Chapter 5
“When are you going to finally start listening to me and stop dating those boring city boys?”
Tabitha’s smile is wide as she shakes her head at me, and I can’t help but grin back.
We’re curled up in the living room on opposite ends of the couch, where we’ve been since dinner, catching up on …
well, everything. Or almost everything. The uncovered windows have gone dark with the night sky, like someone’s turned off the rest of the world.
If I try hard enough, I can almost forget that anything outside this perfect yellow house exists.
“Woooowww,” I drawl, peeking at the antique grandfather clock in the corner of the room. “I’m impressed. It took you all four hours and … eleven minutes to try setting me up with him.”
She gasps, feigning ignorance. “I don’t know who or what you mean.” She stands and pads to the kitchen in her knitted socks, no doubt made by someone she knows. “Hot chocolate?” she calls over her shoulder.
“Mmm, please.”
She continues talking to me from the kitchen, raising her voice so I can hear her over the boiling kettle.
“Listen to me, Sloan, I’m wise beyond my years. What you need is not some carbon copy, AI-generated hipster. You need a real man.”
“Is that so? You seem happy enough without one.”
Sharp laughter rings from the kitchen. “Oh no, not you too! You sound like my friends.” She comes back carrying two steaming mugs and hands me one. “I’m just saying, you keep dating the same kind of guys and expecting different results. That’s the definition of insanity.”
She sets her mug down and heads back to the kitchen.
“Fine, I can admit that Caleb was not the guy for me. But ignoring the way it ended—”
“Which you shouldn’t!”
“We did have fun together,” I say, a little louder. “Do you know how hard it is to find someone who respects what I do for a living?”
“Hello? I’m an artist. I’ve heard some variation of the ‘but you don’t know what it’s really like to work’ line more times than I can count.”
“Fair point, but at least people can wrap their heads around what you do. Most people think social media brand management is a fancy way to say I’m an influencer, and all I do is sit in cute coffee shops taking pictures of foam art.
” I wish it was that easy. I haven’t done a lick of work in three days, and I know I will have a mountain of it when I finally manage to crack open my laptop, but that’s a problem I can deal with tomorrow—one thing at a time.
“Speaking of adorable cafés…”
I stop blowing on my hot chocolate to stare at the white cardboard box she places between us on the couch. My eyes prickle. “You remembered the donuts,” I murmur, almost to myself.
“Course I did,” she says easily, like it’s a given. She reaches over to tug the end of my braid. “It’s our thing.”
A giant lump in my throat makes it very difficult to say anything—or take a bite of one of the delicious-looking donuts. I could tell her right now. Tabitha, I have to tell you something. But I can’t make the words come out of my mouth. Because once they’re out, it will feel real.
“Hey,” she says, voice filled with concern. “You okay?”
I nod quickly, taking a big sip of my hot chocolate to avoid speaking, but an unexpected sting hits the back of my throat, making me choke.
“Did you … spike my hot chocolate?” I sputter in disbelief.
Grinning, she shrugs. “You’re old enough, it’s not that scandalous.”
I laugh. Now that I’m ready, the next sip goes down much easier before I trade my drink for the donut. The thread of easy conversation that’s been flowing for hours drops off, and suddenly all I can think about is what I haven’t told her.
When everything went down with my parents, they reluctantly agreed not to say anything to Tabitha.
After everything, they didn’t want to put that on me.
But it was too big a conversation to have over the phone, and I wanted to be the one to tell her in person.
My visit here was already planned, and honestly, I could use the space from my parents.
They warned me this would happen—that dreams don’t pan out in real life like they do in our heads.
I can’t let them watch me struggle to come to terms with the fact that they were right.
And if I hadn’t put myself out there like that, I would only be dealing with one crisis right now, instead of a total identity shift of everything I thought I was or would be.
I haven’t even been here a full day yet, but I’m already starting to feel better, like there’s a dividing line between Salem Stables and the rest of the world that lets everything outside this place …
melt away. I could tell Tabitha what I know now.
But what’s the harm in letting myself enjoy another day or two of these versions of Tabitha and me?
Unsure what to say next, I glance at the clock in the corner again, surprised to see the hands at quarter past eleven.
“Hey, is the clock broken?”
Tabitha grins like the Cheshire cat. “Nope. I finally managed to fix the damn thing so it wouldn’t bother me every freaking hour.”
“You’re kidding? No more chimes?”
She barks out a laugh. “Calling it chimes is far too generous. That thing sounds like a cupboard of pots and pans collapsing every sixty minutes. Or at least it did.”
Tabitha has hated the chime on that clock since she was a kid, but it was built by her great-great-grandfather, and when she inherited the farm from my grandparents, the clock came with it.
Even though she hates it, she’s too sentimental to part with something that’s been in the family for generations.
She’s always joked that she’ll pass it to her least favorite relative when she dies as a parting gift.
“How…?”
“Parker. That man can figure out just about anything, I swear.”
My smile fades. She seems so comfortable with him.
Based on the people she’s hired before, I’m not sure that’s smart.
He might be a whiz with a clock, but I still don’t trust him as far as I can throw him—and I’m not one for organized sports.
I’ve seen too many people take advantage of my aunt’s kind heart and generosity.
She has a soft spot for the nomads passing through town, the down-on-their-luck people looking to make easy cash before blowing right on through.
From one visit to the next, I’ve never met the same farmhand twice.
Besides, if he’s making her life as easy as she claims, why does she look so tired?
“Sorry, I didn’t realize how late it was,” I say before nudging her with my foot. “Isn’t it way past your bedtime?”
Mornings have always been her time. She loves being up before the rest of the world, at her most creative when the world hasn’t filled with noise yet.
Something passes over her face. “Not lately. If you don’t want this, I’ll have it,” she adds, reaching for my hot chocolate. “Who knows, maybe it’ll help.”
“You’re not sleeping?”
“It’s nothing.” She waves it away like an offhanded comment. “A lot on my mind lately, that’s all.”
Great, and I’m about to make it ten thousand times worse.
It’s enough to solidify my decision to wait a few days before I tell Tabitha what I know. Which means I should probably hold off on mentioning my extended stay …
She yawns, leaning back on the couch. “If I’d known how much work this farmer’s market committee would be, I never would have let Debbie talk me into it. Serves me right for letting her bully me into making new friends.”
I chuckle. “You have friends.”
“Thank you!” she shouts. “Can you please tell Debbie when she comes over for book club next week?”
“Will do. Need any help getting ready for it?” I may as well offer, since I’ve got no intentions of doing any of my own work tomorrow, and I’ve got nothing but time.
“No, but I may need a hand with dinner tomorrow. I’ve got another committee meeting in the afternoon.”
“I thought the market started on Thursday?”
She nods. “It did. Usually by now it’s self-sufficient, but based on last week’s turnout …
” she trails off, and I notice for the first time how tired she looks.
“Let’s just say last year’s poor attendance isn’t looking like a fluke anymore.
So, we decided to try something new for the final market of the year to make it special.
End with a bang, you know? Only problem is, it’s a little over six weeks away and we haven’t figured out what that is yet. ”
She laughs, but it’s not her typical breezy one.
Usually, my brain would already be filling with ideas, but instead, it stays strangely quiet.
I guess getting knocked down three times in the span of a week is enough to make me want to sit this one out.
Before I can say anything, she’s waving it all away.
“Here I am boring you when you probably want to get some sleep. You’ve had a long enough week, and you’re here to relax.”
I drop my gaze as the weight of everything I’m running away from catches up to me, crashing down hard enough to leave me breathless.
She sets down her mug. “Honey?”
“I did everything I was supposed to,” I mutter, partly to myself, finally letting myself admit everything I’ve been keeping to myself.
“I’m not a risk taker; everyone knows that.
I take the safe road, usually the one someone tells me to take.
I go with the flow, not against it. And that was fine.
I had a job, an apartment, and a boyfriend. I should have left well enough alone.”
“But were you happy?” she asks softly. “When you were playing it safe, when you had those things, were you truly happy?”
A vice tightens around my ribcage.
“I’ve always felt like something was missing. I’m sick of promoting other people’s businesses and helping everyone else make it big. The shop was different. It finally felt like I had … I don’t know. A purpose. Something to offer.”
I finally look up and her soft eyes offer the sympathy I didn’t know I needed.
“Then playing it safe isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”