Chapter 25
Mom's hand comes to rest on my head, the comforting weight a gentle pressure as she reaches over me to set down a platter with leftovers from the farmer's market stand.
“For my hard-working men.” She smiles and ruffles my hair.
I tip my head back to smile at her, then take in the goodies on the plate.
There’s cherry pie, sweet rolls with cherries folded in, cinnamon rolls, and two chocolate muffins with smudged frosting.
Overwhelmed by everything cherry, I pick one of the cinnamon rolls, though I set my plate aside for now.
Most of my attention is on the sheets in front of me.
Over the past hour, I've tried to wrap my head around the aspects of the harvest and everything that needs to be done afterward.
A farm always plans for the next year before this one is over. I can almost hear granddad say it.
Dad spread his work all over the dining table half a minute after I sat down with a cup of coffee. I had intended to only take a short break from studying, but now there was no way to sneak back to my room before all this was talked over to Dad's content.
The baked goods now barely make up for the hour I've spent staring at numbers in neat rows in endless columns.
However, when I take a distracted bite of the consolation-cinnamon roll, its softness takes me by surprise. It's perfectly chewy, even if it must have been standing out all day, the cinnamon just sweet enough without overpowering the nutty notes of the filling.
“Oh wow, these are great!” I say, halfway through my second bite.
“Micah helped me make them this morning,” Mom singsongs, suspiciously chipper.
“Ah, of course. He cooks and bakes at the Nook, too.” I hesitate, but Bonham hasn't come up in conversation until now, so I figure it can't hurt to share a little bit about my life there. “It's always really good.”
“Really? Maybe I should ask him for some recipes so I can make them for him next time.”
“Mom, there won’t be a next time. Micah's graduating in the spring and will probably join the NFL after. He won't have time to come cherry picking for us.” Nor would he want to, I'm sure.
“Probably doesn’t mean certainly,” Mom says, weighing her head.
“Who wouldn’t want a pro-athlete career? Besides”—I shake my head—“Micah worked so hard for that.”
He’d never ruin his chances because of someone like me.
No.
This is a one-time thing while we're both expanding our extra-extracurriculars. It’ll end by September. After that, he's free to get with cheerleader Mia and whoever they picked for their adventures. And after that, I'm sure an NFL tight end won't have to worry about an empty bed.
Mom sighs, but she isn’t admitting defeat just yet. “Oh, I know, I know, but you're still friends, aren't you?”
There it is, that dreaded emphasis.
“Mom,” I start, but she raises her brows, smiling that infuriating mother-knows-best smile.
“Lind, please, I've seen the way you two look at each other. You're so sweet together. And he’s very handsome!”
“Mom!”
“Now you're making me worry, honey,” Dad chimes in, though he's not lowering the little booklet from which he was dictating numbers to me, balancing a forkful of pie to his mouth.
“Oh, you're ridiculous.” Mom waves him off, then looks at me again, her brows still raised, even if she smiles at me, clearly intending to tease. “Now, why are you fibbing to your mother?”
I'm not in the mood to play this family game. Instead, I pick the rest of my cinnamon roll apart, layer by layer, until it becomes clear that she won’t let off without an answer. I take a deep breath, wishing I had just stayed silent.
“We're not even dating. It's nothing serious. Just like a…a summer fling.” I cringe at myself. This isn’t the kind of topic I thought I'd be discussing with my parents. Ever.
“Oh…well, that's also good! And who knows what will happen after summer.” Mom picks a few crumbs off the serving plate. “Summer can turn into fall, then winter…”
“Not this.”
“Obviously it won’t hold.” Dad surprises me by joining the conversation again.
“That boy’s going to be jetting all over the country with his football club.
” He makes a dismissive gesture with his fork, then spears it into his slice of pie.
“How’d they make that work when Lind’s here? Besides…” He pauses to chew.
My jaw aches from how hard I’m gritting my teeth.
“We’ll be doing the hard work while the football stars are throwing those parties you hear about on the news, some pretty girl—or boy—trying to turn his hea—”
“Why do I have to be the one who's stuck here?” The question claws its way up my throat and forces its way through my teeth. But it's the silence that follows that cuts through me.
I can feel my parents’ eyes bore into my face, yet I’m unable to move or look at either of them. The cinnamon roll is burning in my stomach like I swallowed a cup of lava.
“Where’d you be? Can’t exactly mind a farm from across the country,” Dad rumbles, a hint of amusement swinging in his voice. It’s just that ridiculous, that unfathomable to him, that I could want anything other than to stay and continue with life exactly as he has planned for me.
I’m a match, and my father just struck me against the side of the box, igniting me.
“I won’t be minding the farm. I won’t be minding anything!
” I hiss, suddenly on my feet. “I’m going to become a vet.
I don’t want—” My voice gives out under the weight of my anger.
I can only gesture at the table that’s buried under papers and tables and plans that I want no part of.
They’ve been growing over my head like weeds, smothering me. “I don’t want any of this!”
“What are you saying? This life’s not good enough all of a sudden?!” Dad’s voice rises, drowning out my mother’s quiet “Linden?”
“That’s not what I’m saying!” I stubbornly clench my fingers into fists. “It’s just not who I am! You told me how it’s gonna be and then expected me to go along with it!”
“This is our home! Your grandfather and I—”
“I don’t want it! I never did!” I don’t know when we both started shouting, but my voice hurts my ears. “I’ll be stuck here doing what you can’t anymore instead of getting to do what I want!”
“But this is the plan! You can’t just—”
“I don't even feel like your son anymore! You treat me like I'm your business partner, Dad. Everything we talk about is this fucking farm. It's—I can't do it!” I erupt, almost stumbling backward over my chair in my hurry to get away from the table.
“What the—you sit down and talk about this! Linden!” my father thunders behind me, but I’m already halfway down the hall, turning like I’m on rails.
“No, Brandon, let him go.” Mom’s voice is a distant echo just before the door slams closed behind me.
My head and heart pound in alternation as I burst into my room. The sudden entrance causes a flurry of movement as an orange fluffball triples in size on Micah’s chest. Arching his back and swishing his fluffy tail, Owen hisses at me.
I don’t pay the annoyed cat any attention; instead, I start slamming my books closed where they’re littered across the desk.
If only I could have gotten back to them instead of getting trapped downstairs, locked into that conversation.
Gritting my teeth, I stuff them all into my backpack without bothering to mark the open pages.
“What—what’s going on?” Micah sits up on my bed, staring at me.
My throat feels tied shut, so I just shake my head.
After my books, I start collecting the clothes that are lying about, uncaring whether I’m grabbing mine or Micah’s. I just keep cramming them into my duffel bag, hissing in annoyance when a piece of clothing resists me.
“Hey.” Micah holds the other sleeve of the hoodie I wore on the Fourth of July. He’s frowning, watching me closely.
I let go of the hoodie and pick things out of the hamper, uncaring that I’ll have to toss everything into the washing machine as soon as we’re home. Halfway across the room, I’m stopped by two hands grabbing my shoulders.
“Linden.” Micah’s voice is quiet, serious. His eyes search my face, but refuse to look at him, even as he squeezes my arms.
“C’mon, what’s wrong?” he asks when I still don’t say anything.
My jaw is working, but it feels more like I’m chewing up the words, turning them into mush. I pull myself free of his grip, holding the bag tightly.
“Get your stuff.” I turn toward the door. My whole body feels stiff, as if I were turning into a statue. “We’re leaving.”