Chapter One #2
“Hey,” he mutters without looking up, sliding into his chair.
Olivia smirks as she takes her seat. “Wow. Warm welcome.”
Mom laughs softly and reaches over to pinch Justin’s cheek. He scowls and leans away. “By the end of next year, he’ll be off to college,” she says proudly. “Then he’ll realize he actually misses us.”
“Doubt it,” Justin says flatly, earning a laugh from Chloe.
Plates are passed around, and soon the table fills with the sound of scraping forks and clinking silverware.
Olivia’s talking animatedly about some guy in her math class, gesturing as she laughs.
I keep my eyes on my plate, cutting into a piece of tender roast. Sometimes, listening to her talk about campus life, I can’t help wondering if I missed out on something bigger.
But college was never part of my plan—or more accurately, it was never part of my father’s plan for me.
Mom clears her throat, tapping my elbow softly. “I saw on the forecast there’s a chance of frost tomorrow night. The buds are early this year, so you’ll have to set up the sprinklers.”
Before I can answer, Dad speaks up automatically. “I’ll get the system running in the morning.”
The words hang there for a moment, heavy as wet soil. Mom’s smile falters as she sets down her fork. “Mark,” she says gently, “I was talking to Ash.”
Dad’s nostrils flare. “The sprinkler system’s complicated.”
“I can manage it,” I say gruffly. “I’ve done it before.”
His gray eyes sharpen. “Not without supervision.”
My grip tightens around my knife. Every muscle in my jaw tenses with the effort to stay quiet. I want to remind him I’m not a kid anymore—that I’m twenty-four, that the orchard’s mine now, not his. But I bite the words back, letting the silence stretch taut between us.
“Let’s just finish dinner,” Mom says, her voice quiet and cautious. “It’s been a long day.”
I nod, forcing a stiff smile, though my stomach’s twisted into knots. Dad turns back to his plate, cutting his carrots with mechanical precision. The only sound is the faint hum of the ceiling fan and the clatter of silverware.
As I watch my father chew in silence, I realize how much it scares him to leave the orchard in someone else’s hands—even if that someone’s me.
Old Harbor Tavern hums with the low murmur of conversation and the twang of country music drifting from the jukebox.
Sports memorabilia and neon signs crowd the wood-paneled walls, their edges dulled by years of dust. The air is thick with the smell of fried food and beer.
I sit at the bar, elbows resting on the scarred wood, my eyes fixed on my brother.
Luke’s in constant motion—pouring a pint, shaking a cocktail, cracking a joke that earns a round of laughter from a table of regulars. The easy grin on his face never falters.
He’s always been effortlessly charismatic. Back in high school, Luke was the loud one, the popular football player everyone knew. I was the older, quiet, mature Tremblay son.
Luke catches sight of me between orders and flashes a grin. “Well, look who finally crawled out of the orchard,” he teases, grabbing a pint glass. “How was dinner with the fam?”
“Fine,” I say automatically, though my grimace must give me away.
“That bad, huh?” Luke presses.
I shrug. “You know how Dad is.”
He lets out a bark of laughter as he fills the glass with my new favorite beer, Black Cat IPA, the foam cresting over the rim.
When the bar put it on tap last month, I gave it a try out of curiosity and ended up loving it.
The new brewery opened in Claremont Shores not long ago, and I have to admit, it’s pretty damn good.
He slides the beer across the counter with a sympathetic smile. “Sorry, bro.”
As Luke returns to his job, I take a slow sip of my beer, the glass cold against my fingers. On the TV above the bar, a baseball game plays on the static-filled screen, the crowd roaring through tinny speakers. I’m not really watching, though—just letting the noise fill the silence in my head.
I’m halfway through my drink when I hear a bright voice behind me. “Well, if it isn’t Ashton Tremblay.”
Before I can turn, a pair of arms slide around my shoulders. The scent of floral perfume fills my nose, sweet and familiar. I look up to find Phoebe grinning down at me, her curly brown hair brushing my cheek as she leans in for a quick hug.
“Hey, stranger,” she teases, perching on the stool beside me. The dim light from the overhead fixture catches in her blue eyes, sharp and playful.
“Hey, Phoebe.” I can’t help but smile. “Didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”
She arches a brow. “That’s because you’ve been impossible to track down. What, you forget how to text back?”
I wince, rubbing the back of my neck. “Sorry. It’s been a busy spring, getting everything ready for harvest.”
“Mmhmm.” She leans her elbow on the bar, fingers drumming against the wood. “Always an excuse with you, Ash.”
I’ve been friends with Phoebe since kindergarten. For the past few years, we’ve been hooking up off and on, no expectations or strings attached. Whatever this is between us has always been simple in a way nothing else in my life ever seems to be.
Some nights we end up tangled in her sheets. Other nights we split a six-pack on her porch, talking about nothing until the stars burn bright overhead. She’s smart and steady—the kind of woman who can change a tractor tire with a fresh manicure without chipping a nail.
My family and friends are always asking when I’m finally going to lock her down and make it official. Like it’s inevitable. Like we’re just dragging out the obvious.
But the thought of sliding into something permanent with her fills me with a quiet, creeping dread.
Not because Phoebe isn’t great.
It’s because she is.
On paper, she’s perfect for me. We come from the same town, the same kind of families. She understands the farm, the long hours, the way harvest season consumes my whole life. She would fit beside me so easily.
“Sorry,” I say after a beat, squeezing her hand. “I’ve been a shitty friend lately, haven’t I?”
She shrugs. “Maybe. But you’re still better than most guys in this shithole town.”
“Wow.” I snort. “The bar is literally on the ground, Phoebs.”
Phoebe leans against the bar, swirling the straw in her cocktail, a slow, knowing smile tugging at her mouth. “Well,” she says, tilting her head toward me, “if you ever want to make it up to me…” Her voice dips just enough to make her meaning clear. “You know where to find me.”
Before I can respond, she leans in and kisses me.
She tastes like cherry ChapStick, sweet and tangy. I’ve always liked that about her. No sticky gloss, no heavy lipstick. Nothing overwhelming. Kissing Phoebe has always been easy. Familiar. Like slipping into a well-worn jacket or hugging an old friend.
“Text me,” she says when she pulls back, squeezing my arm. Her eyes search mine a beat longer than usual. “You look like you need a stress reliever. Or at least a friend to talk to.”
She can read me like a book.
“Yeah,” I say with a nod. “I will.”
She gives me one last peck on the cheek before she slips back into her group of friends, curls bouncing as she walks away.