Chapter 3 #2
“So, you excited for harvest season?” she asks, brows lifted. “Should start fruiting in another month or two, right?”
My throat tightens as I stare down at my beer, thumb swiping the damp amber glass. “Yeah. I’m… looking forward to it, I guess.”
Her eyes study mine, flickering between them. “You doing okay?” she asks, leaning back in her chair.
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Dad’s just been… a lot lately.”
She hums. “More than usual?”
“Yeah. Every little thing turns into this—” I gesture vaguely, searching for the right word. “Lecture? Critique? I don’t know. Everything I do is wrong, or not enough, or not how he would’ve done it thirty years ago.”
Phoebe sets her bottle down, the glass tapping quietly against the table. “That’s rough.”
“I know he means well,” I say, though I don’t fully believe it. “But it’s just… constant. I wish he’d trust me more.”
Her expression softens as she stands. She slowly steps closer before settling in my lap with a warm hand on the side of my face. Before I can process it, she leans in and kisses me—soft and gentle, fingers tracing through my shower-damp hair.
When we finally separate, a sly smile settles on her shimmery lips. “Do you want help relaxing?”
My breath hitches. “Yeah. I… yeah.”
She tugs me to my feet. “Then let’s go to your room.”
I nod, my heart thudding hard against my ribs.
She follows me down the hallway, the floor creaking under our steps, the air tightening between us with every footfall.
As soon as we cross the threshold, she pushes me toward the bed and claims my mouth in a feverish kiss.
My hands settle on her waist, squeezing and nudging the hem of her top just enough to feel the warmth of her hips.
Phoebe eases me back onto the mattress and climbs over me, her knees bracketing my hips.
She kisses along the column of my throat.
My eyes flutter closed as I tip my head back, letting her mouth trail down my bare chest. Her hands skim over my pecs and abs, lingering, squeezing, while she grinds lightly against my thigh, breath catching in little bursts against my skin.
“Can I taste you?” she asks, eyes heavy-lidded.
I swallow hard. “Yeah.”
She fumbles with the hem of my sweatpants before pulling them down with my boxers.
I’m barely half-hard, and my face flushes with embarrassment as she wraps her hand around my length, stroking me.
In the past, other girls have joked about how difficult it is to get me off—like it was a chore—but Phoebe never teases me for it.
Slowly, she lowers her mouth to the reddened tip and gives it a few teasing licks. I close my eyes and try to focus on the sensation. Objectively, it feels good, little sparks of white-hot pleasure zapping through my body.
It’s not like Phoebe is bad at sucking cock. In fact, she gives the best head I’ve ever received. But it’s like there are mismatched wires in my brain that won’t connect to my dick.
She wraps her hand around the base of my cock, pumping encouragingly, her spit gliding the movement as she suckles at the tip. My toes curl as I will myself to get hard. I clench the bedsheets with frustration, cursing my body.
What the hell is wrong with me?
My cock leaves Phoebe’s mouth with a wet pop. Her concerned gaze meets mine, eyebrows scrunched. “You alright?”
I stroke her hair gently, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “Yeah. Sorry. I promise it’s not you. I think I’m just… stressed.”
She shifts back onto her heels, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “We don’t have to do this tonight.”
My chest tightens with guilt. “I can still get you off.”
She smiles timidly. “It’s fine. Maybe we can just watch a movie or something?”
I nod almost too quickly. Honestly, a movie sounds perfect. And truth be told, I don’t want her to leave yet. I’ve missed having someone close and warm next to me. Even if my stupid body won’t cooperate, I really do like being around Phoebe.
I pull up my sweatpants and draw her into my arms, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head. She settles beside me easily, her body relaxing against mine.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur into her hair.
“Don’t be,” she whispers back. “You’re under a lot of stress right now.”
After scrolling through streaming services, we settle on a random rom-com—something light and predictable, the kind of movie you don’t have to pay much attention to.
Phoebe tucks herself under my arm, her head resting on my shoulder as we finish drinking our beers.
The quiet glow of the TV flickers across the room, and every so often she laughs softly into my chest. I can’t help but smile at the sound, even with the knot still sitting tight in my stomach.
By the time we’re halfway through, her bottle’s empty, mine nearly so. She shifts, sits up a little, and reaches for the remote. The screen freezes.
I blink over at her. “Everything okay?”
Her face hardens into a serious expression. She turns fully toward me, crossing her legs on the bed. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” My heart starts to hammer in my chest. “Anything.”
She hesitates, fingers worrying at the edge of the blanket, then finally looks up at me. “Do you… like women?”
My body goes rigid, snapping upright like I’ve been shocked. “What kind of question is that?”
She exhales, gaze dropping again as she twists the fabric tighter. “I just—sometimes I wonder if maybe… I don’t know. If maybe you’d prefer it if I were a guy.”
The words hit harder than they should, and the defensiveness rises before I can stop it.
“No. No, that’s not—” I scrub a hand over the back of my neck, forcing a steadier breath.
“That’s not true at all.” I roll back my shoulders, lifting my chin.
“I’m straight, Phoebe. I swear. What made you even think that? ”
She lifts one shoulder in a small, apologetic shrug. “I don’t know. You just seemed… frustrated.” Her voice softens. “And it’s not the first time you’ve had trouble, Ash.”
“I’m stressed,” I insist, a little too loudly. “That’s all.” I shake my head, trying to steady myself. “I think you’re beautiful. Seriously. This isn’t about you.”
Phoebe bites her bottom lip, watching me carefully. “You can think someone is beautiful,” she says gently, “and not be sexually attracted to them.”
My jaw tightens. The look on her face—too soft, too knowing—scrapes something raw inside me.
“Where is all this coming from?” I ask, my voice sharp. “We’ve been hooking up for years, Phoebe. Years. Why are you suddenly asking if I’m into men?”
Her shoulders slump. “Because… it felt different this time.”
“That’s not an answer.” Frustration flares, hot and quick in my chest. “You think I’d just—what? Wake up one day and suddenly not like women?”
She shakes her head. “I saw you checking out that guy at Old Harbor Tavern.”
I blink. “What guy?”
“The beer delivery guy,” she says, holding my gaze. “Kinda short, dark hair, ridiculously handsome.”
I let out a disbelieving laugh. “Phoebe, no. I wasn’t—I don’t look at guys like that.”
But even as the words leave my mouth, something tight and sour twists in my stomach.
The truth is, I’ve never let myself look at guys like that.
Never even entertained it. You don’t—you can’t—in a town like Claremont Shores.
Not when your entire life is planted in the soil your family’s owned for generations.
Phoebe’s eyebrows lift, unimpressed. “You were staring at him like you wanted to hop over the bar and jump his bones. You’ve never looked at me like that.”
Heat floods my face, embarrassment and fear tangling together, tightening like a vise around my throat. “That’s not—Phoebs, come on. I wasn’t.” My voice cracks, and I hate it. “I like women.”
“Ash,” she says gently, “it’s okay to experiment. Seriously. Lots of people do. I—I kissed a girl in high school once.” She shrugs, cheeks coloring. “Turned out it wasn’t for me, but there’s nothing wrong with trying things out.”
The words slice through me like a blade, spilling my guts. I feel cornered, exposed, my skin buzzing with a panic I can’t name.
“I don’t need to ‘figure myself out,’” I snap, throwing up air quotes, my voice edged with anger. “I told you—I’m straight.”
She opens her mouth to answer, but something quick and defensive lashes out of me first, like a cornered animal baring its teeth.
“Did you ever consider,” I bite out, “that maybe it’s you? Maybe you just don’t—” My voice falters, but I force it through. “—do it for me.”
Her reaction is instant. Her face crumples, all the strength draining out of it, and it knocks the breath from my lungs. Her blue eyes shine, tears gathering at the edges. I’ve never seen her cry before. She’s usually so tough and strong-willed, hard and unbreakable.
“Ash…” Her voice is small, trembling. “That was cruel.”
“Wait, I didn’t mean—I’m sorry, I just—I didn’t mean it like that,” I stammer, reaching for her arm.
She recoils like my touch burns, scowling.
“Don’t touch me,” she hisses, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand.
“Phoebs, please—”
“I’m not doing this,” she chokes out as she slips off the bed. “Not tonight. Not when you’re like this.”
She stumbles down the hallway, and I follow after her like a shadow, desperate and useless. She grabs her shoes with shaking hands, the frayed laces tangling as she fumbles to tie them.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “Don’t go.”
But she’s already yanking open the door.
“I’ll talk to you when you’re ready to be honest,” she says, finally meeting my eyes. “With me. With yourself. Whatever.”
“Please—”
The door slams before I can finish.
A suffocating silence swallows the house, leaving me barefoot in the entryway with my chest hollowed out.
I collapse onto the couch, burying my face in my hands, my jaw clenched so hard it aches. My heart thunders, each beat a painful reminder of the mess I’ve made. And the worst part is, I can’t tell if I’m upset by her accusation… or terrified she might be right.