Chapter 15
When Tabitha suggested I use the hayloft, I had imagined an ample, airy space with high ceilings and exposed beams, ready to be strung with lights after a bit of sweeping and light cobweb removal.
She mentioned it would need a cleanup, but I figured it was nothing I couldn’t tackle in an afternoon with my elbow grease and a few podcasts to keep me company.
I turn in a slow circle, taking it in little by little.
I’m afraid to look at everything at once.
I might panic and run for the hills, never to return, because the space that I’m supposed to be hosting a chic bachelorette party in this weekend is currently set up for the most traditional use of a hay loft.
In that it’s full of hay.
It’s the calm before the storm. I am ten seconds away from a mental breakdown.
“Sloan? Sloan. You look like you’re going to pass out,” Parker says. “Or puke.”
“Yup,” I croak, taking in the visual before me, blinking to make sure I’m seeing this right.
“Which is it?” Parker demands. “I’d prefer to be prepared, if that’s alright with you.”
“I’ll be honest, either one seems entirely possible.”
“If you’re worried about floor space, we can push the hay to the sides.”
The hay is piled high, but it’s not filling the room to the brim. Half, maybe. But that’s the least of my worries.
“What if one of them is allergic to hay?!”
“Well, then they’re morons for organizing a party in a barn,” Parker shoots back.
I take a deep breath. If I’m going to do this, I can’t be getting emotional at every turn. I don’t have time for a five-minute wallow, not with this behemoth of a problem on my hands. “You don’t understand. Aesthetics are everything. These women don’t want a barn. They want rustic chic.”
“Rustic what?”
With another sigh, trying to check my brimming impatience, I tug my phone from the back pocket of my jeans and pull up Instagram.
With one quick search, I’ve found what I’m looking for.
I hand him the phone, moving so I can see the screen too, as he scrolls through.
The feed is one photo after another of barns turned into wedding venues, twinkle lights wrapping around exposed beams in the rafters, antique shovels painted in pastels, artfully arranged in corners, and—most importantly—not a single piece of hay.
“None of these places look like they’ve seen a live animal in years.”
“Exactly.”
He looks at me like I’m insane, then squints at the screen again, forehead creased.
It’s the same expression Caleb had when I told him about mine and Lyla’s business—doubt.
I pluck my phone from his fingers and shove it in my pocket, doing the same with the emotions threatening to swell and spill over.
“Sloan—”
“I can’t deal with this right now,” I say, my voice unsteady. Focus on what you can control. “I have to get to the stores before they close. Thank you for your truck; I’ll have it back by seven, like you said.”
“What about the hayloft?” he calls after me.
I don’t look back as I start descending the stairs, at the years of cobwebs caking every nook and cranny, or at him. “I’ll figure it out tomorrow.”
What other choice do I have? Lyla’s not here. I’ll either succeed or fail at this, but one thing is suddenly crystal clear to me.
No matter what the outcome is, I’m in this alone.
Not long after I abruptly left Parker in the barn, I realized how badly I was spiraling. I threw myself into the shopping trip with singular focus, methodically working my way through my list, compartmentalizing like the best of them—and that’s when I realized: I can do this.
Caleb doubted me because of his own fears of inadequacy, and somewhere along the way, I absorbed that doubt like it was my own.
My jump without a parachute, as he so lovingly called it.
I wish he wasn’t, but Caleb’s been in my head since I posted that stupid picture on Instagram to get back at him for his post. He thought I needed to focus more on building my brand before we opened our doors, and I think that fueled my doubt that we were moving too quickly.
But Lyla had been hesitating too, and if I hadn’t urged us forward, we never would have taken the leap from talking about it to doing it.
I realize now that it wasn’t about me, at least not entirely.
Caleb is pragmatic to the point of pessimism; he wasn’t holding me back on purpose—he was scared for me, the same way he is scared to start his podcast. If he isn’t, he would have done it already—and if his Instagram profile is anything to go by, which it is—he hasn’t.
I don’t want to be like that. Not anymore.
Being so pessimistic lately, I hardly recognized myself.
Until I started planning for this event, I didn’t even realize how unlike myself I’ve been feeling.
Not until Parker reminded me that I’m more in control of things than I thought.
Getting into organizing mode has been the closest to me (pre-disaster me, that is) that I’ve felt, and although spiraling in self-pity would be the easy thing to do, it’s not going to help me accomplish anything.
So, instead, I’m pulling up my socks, doubling down.
I might be doing this alone now, but maybe I have to get used to that.
I’m not as connected to my family as I once thought, my best friend has other priorities, and Tabitha may start to pull back after I tell her the truth.
Instead of relying on others to help me, maybe it’s time for me to start leaning on myself, which is why I’m taking Parker’s advice and going for it.
I spend the afternoon at the big craft store in the next town over, picking out all the supplies I’ll need, then make a trip to the hardware store for some more essentials like folding tables and chairs, some string lights, and anything else I can find to jazz up the hayloft.
There’s just one thing I wish I didn’t have to do: return Parker’s car keys. After the way he treated me earlier, I’m not in a hurry to see him again, but I told him he’d have his truck back by seven.
I’ve stalled for as long as possible since returning to Salem Stables, taking over the living room with the art supplies littering every surface.
“Looks like everything’s coming together,” Tabitha says, stepping into the room. “Ready for a break? We have plenty of leftovers for dinner if you’re hungry. I’m starved.”
My aching back pops when I stand. I groan and stretch side to side to work out the kinks from sitting on the hard floor. “Let me wash up first. If Parker comes in, I left his keys on the kitchen counter.” My voice doesn’t squeak at all when mentioning his name. Not one bit.
She peers through the window towards the barn. “It looks like he’s still at it. He won’t quit, either. Not until he’s done. He can never leave anything half finished, that one.”
“Still at what?”
“Emptying the hayloft.”
“He’s what?!”
Tabitha jumps, then slides out of the way as I barrel towards the window. Sure enough, in the dimming light, one hay bale after another comes tumbling out of the hayloft onto the driveway below.
Toss, thump.
Toss, thump.
Toss, thump.
The same guy who bit my head off earlier because he had ‘things to do’ dropped everything to help me, without my even knowing.
I scramble away from the window. Kicking myself for putting off facing him, I call over my shoulder as I pound upstairs for Tabitha to eat without me.
I’ve been home for almost an hour, and instead of helping him fix my problem, I’ve been hiding out in the house. I need to get out there and help.
There’s just one thing I have to do first.