Chapter 10 Leith
Leith
It had been a couple of days since I’d gone to Toades on Monday to see Clarke and try to get her to fake date me. Obviously, it didn’t go great. Still, for some reason, I didn’t think it was over for me yet.
Clarke was logical—not impulsive. She liked to think things through. It took her ten minutes to decide what she wanted from the bar vending machine—and it only had three options. So I was holding on to hope, at least for a little longer. I mean, I had to. As of now, this was my Plan A through Z.
Clarke had said she knew what it was like to have a legacy and something to care for, but I didn’t really.
I didn’t care about the farm the same way Clarke cared about Toades.
She had a stake in Toades, ownership, even.
I didn’t feel that. Even though my dad had been gone for five years, I didn’t feel like the farm was mine.
But that didn’t mean I wanted Flynn to have it.
He didn’t even know what season to grow potatoes, let alone how to run an entire farm.
And even if he did know what he was doing, I couldn’t see him keeping it.
He’d sell it as soon as he got the chance—make a mountain of money and kill Sweetwater Peak as we knew it.
Shit like that was happening all over the country. Farmers couldn’t afford to farm, so they were pushed into selling their land, and whoever bought it killed the farm. It was harder for a farm like ours that was slowly trying to transition to regenerative farming to stay afloat.
Even though one farm going out of business might not seem like a huge missing link in the chain, it was, and it often felt like we were heading toward a shit ton of missing links.
Most people don’t question how the produce gets to their grocery store.
Obviously, they know someone farms it, a bunch of other logistical stuff happens, and it ends up in their shopping cart, then in their fruit baskets, and finally on top of their yogurt.
But the farming supply chain is endlessly and intimately complicated.
Produce often goes across state lines, across borders, and across oceans.
In Sweetwater Peak, the path from the farm to someone else’s table is a little less complicated, but it’s still part of a precarious system.
The produce consumed is mostly local. We’re lucky that we have such incredible resources, considering Sweetwater Peak is deeply remote and rural.
But we’re unlucky for the same reason. If the Wilkes Farm were to collapse, so would those resources, and so would the town.
But not all our produce stays at home here in Wyoming either. Some of it makes its way to other states. If you take us out of that equation, no one would notice immediately. Maybe corn just gets a cent or two more expensive.
Until another small-town farm who contributes to that supply gets sold or goes under, and then another, and another. And then corn is fifty cents more expensive.
And then, three years later, it’s always sold out.
The reality of farms collapsing—both small and big—means that we will inevitably run out of food to eat.
And because I’m not a piece of shit like Flynn, I care about people having access to their basic needs. That was the part of farming that I was passionate about.
I loved being a farmer. But I hated owning a farm.
Farming was really all I knew how to do, but I also don’t think my dad taught me enough to actually run the farm.
Or maybe I didn’t let him.
Everyone in Sweetwater Peak loved Wilder. But to me, he was kind of a hard-ass. During the growing season, I could go months at a time barely seeing him. And I think I resented him for that, which slowly seeped into our relationship.
Yet, I still felt like I needed to impress him or make him proud. And the way to do that was to keep the farm away from Flynn.
I blew warm air into my hands while I walked up the path to my mom’s house. She wasn’t there, but I knew Lainey was, and I couldn’t make the sixteen-year-old fend for herself for dinner when I knew she’d probably just eat crap.
“Hey, loser,” I said when I opened the front door. Lainey was lying on the couch with her legs draped over the back of it and her nose in a paperback.
“Hey, weirdo,” she said without looking away from her book. I snatched it out of her hand. “Hey!”
“What are we reading?” I asked as I looked at the cover. “Animal Farm. Good one,” I said with a nod. “Are you reading this for fun?”
“I read everything for fun,” Lainey said. “But we’re also reading it in English right now.” She loved books and was smart as fuck too. Lainey didn’t need to copy anyone’s math homework—that was for sure.
I worried about her sometimes, though—that maybe she was too self-sufficient.
“What do you want for dinner?” I asked. “And don’t say dino nuggets, or this paperback is going right into the side of your head.”
“Your vendetta against dino nuggets is so aggressive. And why just dino nuggets? You like regular chicken nuggets just fine.”
“Because I respect the dinosaurs, and when the shoddy science in Jurassic Park eventually becomes possible, the first people the velociraptors are coming for are the ones who eat dino nuggets.”
“You are the weirdest person I know.”
“That would hit me harder if you knew more people, Delainey.” I handed Animal Farm back to her. “Breakfast for dinner?” Lainey nodded.
I felt my phone buzz with a text.
Clarke: We need to talk.
Lainey said something else, but her voice sounded far away as I reread the message and decided what to send back.
Leith: Have you had dinner yet?
The three dots that indicated Clarke typing showed up and disappeared a few times. I could nearly sense her indecision. Maybe I needed to be a little more direct.
Leith: Come to the house. We can talk here.
The three dots appeared and disappeared again.
Clarke: Okay. Be there soon.
I sighed with relief. “How do you feel about a dinner guest?” I asked Lainey.
She shrugged. “Who?”
“Clarke Cartwright.”
Lainey dog-eared the page she was reading and set the book down. “I heard some teachers gossiping about the two of you today.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Ms. Hofstadt and Ms. Baker,” Lainey said. “And one of them had Sweetwater Peakers up on her computer afterward.” That stupid site was truly the gift that kept on giving. “So are you two, like, a thing?”
“Guess you’re about to find out,” I said as I headed into the kitchen to start cooking. I couldn’t help the grin that stretched across my face.
* * *
There was a knock at the door around twenty minutes later. “Lainey,” I called. “Can you get that, please?” I was having a situation with the bacon fat right now. “Lainey!” I called again.
“I’ve got it, geez!” she yelled back. After that I heard the door open, and Clarke’s surprised voice.
“Oh,” she said. “Hi, Lainey. How are you?”
“Good,” Lainey said. “Leith is in the kitchen. Tell me, please: What do you see in him anyway?” That little shit.
“Not a lot,” Clarke said. “He’s got great hair, though.” She liked my hair? Or was she just saying that?
“So what’s on his head makes up for the lack of substance inside of it?”
Thanks, Lainey. Thanks a whole lot. It made Clarke laugh, though. It was probably a good strategy to let Lainey soften her up for me.
“Something like that,” Clarke said. Her voice was closer now. “Hey,” she said when she got to the kitchen doorway.
“Hey,” I said over my shoulder. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
“I, um, didn’t realize this was like a family affair,” Clarke said. She sounded nervous.
“My mom’s at bowling league tonight,” I said. “And Lainey isn’t great at fending for herself when it comes to meals.” I liked cooking for her, though. It made me feel like I could still take care of her in some way even though she was so independent. “We can talk at my place after dinner?”
Clarke looked unsure. And pretty. Her long, dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she was wearing a slim-fitting light blue long sleeve.
The color looked great on her. I’d always known Clarke was pretty, obviously, but she seemed to get even more so with time.
“Sure,” she said after a minute. “Where’s Bill? ”
“Terrorizing the horses or getting terrorized by the chickens, probably.” Bill was a good farm dog.
He was no livestock guardian—we had other dogs for that, but he loved to roam and find his way back home.
Maybe I should’ve called him after I called Clarke.
She liked him more than me. Between him and Lainey, maybe I could get Clarke to like me… for real.
We were quiet for a few beats. “It smells good,” she said. “Do you, um, need any help?”
“Can you grab some plates for me? They’re in the cabinet above the sink.” Clarke nodded. “Lainey, dinner’s ready!”
The three of us each got a plate and started dishing food directly from the stove. I’d made scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns, and toast. Lainey doused her entire plate in homemade chili oil from the farmers’ market, and I was surprised when Clarke did the same.
We sat down around my mom’s cozy kitchen table.
The lighting above it was soft and yellow.
I noticed the gold flecks in Clarke’s eyes again—just like in the bar.
Without thinking, I bumped my knee with hers under the table.
Her eyes flicked to mine and then to her plate.
It looked like a blush was creeping its way up her cheeks. I grinned.
“What’s on these?” Clarke asked after taking a bite of her eggs.
“One of the farmhands’ wives makes infused salts,” Lainey answered for me. “Leith likes the breakfast one.”
“It’s infused with bacon, and whiskey, and maple syrup, I think,” I said.
“I’ve seen those at the farmers’ market.” Clarke nodded. “It’s good.”
“I’m surprised you can still taste it underneath all the spice,” I said.
“I have a refined palette,” Clarke said. “And I just like things that taste good.”
“Lainey, did you just hear what I heard?” I asked. “A compliment from Clarke Cartwright?”
“Shut up, Leith,” both Lainey and Clarke said simultaneously.
“And technically, I was complimenting the salt,” Clarke followed up.
During dinner, we mostly talked about what Lainey was doing in school—including the books that were on her English syllabus, and the ones she wanted to read for fun. Turns out, they both really liked vampire shit.
“Seriously,” Clarke said. “You’ll be changed by Fledgling.”
“Do you know if the library has it?” Lainey asked hopefully. We had a small bookstore in town, but its selection of anything other than westerns and fishing guides was pretty abysmal.
“I don’t think so, but you can borrow mine,” Clarke said. “And I’ll bring you Carmilla, too—published like twenty-five years before Dracula and the total antithesis of it—lush and soft. I think I read it for the first time around your age.”
* * *
“Clarke and I are going to go back to my place,” I said to Lainey after dinner, as I took Clarke’s hand.
Lainey made a face.
“No, not like that,” Clarke offered up quickly. “We’re just talking. We have some stuff to discuss.” She sounded panicked, which was adorable to me, the fact that she cared what my sixteen-year-old cousin thought about her.
“Let’s go, honey.” I tacked the nickname on sarcastically. “We’ve got a lot to cover—or uncover—tonight.”
The dirty look Clarke gave me could’ve withered an entire field of crops.
I loved it.
“You going to be good until Mom gets home?” I asked Lainey.
“I’m sixteen—not six,” she responded.
“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Call if you need anything.”
“Oh my god.” Clarke pulled her hand away from mine as soon as the front door shut. “Now your cousin is going to think that we’re having…sex.” She whispered the last word.
“I can assure you, she doesn’t care,” I said. “And what’s a little coitus between two consenting adults?”
Clarke pulled a face again, and I had to stifle my laugh. “Well, I care,” she said. We fell into step side by side, but she kept her arms folded. I didn’t know why that disappointed me—why I wanted the back of my hand to brush against hers as we walked.
Clarke let out a “hmph” before asking, “Where do you even live?”
“A converted tack shed—just down the path,” I said.
“Did Collins take that picture of your dad in the living room?” she asked then, changing the subject.
“Yeah, she did,” I told her. Collins took a film portrait of my dad for art class in high school.
It captured him better than my own two eyes.
It gave my mom a lot of comfort after he died—the fact that we could remember him so clearly, down to the toothpick he always slid between the slight gap in his front teeth.
“It’s a good picture,” Clarke said. “She’s good at that—making moments last.” I waited for her to say more, but she fell silent. Before I could ask her why she was here, she finally spoke again: “I’ll do it, I’ll fake the dating thing with you.”