Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Ashton
This time of year is supposed to feel hopeful—the orchard stirring awake, tiny buds cracking open with the promise of fruit.
When I was a kid, I’d count down the days until the first bloom.
I’d wake up early, heart racing like it was Christmas morning, and run to my window to find the trees blanketed with blossoms.
Somewhere over the last few seasons, that magic has slipped away.
When I saw the early blossoms today, all I could think about was how easily they could wither. The fungal spots on the leaves caused panic to crawl up my throat. My entire future rests in the fate of these trees.
Now, the tractor grumbles loud, piercing through my noise-canceling headphones. My grip tightens on the steering wheel as I pass through rows of cherry trees. Behind me, the sprayer hisses rhythmically, releasing a fine mist that hangs in the air before settling on budding branches.
The chemical tang of the fungicide seeps through the breeze, sharp enough to sting my throat through the mask.
My white coveralls stick to my back with sweat, and my face shield keeps fogging no matter how many times I wipe it.
The world looks hazy through the plastic—rows of brown, green, and white blurring together in the morning light.
By the time I finish the last row, my shoulders ache from bracing against the tractor’s vibration. The blinding sun hovers high in the sky, peeking through the thinning overcast.
I steer the tractor back toward the barn. The engine sputters as I park it inside. I shut everything down, unclip the sprayer hose, and neatly coil it around the hook in the wall.
From the corner of my eye, I notice a tall figure looming in the doorway. My gaze flicks to see my father leaning against the wall, hands tucked in the pockets of his worn jeans.
He clears his throat, nodding toward the trees. “You’re overlapping your passes too much. Can’t afford to be sloppy this early in the season.”
My lips press into a thin line. “I’m not being sloppy.”
Of course, he ignores me.
“You’ve gotta watch your drift,” he continues, his gravelly voice low and assertive. “Wind’s picking up from the west. You’re probably coating the grass instead of the trees.”
At my sides, my fists clench. I inhale a steady breath, trying to extinguish the anger raging inside my chest.
“I’ll make sure to adjust next time.” I know it’s the only response he’ll accept.
He starts to say something else, then thinks better of it and turns away. His boots crunch across the gravel as he heads for his truck, the sound fading with each step. I watch him haul the door open and climb inside, shoulders hunched.
These surprise visits from him are starting to feel more like inspections than acts of concern.
For a second, I think about calling after him—saying I’ve got it handled or you don’t have to watch me every damn second—but the words stick in my throat. It wouldn’t matter anyway. He’d just find something else I did wrong.
After he drives away, I grab my jacket from the peg by the door and step outside.
Cool spring air wraps around me as I climb into my truck, threading through my shaggy blond hair and whipping it across my eyes.
Inside, the cab smells of artificial pine, courtesy of the air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror.
The drive home is short, the gravel road winding past the orchard. The sun hangs low over the hills, drenching the trees in an amber glow. It’s the kind of view that used to make me feel proud. Lately, it just reminds me how much work there’s still to do.
My house sits on a small rise at the end of the road—a three-bedroom ranch with blue siding, built on a stretch of land my parents sectioned off for me on the far west end of the orchard.
It’s a good fifty acres from their place, far enough to feel like my own space, but close enough that getting to work is still just a quick drive.
The place itself is a work in progress. I’ve taken on most of the interior myself to keep costs down, which means there’s always something half-finished—trim waiting to be nailed in, tiles awaiting placement, curtains needing to be hung.
I’ve been slowly chipping away at it, one weekend project at a time.
When I push open the door, I’m met with the faint smell of sawdust and paint—reminders of projects I haven’t quite finished. The thrifted furniture is mismatched and worn, the leather couch in the living room peeling with slouched cushions.
In the laundry room, I strip off my clothes, the fabric stiff from spray residue and dried sweat. I toss everything into the washing machine with a generous pour of detergent. The machine hums to life, churning loudly as I walk into the bathroom.
When I step past the shower curtain and turn the knob, the water sputters for a few seconds before turning hot enough to sting.
I tilt my head back and let it rush over me, rinsing away the grime and dust clinging to my skin.
For a while, I stand with my palms pressed to the cool tile, eyes closed, waiting for the pounding in my chest to ease.
When I finally reach for the washcloth, the woodsy scent of soap cuts through the steam.
I lather it and drag it across my chest, slow and methodical, watching the suds slide down my stomach and swirl toward the drain.
I don’t work out at the gym like Luke, but the long days on the farm have carved their own kind of strength into me—lean muscle, calloused hands, a body shaped by hard work.
Tan lines mark my arms and shoulders, souvenirs from summers spent under the sun.
After rinsing my hair, I shut off the water and step out, steam curling around my ankles.
I grab a clean towel and drag it over my skin, then through my damp hair, watching in the mirror as blond strands stick up in every direction.
The mirror’s half-fogged, distorting my reflection.
I barely recognize the guy staring back—dark shadows beneath his green eyes, scruff darkening his jaw, shoulders a little more tense than they used to be.
I rub the fog away with my hand, leaving streaks across the glass.
My phone buzzes on the counter, the sound vibrating through the small bathroom. When I pick it up, there’s a new message waiting from Phoebe.
Phoebe: on my way <3
I stare at the screen, water dripping from my hair onto the floor. A small pulse of desire flickers through me, chased quickly by something else—something heavier and harder to name.
After running into Phoebe at the bar a few weeks ago, I realized how much I’d missed her company.
Dad’s been on my case more than usual, and truthfully, I could use someone to talk to about it who isn’t one of my siblings.
She’s a great listener and always understands, having grown up on a farm herself.
So when she suggested meeting up tonight, I agreed. I know how it’ll go. We’ll talk, we’ll laugh, and sooner or later, we’ll probably end up in bed.
I should be looking forward to that—and part of me is. Phoebe’s beautiful, smart, funny, and I like being around her. But the truth is, I usually enjoy the talking more than anything that comes after.
When I was younger, I figured my hesitation around sex was just nerves. I told myself it was normal to overthink and get in my own head. I was a dumb teenager, so of course I was anxious. That explained why things didn’t always… work the way they should.
But now, at twenty-four, I’m running out of excuses.
I like sex—or at least the orgasming part.
But every time, I have to psych myself up for it.
Focus hard on what I’m doing, on making sure it feels good for her, on putting on a good performance.
Based on drunken conversations I’ve had with my friends about sex, that’s not the way it’s supposed to be.
Maybe I’m just wired wrong. Or maybe something in me’s broken, and I haven’t figured out how to fix it.
Taking a deep breath, I stare myself down in the mirror.
“Get it together,” I mutter under my breath.
In my bedroom, I change into a pair of gray sweatpants. Before I can put on a shirt, a knock rattles the front door. Three short taps, firm and confident.
“Shit,” I hiss, padding barefoot down the hallway.
My skin’s still damp, leaving faint footprints on the floor. When I open the door, Phoebe’s standing there with an easy smile, the wind tossing dark curls around her face.
Her gaze flicks down over me—sweatpants hung low on my hips, chest bare, water still running down my collarbone—and she smirks. “Wow,” she says. “Didn’t realize you were so eager to see me. Already getting naked for me, huh?”
Heat creeps up the back of my neck. “Sorry. Spraying the trees took longer than I planned. Just got out of the shower.”
“Mm-hm.” She bites her lip, her blue eyes lingering on my chest.
I step aside, holding the door open. “Come on in.”
Phoebe steps inside and kicks off her sneakers in the entryway. She’s dressed in black leggings and a loose crop top that flashes a strip of her pale stomach. I’ve always liked how she doesn’t bother trying to polish herself for me—or for anyone, really.
We’re comfortable around each other. She grew up on a blueberry farm across town. She’s no stranger to getting dirt under her nails and sweat on her skin. It’s one of the reasons talking to her comes so easily.
“You finally painted the living room, huh?” She eyes the fresh beige walls. “Looks good.”
“Yeah.” I head toward the kitchen, yanking open the fridge and grabbing two beers. “Want one?”
She nods and takes one from me, twisting off the cap and letting it clatter onto the counter. She lifts the bottle to her lips and takes a long sip.
We settle at the small table near the window. For a few minutes, it’s comfortable—light teasing about my home projects, her complaining about tourists already calling to book blueberry picking dates, me updating her about my siblings’ lives.