, as folks noticed, the crowd shifted and settled around him, the murmur of their conversations softening into a low hum.
They were used to this. They’d heard him play before and welcomed hearing him play again.
As the last echoes of his random plucking faded, Luke cleared his throat and started singing the opening lyrics to “Blackbird” by the Beatles.
Luke’s voice was all gravel and smoke. My mouth fell open a little and I looked around, but no one was surprised—all eyes happy and on the singer.
Luke had no business being so soulful at such a young age.
He embodied the voice of an older man who’d been through some things, spent nights wrestling with demons and days soaked in the weight of experience, ancient and new.
He needed no accompaniment; his voice was an orchestra all by itself, shifting from delicate and haunting to this powerful driving rhythm, perfectly matching his guitar. Listening felt like riding a wave.
A group of young girls watched him with wide, attentive eyes, but Luke sang to no one in particular, his eyes closed, a soft furrow on his brow, absorbed in his own universe of lyrics and melodies.
I found a spot on an empty log and sat. He often hummed and sang while we worked, but I’d had no idea of his talent, the level of range he possessed. Mesmerized, I didn’t notice Jackson had sat down next to me.
“You have that look in your eye,” he said, handing me a glass filled with a clear liquid.
My body tensed whenever I was around him, a reaction not only to his presence but him.
The ruggedness of his handsomeness slapped me in the face like it was too much to take in all at once.
His beard lay close to his face, framed by his full lips and the sharp lines of his jaw.
He wore khaki carpenter pants with a cream-colored cable-knit sweater that contrasted with his mahogany skin, with the sleeves rolled up to reveal the corded muscles of his forearms and his tattoos.
He extended the glass to me. “What look is that?”
“The ‘I didn’t know Luke could sing like that’ look. It’s common for first-timers.”
“I mean…I’ve heard him sing around the fields. But this…” I trailed off and took a whiff of the glass. “What is this?”
“That would be Alabama’s finest moonshine.”
I took a small sip, my face contouring at the kick. He laughed. “You’re not having any?” I teased to cover my cough.
“Nah…I’m not much of a drinker. Not anymore. Just a beer here and there.”
I thought about that a moment and remembered what Tibb had told me the night of Luke’s fight. “Spend some time at that bar yourself?”
Jackson looked at me. “Tibb told you about that?”
I shook my head. “He said it was a Flower Farm tradition.”
“Let’s just say we’ve all struggled to control our emotions. Or”—he raised his palms, correcting himself—“express them healthily. Alcohol and trauma don’t mix.”
We turned our attention back to Luke. Jackson let out a shuddering breath and looked up. “And yeah…he is,” he said. When I looked confused, he continued, “Luke is a surprising talent.”
“Is that why you said you didn’t think he would stay? Because you think he shouldn’t?”
Jackson kicked a stick on the ground between his legs. “I don’t.” There was a heaviness to that answer, and I could tell it pained him to admit that.