Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Jake
THE STRAWBERRY FIELD stretches in front of me, five acres of low green plants and pink-tinted berries beginning to swell under spring sunlight.
In one hand, I hold a five-gallon sprayer. In the other, a hoe. Hattie sits beside me, her ears up, tail wagging, eyes full of her usual question: What are we doing next?
“Come on, girl,” I say. “Let’s get to it.”
Today I’m spraying the berry vines. The mix is organic and non-toxic—citronella-based, pleasant-smelling, and designed to deter the insects eager to burrow into the fruit just as it ripens. It’s been my goal from the start: create a safe, chemical-free farming environment.
It’s never made sense to me to spray food with chemicals that not only kill bugs who might be trying to find a meal on the plants but also do undeniable harm to the people who end up eating the berries.
I walk between the vines, spraying left, then right.
The process will take most of the morning, but I consider it well worth the effort.
Hattie trots ahead, occasionally shaking her head at the fly that keeps landing between her ears. I move slowly down the rows. When I spot a weed, I stop and take the hoe to its roots.
It’s quiet work. Steadying. The berries should fully ripen in another few weeks. If we’re lucky and the weather holds.
It’s been a mild spring. It’s been a gift to have something to do outdoors. To keep moving. To breathe.
I reach the end of the row, and there’s nothing left to keep my thoughts from going where they’ve been trying to go all morning.
Sawyer.
I tried to keep her out of my head, but now I let her in.
Seeing her yesterday had rattled me more than I wanted to admit. I’d gone to Carl’s to grab a few things, and she was the last person I expected to see.
She’d looked up and recognized me, and for a moment, I saw her emotions flash wide across her face before she locked them down.
I’ll admit it. Curiosity got the better of me long before yesterday. I’d looked her up once or twice. Social media. A few photos: beach trips, running races, a clean white coat and confident smile. She looked strong. Alive. The Sawyer I remembered, only more herself.
But the woman I saw yesterday…
That wasn’t the Sawyer I remembered.
She looked thinner than she should be. Pale. Her hair hung limp around her shoulders, like it hadn’t been washed in a few days. But it was her eyes that stayed with me.
Haunted.
Like she’d seen something too awful to speak of—and hadn’t yet found a way to live with it.
I know her parents died last year. Maybe that’s it.
But I wonder if there’s more.
I thought about sending a card. But the bridge between Sawyer and me is long and cracked, and I didn’t know how to cross it.
That summer, we were young. Naive in every way that matters. We thought the future was ours to shape. I never imagined the life I have now. I doubt she imagined hers would lead to whatever weight I saw in her yesterday.
The age difference scared me back then. Two years is nothing now, but when you’re seventeen and she’s just turned fifteen, it might as well be a canyon. Still, the connection was there. Real. Immediate.
Too real.
Tommy had no idea what he introduced when he brought me into his world. He never imagined a spark would form between his best friend and his little sister.
And I never acted on it.
But I thought about it.
And maybe that’s enough to taint it in hindsight.
I hoe a weed too aggressively, slicing through the soil. Hattie glances at me, ears twitching. She picks up on the shift in my mood. She always does.
“It’s all right,” I murmur, softening my voice. She relaxes, wagging her tail once before continuing on ahead.
I wish people were as forgiving as dogs. As simple. The world would be a better place for it.
It’s been a long time since I wanted anything more than what I have here. This life, quiet, self-contained, private, suits me. There’s no one looking at me with questions in their eyes. No one wondering if the rumors were true.
I know what people see when they look me up online.
And no matter what I say, doubt will always linger.
Because that’s the world now.
The louder story wins.
The news tells its social media-polished version with a smile, then moves on to the next wreckage. They don’t look back to see what’s been left behind.
I could be bitter.
And some days, I am.
But I refused to let bitterness consume me. That was the one piece of ground I could still claim. I built this life out of what remained. And for the most part, it’s enough.
I finish the last row, drop the sprayer, and wipe sweat from my brow with my sleeve. The sun is strong today, the first full-sun day in a week.
Sawyer drifts back into my mind.
I wonder how long she’ll be here. Whether I’ll see her again.
I assume not. That’s probably best.
A horn sounds at the top of the driveway. Hattie barks, tail up, ears forward.
The UPS truck rumbles in, dust blooming behind it. The driver—brown mask, quick wave—jumps down with a package and places it beneath the big oak tree. He returns with three more, shouts a cheerful have a good day, and rolls back down the drive.
And just like that, my human interaction for the day is over.
A pang hits, sharp and unexpected.
Loneliness. I haven’t felt it in so long that I almost don’t recognize it. The weight of it settles in my chest like humidity before a storm.
But I know where it came from.
Seeing Sawyer.
She’s from a time when I believed life might look different than it does now. A time when I still hoped for something more than solitude and land and the quiet company of a dog.
Regret nips at the edges of my thoughts.
Not for my choices.
But for what never had the chance to become anything at all.
I don’t know what Sawyer’s carrying, but I saw the weight in her.
And it didn’t look any lighter than mine.
There was something about her yesterday, something unspoken but undeniable.
Recognition of history. A quiet grief.
And I still see it in her. I feel the pull. The temptation to reach out.
But I don’t move.
Because I know better. I’ve lived long enough to understand that some things are best left alone.
I would rather she remember me as the boy who wanted her—but said no.
And not the man the world has told her I became.