Chapter Twenty-one – Rowan
The sky is streaked in early morning pink when I step out onto the porch, coffee in hand, and take in the view.
Dew clings to the grass. Stuff that glistens like frost even though it’s nearly September. The barn doors are already open, thanks to Holt being an overachiever, and the low rumble of Crew’s voice carries on the breeze as he corrals the last of the folding chairs toward the south pasture.
The same pasture where, two weeks ago, I hauled a warped trailer floor and half-rotted lumber out of a shed behind the chicken coop and started to rebuild something I hadn’t let myself dream of in years.
A stage.
It’s nothing fancy—just a low wooden platform with fresh sealant and new steps, rigged with borrowed fairy lights that twinkle like the start of something. But to me, it looks like hope. Or something I’m not quite brave enough to name yet.
I take a slow sip from the mug and let the silence settle around me.
It’s the last bit of quiet I’ll get before the place fills up with twenty-five screaming kids and a half-dozen volunteer chaperones.
My mother and Bailey practically moved heaven and half the PTA to make today happen. I owe her more than I can say.
I’m just thankful Otter Creek Farms already functions as a produce pickup location so we didn’t have to worry about parking. Years spent as a strawberry and pecan farm for the town and surrounding counties help.
“Hey!” Crew’s voice cuts through the air.
He’s already sweating through his T-shirt, carrying a stack of laminated signs under one arm.
I’m not even sure how he’s here since he just played a game in Florida last night.
“You planning to supervise or just stand there brooding like a romance novel cover?”
I grunt. “Brooding. Obviously.”
He grins. “Figured.”
I walk down the porch steps and meet him halfway, taking one of the signs without asking. He eyes me sidelong.
“You sleep at all?”
“Some.”
“Liar.”
I don’t answer. Just drive the stake into the dirt and press down until the “Welcome to Otter Creek Farm Camp” sign stands straight. The lettering is a little crooked, but the message is clear.
This is happening.
Kids. Laughter. Dirt under their nails. Learning where eggs come from and how to saddle a pony. Maybe even standing on that makeshift stage at the end of the day to sing something into the sky.
And not just because Ivy believed in it. Because I do. Even if she’s not here. Even if she’s still in Nashville, fighting off the world with a camera in her face and that fake smile she hates.
Crew claps a hand on my shoulder. “It’s gonna be good, man. You’re good at this.”
I nod once. “Hope so.”
“I thought she’d come back to see it.”
I look out toward the stage.
Every day, but I don’t voice that out loud. Part of that is my fault, though. I let my fear keep me from telling her explicitly that we were doing a run-through of the camp this weekend. Though I’m positive Bailey told her.
Instead, I walk toward the barn and call over my shoulder, “We’ve got gates to tie off.”
Because today isn’t about her. It’s about the kids.
Even if everything in me still wants to believe she’ll walk through that field like she did that first day—lost, stubborn, beautiful—and this time, stay.
By 10 a.m., the place is buzzing.
The kind of noise that makes your ears ring, but in a good way. Laughter bounces off the barn rafters. Little boots stomp through puddles I forgot to rake gravel over. One of the goats has already escaped twice.
I haven’t sat down once. But my chest? It feels lighter than it has in weeks.
“Rowan!” one of the kids from down the road—Hazel, I think—tugs on my shirt hem. “The chickens won’t stop staring at me.”
I crouch down to her level. “Did you tell them you’re in charge now?”
Her eyes widen. “I can do that?”
“Sure can.”
She nods, serious as a preacher, and marches back to the coop with both fists on her hips.
Crew walks past me, balancing three bales of hay on his shoulders like it’s nothing. “Did you tell that kid she’s the chicken queen?”
“Delegation,” I mutter. “It’s called leadership.”
He laughs and keeps moving. He’s been here since sunrise, helping me get this thing off the ground without asking too many questions. That’s what Crew does—he fills the space when I can’t. Doesn’t push when I’m not ready to talk.
Like now. When I’m watching the road with one eye even though I keep telling myself not to.
“You’re expecting her,” he says eventually, when we’re both out behind the shed trying to rig up a tarp for shade.
I don’t answer right away.
“She left her notebook,” I say finally, voice low. “Wedged in the couch. I found it a few nights ago.”
Crew straightens, his hands stilling. “Did you read it?”
“I shouldn’t have.”
“But you did.”
I nod, staring down at the wood grain on the bench in front of me. “There’s a song in there. It’s… about me. I think. About the farm. About being seen.”
He whistles low. “Damn.”
“Yeah.”
“About Ivy.” He waits until I look at him. “When she comes back, it won’t be for the journal. It won’t be for some cute farm chapter or a photo op. It’ll be for you.”
Something tight in my chest gives. All those fears and insecurities bubble to the surface. “You sure about that?”
“I’m sure about this.” He tips his water bottle at me. “Nothing ever happened with me and Ivy,” he says, steady. “Not before, not during, not after. She’s like a little sister to me. I look out for her, and that’s it. You’re my brother. I wasn’t competing then, and I’m not competing now.”
The barn takes a long breath around us. I take one too. “I was jealous,” I say, the word tasting like gravel. “And stupid. You didn’t deserve that.”
Crew shrugs, easy. “Jealous means you give a damn. Stupid’s fixable.” He nudges my shoulder with his. “Let it go, Ro. Trust her. And maybe trust me a little while you’re at it.”
I nod. It’s small, but it’s real. “Alright.”
He grins, quick and crooked. “Good. Because when she walks back up your drive, you don’t get to hide behind fences and weather reports. You meet her at the fork in the path.”
“Yeah,” I say, feeling the truth of it settle. “I will.”
I pull out my phone before I can talk myself out of it.
Me: Stage is up. You’d hate the font on the banner, but the kids love it.
I stare at the screen for a beat. No response.
Just like all the ones I previously sent.
Two hours ago, it was:
Me: Thought you’d like this. (Image attached: Me, dust-covered, on top of the horse paddock fence. Shirtless. Sweaty. Looking like hell but smiling for the first time in a while.)
Four hours ago, it was:
Me: Hope you’re drinking real coffee and not that PR-approved caffeine-free crap.
Still nothing.
I lock the screen and shove it back in my pocket, swallowing the ache that keeps rising like bile.
“Maybe she’s still working,” Crew says gently.
“Maybe I gave her too many reasons to stay gone,” I reply.
But even as I say it, I glance out toward the tree line and hope. Hope hard.
By the time lunch rolls around, I’ve lost count of the juice boxes, bandaged knees, and goat droppings we’ve encountered.
The kids are everywhere—climbing hay bales, brushing the horses, and pointing at the cows like they’re mythical creatures. I half expect a few of them to start naming the chickens like they’re at a Disney petting zoo. And honestly? That’s fine by me.
It’s chaos. The best kind. The kind that looks like movement. Like growth. The kind that reminds me why I started this thing in the first place.
The small crowd of parents and volunteers who have come to watch sit on hay bales facing the old platform stage we repurposed from the shed. I strung lights across the top this morning. They’re not on yet, but they’ll glow soft and warm once the sun drops.
It’s not perfect, but it’s real. It’s ours.
Crew walks up behind me and claps a hand on my shoulder. “You should say something.”
I shake my head. “Not really my thing.”
“Doesn’t have to be a speech. Just... a few words. You built this. They should hear from you.”
I glance over at the crowd again. A few familiar faces.
My parents, of course. Hadley is corralling toddlers with a juice-stained apron.
Holt’s leaning against the fence with his arms crossed, looking proud and quietly smug.
Bailey’s sitting next to one of the librarians, jotting things down in a notebook—probably prepping a post about this for the town newsletter while ignoring Crew every time he tries to speak to her.
And me? I’m standing here with my hands too empty and my heart too full.
I walk up to the makeshift stage, brushing my palm over the corner like I’m not sure it’s real. The lights are still off, but the midday sun does the job.
The crowd settles when they see me.
I clear my throat. “Uh... thanks for coming out.”
A few chuckles. Someone claps. One of the kids yells something about chickens, and I can hold back my grin.
“I, uh… wasn’t sure what this was gonna be when we started. Just an idea. Something that felt too big for a guy like me to pull off.”
More claps. My mom dabs at her eyes. Dammit.
“But people showed up. They helped. And now here we are. Kids learning where food comes from. Laughing. Getting muddy. Chasing goats.”
That gets a louder laugh, and I take a steadying breath.
“And I guess what I’m trying to say is… sometimes the things that scare you the most? The ones you think you’re not built for? They turn out to be the things that make you feel the most... alive.”
The applause catches me off guard. I step back, giving a small nod, then hop down from the stage.
Crew catches my eye as I walk past. “Nice job, cowboy.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling. I move toward the water station to grab a drink when I hear it.
A car door, then another, and a hush rolls across the field like a summer breeze. I turn, slowly. There, standing just past the gravel loop, hoodie slung over one shoulder, her hair caught up in a loose braid, is Ivy.