Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Ashton
The sound of grinding metal groans above me, the tractor rattling with every twist of my wrench. I’m on my back beneath it, finishing an oil change, though I’ve probably checked the same bolts three times by now. Hard to focus when my brain keeps looping back to the same damn worry.
It’s been two weeks since Phoebe and I argued at my place. Two weeks of unanswered texts, ignored calls, and me staring helplessly at my phone, waiting for a bomb to drop.
Logically, I know she wouldn’t actually tell anyone her wild theories about my sexuality.
She’s still my friend, even when she’s furious.
But the not-knowing is driving me insane.
One whisper in a town like Claremont Shores, and suddenly everyone’s heard it.
I can’t risk it. Not with my family. Not with my reputation. Not with… everything.
I slide out from under the tractor, wipe my greasy hands on a rag, and check my phone again.
Nothing. No calls or texts. Just a blank screen staring back at me—and my reflection, dark circles under my eyes, dirt smudged across my face, looking wrecked.
“You’re not gonna get much work done if you keep staring at that thing,” Dad says from the doorway.
I jolt, quickly shoving the phone into my pocket like a kid caught doing something wrong. Dad steps into the barn, one white eyebrow raised in that familiar warning.
For Christ’s sake—I’m twenty-four and still getting scolded by my dad.
Ignoring him, I keep working while he stands nearby, cold eyes tracking my every move. I pour the fresh oil through the funnel, listening to it gurgle until the last jug is empty. Squinting in the dim light, I check the dipstick. Perfect.
Of course, that’s not good enough for Dad.
He circles around and snatches the dipstick, clearly not trusting my judgment. His tongue works over his teeth as he inspects it, gaze sharp and tense.
Finally, he lets out a half-satisfied grunt and slides the dipstick back in place. I bite the inside of my cheek, knowing that’s the closest thing to approval I’ll ever get from him. It’s not a “good job” or “proud of you,” but it’ll have to do.
Dad steps back, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Farmers market starts in a couple weeks,” he says, eyeing me cautiously. “Think you’re ready?”
His words settle heavy in my chest.
To many small businesses in Claremont Shores, the farmers market is a big deal.
Every Saturday during harvest season, I used to tag along behind Dad, watching him charm the public with a smile that never once appeared in my direction.
He’d shake hands, hand out samples, tell the same jokes I’d heard a thousand times while I quietly stacked pints of cherries and tried not to get in the way.
This year, it’ll be me. Alone. My first chance to prove to the town—and to him—that I’m not some screwup waiting to happen.
I swallow hard.
Dad keeps talking. “You’ll need to prep the booth. Make sure the signage is cleaned up. Customers need to know they can rely on you.”
My hand flexes around the wrench in my hand, the cool metal digging into my flesh. “I know,” I say quietly, forcing my voice not to shake. “I’ll be ready.”
Dad huffs quietly, unconvinced. “Well,” he mutters, subtly checking his watch, “I should get back home before it gets dark. Don’t forget to put everything back where it belongs.”
Without another word, he walks out of the barn, his boots crunching loudly across the gravel. He climbs in his truck and leaves, dirt clouding behind his tires.
I let out a long breath and start cleaning up. Oil rags into the bin. Caps twisted back onto empty containers. Wrenches wiped down and returned to their designated hooks on the pegboard. Dad’s system. And God forbid anything ever be an inch out of place.
I’m reaching for the funnel when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
My heart jumps. I fumble the phone out, pulse pounding, only for my stomach to sink when I see the name.
Of course it’s not Phoebe finally returning my dozens of missed phone calls. It’s Luke.
I swipe to answer. “Hey.”
“Hey!” Luke’s voice booms so loud I have to hold the phone away from my ear. “How’s it going?”
“Fine,” I say automatically. “Just working.”
“Shocker,” he snorts. “You got any plans tonight?”
“No.” I shut the toolbox, the metallic click echoing in the barn. “Why?”
“Was just thinking we should have a bonfire to kick off the start of cherry season—y’know, like the old days.”
A flicker of nostalgia tugs at me. My brain conjures up images of June nights.
A dozen reckless teenagers sneaking into the woods behind the farmhouse with backpacks full of stolen booze.
Cheap beer, warm whiskey, music from someone’s dented Bluetooth speaker bouncing between the trees.
Lying on our backs in the clearing and staring at the stars while bonfire smoke curled into the sky.
Luke’s voice crackles through the line. “So what do you think? You in?”
I hesitate, rolling Luke’s offer around in my mind. Bonfires used to be Phoebe’s favorite. She’d tag along even when she pretended she was only coming to “supervise our stupidity.” Maybe the nostalgia would be enough to get her to show up.
“Yeah,” I say slowly, dragging out the word. “Okay. Sure. Let’s do it.”
“Hell yeah!” Luke cheers.
“But we’re doing it at my place,” I cut in quickly. “Dad would kill us if he found out we snuck into the woods again.”
Luke snorts. “Obviously. I’m not trying to get grounded at twenty-two.” He snickers.
I shake my head, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips.
“I’ll text people,” he continues. “Let ’em know it’s on. I’m thinking Keaton, Brooke, Phoebe, maybe the Peterson twins… oh, and Troy.”
I freeze mid-step. “Troy? Why?”
Luke laughs. “Free booze, dude. Duh.”
“I mean… yeah,” I mutter, trying to sound casual, even though Luke’s already rambling off more names to invite. I barely hear him. My thoughts drift someplace else entirely.
Troy.
I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me when it comes to him.
Every time he’s around, it’s like my brain short-circuits.
At the sailboat parade, when he winked at me—just a stupid little wink—I nearly forgot how to breathe.
My tongue felt glued to the roof of my mouth.
My chest tightened. I’m sure I looked like an idiot.
“Cool,” Luke says after a moment, snapping me back. “I’ll send out the invites. Later, dude.”
He hangs up, leaving me alone in the quiet barn with my thoughts racing. It’s not like Troy’s flirting actually means anything. According to Luke, he flirts with girls at the tavern all the time. Maybe it’s just part of his personality. He probably flirts with everyone.
So why the hell am I letting it get under my skin?
By the time the sun dips below the treetops, the bonfire is crackling high, sparks flying into the dark like fireflies. The backyard is crowded with lawn chairs dragged into a loose circle, coolers wedged between boots. The cool nighttime air smells of woodsmoke and damp grass.
I’m wedged between Luke and one of his friends whose name I can’t remember, nursing a cider I’m barely drinking.
Luke, of course, is the center of attention.
His thunderous laugh ricochets across the yard as he retells some exaggerated story about the time he supposedly outran a park ranger on his dirt bike.
I pretend to listen, nodding along, but my focus keeps drifting across the fire, through the flicker of orange flames, to the last person I want to be staring at.
Troy.
He’s sprawled in a cheap folding chair, his thick thighs spread apart, an amber bottle dangling from his fingers. A half-empty case of his beer sits at his feet, the cardboard softened from the moisture in the grass.
I’ve been trying to ignore him all night—keeping my gaze on Luke, on the fire, on the condensation sliding down my bottle—but every so often, I feel it. That prickle along the back of my neck.
When I finally look up, he’s watching me again.
Through the flames, his brown eyes almost look like amber. His silver piercings glimmer in the glow of the fire, his tongue toying with the ring in his lower lip.
I drop my gaze immediately, heart thudding against my ribs. Christ. What is wrong with me?
As Luke continues telling his story, my mind drifts away from the fire. My gaze keeps flicking to the one empty chair in the circle. The one I dragged out an hour ago, hoping Phoebe would actually show.
After two weeks of silence, she finally responded to my party invite with one word.
Okay.
Now my knee won’t stop bouncing, jittering against the leg of my chair. Every burst of headlights from the road makes my chest tighten, praying it’s her. The aching need to clear the air with her gnaws under my flesh, festering like a parasite threatening to break the skin.
Then, finally, I hear it—the slow roll of tires on the gravel driveway.
My head snaps up as a familiar Jeep turns in, headlights sweeping across the lawn before cutting off. My throat goes dry as Phoebe climbs out, hugging her beige cardigan tighter around herself as she approaches the fire.
She forces a smile, greeting Luke and a couple of the girls from town. Her eyes dart around nervously, flickering to me for barely half a second before skittering away like she’s afraid to make contact.
Before I can think, I’m on my feet.
“Can we talk?” I ask, stepping up and gently catching her elbow. Lowering my voice, I add, “Somewhere private?”
Luke lets out a long, obnoxious whistle. “Ooooh, somebody’s in trouble.”
Heat floods my face. “Fuck off,” I snap over my shoulder.
That sparks a round of laughter, but Phoebe goes quiet, swallowing hard. Her eyes search mine, wide and wary.
“Yeah,” she says softly. “Okay.”
Troy’s gaze burns into my back as we step away from the fire, moving across the yard toward the shadows. The cool air wraps around us as we reach the tall maple tree tucked at the corner of the property, its leaves rustling softly overhead.