Chapter 22
ZACH
“Why is there so much stuff?” Zach grumbled, trying to untangle a string of fairy lights. “It’s a barbecue, not a parade.”
Mara snorted. “It’s Mom’s favorite holiday.
We don’t even have this many Christmas decorations.
” Red, white, and blue bunting trailed behind her as she methodically taped it around the edges of a large folding table already piled with at least ten packages of burger buns and a truly impressive mountain of family-sized bags of chips.
“I guess late-stage capitalism is the true American vibe.” Zach laughed at Mara’s mock gasp. After fiddling with the lights for a bit, he gave up and reached into the scuffed-up cardboard box to pull out a heavy wooden Welcome sign with stars and hearts. “Do we really need this?”
“Of course we do. We here in Montana are very welcoming. How do they celebrate in Portland? Does everyone bike downtown to watch ethically-sourced fireworks?”
“No clue.” Zach shrugged, carefully setting the sign aside and rummaging through the remaining decorations for something he’d know what to do with. “I’m always here for the summer. I assume it’s the same thing, but with better beer and more vegetarian options.”
When he thought he’d be staying in Portland, the plan had been to hit up a campus barbecue in between doing homework.
Being home was infinitely better. There was something comforting about these familiar annual traditions, even if this year he’d been saddled with hours of setup.
At least Mara had volunteered to help, unlike Jerry and Abe, who took one look at the stack of boxes and disappeared.
It would have been nice if Miles could join him, but he had a long list of chores to finish before the party.
Farm life didn’t pause for special occasions.
That was one thing Zach definitely didn’t miss. He liked weekends and holidays, appreciated having scheduled time off and breathing room. Trying to puzzle out where to hang a chaotic assortment of American flags in every size was still better than getting a sunburn out in the fields.
It wasn’t that he hated farmwork in principle.
At least not all of it. Large-scale operations, like planting and harvesting wheat, were exhausting, but he enjoyed the more hands-on activities, like working with animals or tending vegetables.
There was a meditative quality to kneeling in the dirt, using his hands to clear out stubborn weeds, giving the fragile seedlings a chance to flourish.
He’d happily do that all day, every day, if that was all farm life entailed.
Unfortunately, farming also meant the constant, headache-inducing drone of heavy machinery, the tang of diesel and pesticides in the air, the heavy water hoses, the constant nicks and scrapes all over his hands. All of that, he was more than happy to leave behind.
He grimaced at his thoughts. A leaden balloon of guilt pressed against his ribs, expanding by the hour. His flight was tomorrow morning, less than a day away, and he still hadn’t talked to his parents about his plans.
Maybe he could leave it until winter break. They didn’t have to know right now. It wasn’t like they had to plan for his absence—his contributions to the workload could be easily covered by a part-time farmhand.
Still, the weight of his secrets was suffocating.
“I’m gonna go wrap stuff in the front.” Mara gathered up an armful of something that looked suspiciously like tinsel and disappeared around the side of the house.
Now, Zach was alone, left holding a giant banner of an eagle in a sea of stars.
What on earth was he supposed to do with that?
He carried it to the nearest tree and tied it to a low branch, stepping back to appreciate the view.
Somehow, their boring yard had been transformed into a surprisingly festive venue fit for the neighborhood celebration.
Once darkness fell and the twinkle lights Mara had untangled were on, this place would be positively cozy.
If only the sun would hurry up and start setting already. It had been beating down all morning, leaving him a sticky, overheated mess. Thankfully, there was plenty of time for a shower before people started showing up.
He dragged a hand up the back of his neck, wishing for a breeze to cool him down. Growing out his hair had been a slow process, and he loved the look, but as the damp strands stuck to sweaty skin and refused to lift, he wished he had a shaved head. Or a hair clip.
A sharp exhale came from behind, and Zach glanced back to find Miles balancing several large Tupperware containers in his arms.
“Struck speechless by my enviable exterior design skills?” Zach smirked, sauntering over to grab a few of the tubs full of cookies. He set them on one of the tables, barely resisting the urge to dig in. “I call it freedom chic.”
When Miles didn’t chuckle, Zach eyed him with confusion. He was still in the same spot, frozen, his features arranged in a strange expression Zach didn’t recognize. Right then, Zach’s mom popped out of a window and hollered at him to come help in the kitchen.
“Ugh, gotta see what she wants,” Zach grumbled. “How—and, more importantly, why—does your family do this every year? It’s fucking exhausting.”
Miles’s lips curled at the corners, and he released a long breath.
“Yeah.”
Zach wished he could stay and talk, ask Miles why he was being weird, touch him and kiss him, but they were in broad daylight, and his mother was seconds away from poking her head out to summon him again.
He settled for clapping Miles on the back—a casual gesture that wouldn’t raise any eyebrows—and let his hand linger on the warm cotton of his shirt. “See you in a couple of hours?”
Miles nodded mutely, and Zach jogged up to the house.
Something was definitely off.
As much as he tried not to speculate, he couldn’t help mulling it over while dragging out and filling up every cooler they owned.
Between the two of them, he was the awkward one—not Miles.
Miles was never at a loss for words. If Zach had to guess, his looming departure had something to do with it.
After a rollercoaster of a week—had it really been only a week?
—their chapter was closing. They hadn’t talked about what came next, but only because there wasn’t much to discuss.
There was no future for them. Zach knew it, and Miles had to have come to the same conclusion, despite what he might have felt.
Zach was pretty sure Miles had been on the verge of saying something big in the shed before he cut him off, which was precisely why he’d done it. Nothing good could come from letting those words out into the world. Once spoken, they would only make the inevitable harder to face.
They’d been on borrowed time from the start. No matter how fiercely Zach longed for it, no matter what hope Miles had in his heart, nothing could ever come of their illicit affair. They were destined for different worlds, and the best—the only—thing they could do was to accept it.
The alternative made Zach’s stomach seize with dread.
Miles was pure. Honest. He loved Zach, cared for him in ways Zach couldn’t fully measure and wasn’t sure he deserved.
And there was the chilling possibility that he would ruin his entire life for Zach’s sake, whether by accident or by being too honest.
Zach couldn’t let that happen.
“Almost done?” His dad stood in the doorway, watching him work.
“Getting there.” Zach ripped open another bag of ice and poured it into one of the coolers. “Did you buy out the entire beer section of the store?”
Walter chortled. “Damn near did. Probably would have if half the cans didn’t have that rainbow shit on them. Don’t know what they’re thinking, selling that here.”
Zach folded the empty bag and set it aside before reaching for the next one. He didn’t dare respond. What could he say anyway? If his dad thought that Pride-themed packaging somehow tainted the liquid inside, he was beyond listening to reason.
“Leave the coolers here when you’re done. It’s too hot outside. Jerry’ll haul ’em out when folks show up.”
After laying out the instructions, his dad thudded off, vibrating the floor with his footsteps until the back door clanged shut.
The conversation, if he could call it that, left a foul taste in Zach’s mouth.
Struggling to keep his breathing even, he methodically emptied the rest of the cases, then broke down the boxes.
Going back to the coolers, he neatly arranged the cans in the bed of ice, making sure every label faced out.
By the time he was out of things to do, the prickling sensation of tears burning the backs of his eyes hadn’t disappeared.
A friendly face, a kind word—that was what he needed right now.
Miles wasn’t around, and Zach needed to stop relying on him so much anyway, so he settled for second best. After snapping a picture of the open coolers, he sent it to Joel, a self-proclaimed beer snob.
It didn’t take long to receive a string of crying emojis in return.
ZACH: Believe it or not, it’s an improvement from last year. The choice between regular and light is almost overwhelming.
JOEL: I didn’t know beer came in cans.
ZACH: Middle America has a lot it can teach you.
JOEL: I’ll pass.
Zach grinned and shoved his phone back in his pocket. The lighthearted exchange did its job. He felt a little better, buoyed by the knowledge that there was a place for him out there. Somewhere he was accepted by people who didn’t have to risk everything to be his friend.
Having successfully avoided a breakdown, he shut the lids and went into the kitchen, where his mom was furiously chopping celery.
“I’m done with the drinks. What’s next?”
She waved him away. “You’ve done plenty, hon. Your brothers can finish up. You go on upstairs and take a break.”
This was music to Zach’s ears. He rushed upstairs before she changed her mind and flopped on top of the covers, too overheated to do anything else.