Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Ashton
The porch light is already on when I pull into my parents’ driveway, its familiar yellow glow cutting through the early evening haze. My truck ticks as it cools, metal popping softly while I sit there with my eyes fixed on the house, hands clenched around the steering wheel.
I’ve survived countless family dinners—most of them loud, warm, and wrapped in easy laughter—but tonight my skin buzzes with nerves.
Whatever comfort this place usually offers feels useless when I think about what I’m about to tell my dad.
I can already picture the tightened expression of disappointment and resentment spread across his wrinkled face.
The moment I open the door, I’m hit with the smell of cumin, roasted peppers, and something unmistakably cheesy. Hunger rumbles low in my stomach as I step into the frenzied kitchen, the chaos oddly comforting.
Classic rock hums from the radio, an old station my dad refuses to change. Chloe is perched on a stool at the counter, sleeves shoved up, confidently spooning filling into tortillas. Mom stands at the stove, stirring a pot of red sauce.
Chloe spots me first. “Ash!” She grins, blond curls bouncing as she hops down. “We’re making enchiladas.”
I pull her into a quick hug, smiling against the top of her head. “Smells incredible.”
Mom turns from the stove, wooden spoon in hand, her smile immediate and bright. “Hi, sweetheart,” she says, crossing the kitchen to wrap me in a hug that smells like onions and garlic.
Chloe goes back to assembling enchiladas, brow furrowed in concentration. She turned fifteen last week and is determined to prove she’s capable. I have a feeling it’s because she wants to convince Mom and Dad to let her get her learner’s permit.
Mom gestures for me to sit, so I claim one of the stools as I watch them move around each other like a coordinated dance. This kitchen has always been the heart of the house. It’s where arguments start and end, where no matter what’s said, we always find our way back to share a meal together.
“So,” Mom says casually, sprinkling cheese over a pan. “How’s the orchard?”
“Good,” I answer on reflex. “Busy.”
“And the market?” Chloe asks. “Liv said you sold out last weekend.”
“Yeah,” I say. “We did. I’ll double the truckload next weekend.”
Mom hums her approval. “Probably a good idea.”
I reach across the counter and snag a slice of jalapeno from the bowl beside Chloe, popping it into my mouth before she can stop me. The heat tingles across my tongue.
She swats my hand with her spatula. “Knock it off,” she scolds. “Those are for dinner.”
A smile tugs at my mouth. “You miss me living at home, don’t you?”
She rolls her eyes. “Not a chance.”
I know she does, though. Sometimes I miss it too—the easy closeness, the way we could spend an entire evening cracking jokes and laughing until our stomachs hurt. My siblings are the one constant in my life, and I’d do anything to keep it that way.
Even if it means keeping a part of myself hidden from them.
When dinner’s ready, we crowd around the table with steaming plates and elbows knocking as everyone settles in. Luke and Justin are already mid-argument, voices overlapping as they debate the merits of whatever new video game just dropped.
“I’m telling you, the combat system’s completely broken,” Luke insists, stabbing his fork into an enchilada.
Justin snorts. “You just don’t know how to play it right.”
Olivia and Chloe sit across from me, carefully spooning toppings onto their plates. Mom hovers a moment longer, making sure everyone has enough sauce before finally taking her seat.
Dad takes his place at the head of the table, quiet as ever. He listens more than he talks—always has. It’s something we’ve all learned to respect. When Dad speaks, it’s never filler, and you ought to pay attention.
Sure enough, his voice cuts cleanly through Luke and Justin’s bickering.
“Ashton,” he says, calm but firm. “Did you ever fix that cracked hydraulic line on the old John Deere?”
I straighten in my chair. “Yeah,” I answer. “Replaced the line and tightened the fittings. It’s running fine now.”
Dad nods once, satisfied. “Good.”
Mom shoots him a warning look. “Let’s not talk about work at the dinner table, Mark.”
Well. If there was ever a perfect segue…
I clear my throat. “Actually,” I say, setting my fork down. “There is something I wanted to talk about.”
Every conversation at the table dies instantly. All heads turn toward me, waiting.
“I’ve been working on a business partnership,” I continue, choosing my words carefully. “With Black Cat Brewery. They’re interested in sourcing fruit locally, and we’re starting with cherries for a small cider run.”
Luke’s eyebrows lift, intrigued. Chloe’s eyes widen. Mom stills, watching me closely. Dad doesn’t react at all—just waits.
“It’s a trial batch,” I add. “If it works, it could open up a steady off-season revenue stream for the orchard. They’ll put our logo on the bottles, so it’ll be great for advertising.”
The silence that follows is thick and heavy. Dad studies me from across the table, lips pressed into a thin line. His bushy eyebrows draw together, deepening the grooves in his wrinkled face.
“Black Cat Brewery,” he says slowly. “That place owned by the kid with all the tattoos and metal in his face?”
My stomach drops. The dining room goes eerily quiet, the soft whir of the ceiling fan suddenly loud in the stillness.
“His name is Troy Fischer,” Luke cuts in. “He’s a nice guy.”
I shoot Luke a grateful glance.
Dad rolls his shoulders back, unimpressed. “Whether or not he’s nice is irrelevant,” he says, his cold gaze locking onto mine. “We’re a family-owned farm in a small town, Ash. You need to think about what doing business with people like that does to our reputation.”
“My reputation,” I correct, keeping my voice steady. “The orchard belongs to me now, Dad.”
His jaw tightens. “It’s our family name.”
“And it’s my name too.” Sharpness creeps into my tone despite my effort to stay calm.
“I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize it.
Troy knows what he’s doing. He’s smart. The community likes him, and his taproom brings in tourists year-round.
This partnership will be good for the orchard, especially during the off-season. ”
I meet his stare and don’t look away. I’ve spent my entire life bending to his will, doing whatever he said in a fruitless attempt to earn his approval, and it’s never been enough. Nothing I do is ever enough.
Dad huffs and shakes his head. “Isn’t he a criminal? I heard he’s got a record.”
My molars grind. “His past isn’t anyone else’s business. You know this town loves to gossip. Whatever happened, I’m sure it was blown out of proportion.”
He makes a low, disapproving sound in the back of his throat. “You’re gambling with everything your great-grandfather built.”
Mom stiffens beside me. “Honey—”
“No,” Dad snaps, lifting a hand without looking at her. His eyes remain locked on mine. “Maybe this was a mistake from the start. Maybe the orchard should’ve gone to someone who understands tradition.” His eyes flick briefly to Luke. “I didn’t think you’d be so quick to risk everything, Ashton.”
The words land like a slap.
My hands curl into fists beneath the table. “I’ve been here every day since I was a kid,” I remind him. “I gave up college. I gave up everything so this place wouldn’t fall apart.”
He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “You call this holding it together?”
“You don’t respect it because it isn’t what you would’ve done.”
His jaw flexes. For a split second, I think he might back down. Instead, his attention drifts past me to the window, toward the rows of trees cresting the hill beyond the yard.
“I thought you were capable,” he mutters. “I thought you’d grow up.”
Mom’s hand brushes my arm, tentative, but I barely feel it. My chest aches, something raw cracking open beneath my ribs.
“You know,” Dad continues, quieter now, “sometimes I wonder if I made the wrong choice.” He looks back at me, eyes sharp with disappointment. “Maybe giving you the orchard was a mistake.”
There it is. The thing I’ve always feared he’d say out loud.
Mom pushes her chair back slightly, alarmed. “Alright—enough,” she says firmly. “This is a family dinner. We’re not doing this tonight.”
But it’s too late. The knot in my chest has already tangled into something sharp and unbearable.
“You’re wrong,” I say, my throat tight, my voice steady only through sheer force of will. “You’re stuck in the past, but I love this orchard enough to let it change. I’m trying to make our legacy even bigger by expanding our reach instead of sticking to the way things have always been.”
Dad’s tongue drags across his teeth, fingers tightening around his fork. “Son—”
“No.” I stand so abruptly my chair scrapes loudly against the floor. “I was telling you about the partnership out of courtesy, but I’m done having this conversation.”
Every eye at the table is on me now, my siblings staring with a mix of shock and sympathy. I don’t think any of them have ever talked back to Dad like this before, but I can’t stop myself. I won’t let him question my commitment to the orchard—not after everything I’ve sacrificed to keep it alive.
“Ashton,” Mom says firmly. “Enough. Respect your father and sit down.”
I shake my head, already backing away. “I need some air.”
No one stops me as I leave the dining room. I grab my jacket from the back of the chair and step out into the cool night, the door shutting with a final, hollow click behind me.
Troy leans against the brick wall of the brewhouse, arms folded over his chest, watching me with an expression that’s equal parts amusement and appraisal. He hasn’t said much since handing me the bucket. He doesn’t have to. The smirk tugging at his mouth says enough.