4
I WAKE UP the next morning with a headache behind my eyes and a pull in my gut that’s the result of one too many gummy worms, and probably a hasty decision to force my best friend into a fake relationship. Can you have a
hangover from bad decisions?
It seems likely.
In the light of day, the decision feels like an unnecessary mistake. A boyfriend won’t make or break my chances at this cash prize. I don’t even know if Evelyn St. James read my full application, let alone the one place in the personal statement that I said I owned and operated the farm with my boyfriend.
Unless she did read it, my brain whispers. And you’re automatically disqualified for lying.
I’ve done my research. As soon as I heard about the contest, I scoured Evelyn’s feed. I looked for trends in her content, the type of businesses she liked to recommend. She always has a story to tell and she loves romance.
Her last three features were all love stories in their own way. The couple in Maine with their bed-and-breakfast. The lifelong best friends that operate historical boat cruises from their little jetty in South Carolina. The newlyweds that met on a blind date and decided to open their own winery. Maybe this time, for once, I want my story to be something different than a sad one. I dig my palms into my eyes and kick my legs out from my tangled blankets. I’m tired of being the sad one.
I think about Beckett and Layla. The stack of bills that are getting harder and harder to pay. I think of the wrought iron gate that welcomes you to the farm, the two giant red bows I put on it last year. I remember the day I was
given the keys, how the sound of the rusted chains slipping off the bars almost made me cry. I think about closing that gate and looping those chains back around the bars and almost want to cry for an entirely different reason.
I have to try. This is my best shot. Even if it sounds silly, it’s the story I want to tell for this place.
I want Evelyn St. James to see all the things that made me fall in love with this farm that first winter I visited with my mom. When I was sixteen years old and programmed to hate most things but fell in love with the wide-open space that smelled like balsam and orange slices and just a hint of cinnamon.
I want her to walk through the rows and rows of trees, just as the sun is setting, where it’s quiet enough to hear the way your boots crunch along the frozen ground. Where pine needles tangle in your hair and you feel like you’re the only person in the world. I want her to get a hot chocolate from Layla’s bakehouse, go ice-skating in the rink Beckett organized last winter, and watch the kids chase one another by the barn.
I want her to see the magic.
“I was kind of hoping you weren’t alone.”
It’s a testament to how deep in my thoughts I am that I don’t even flinch when Layla appears in the doorway of my bedroom, a navy blue beanie pulled down low over her head. Also, an indication that I should reassess who has a key to my place.
I frown at her, my head halfway under my pillow, legs hopelessly tangled in the sheets. It looks like I went ten rounds in this bed. “Who would be in here with me?”
She rolls her eyes and kicks off her shoes, climbing up with zero hesitation. There’s a rearrangement of limbs, an elbow in my solar plexus, and then Layla is curled next to me, her knees pressed into my hip. I love that she requires touch for most conversations, that she never hesitates to reaffirm with a quick cuddle. She pulls my fluffy duvet to right below her chin and
gives me a look.
“You know who.”
I blink at her. I have no idea. “Who?”
“I think it’s obvious I am referring to Luka.” She walks her fingertips up my arm and back down again. “I passed his mom’s house on the way here and saw his car in the driveway.”
“You saw his car at his mom’s place but assumed he was here with me?”
“I figured he doubled back.” She shrugs, burrowing down farther until I can only see her eyes. They’re green today, reflecting the color of the trees outside my bedroom window. Her voice emerges muffled from beneath my blankets. “I don’t know, he could have snuck out.”
“He’s a grown man. Why would he have to sneak out?”
She sighs. “I don’t know, Stella, let me sink into this fantasy. I’ve been rooting for you guys for as long as I’ve known you.”
That certainly explains all the slightly vulgar hand gestures she’s been making behind Luka’s back every time he joins us at the farm.
I frown. Layla notices and presses her pointer finger directly in the divot at the corner of my mouth. She pulls, attempting to force a smile on her own, and snorts when I make a grotesque face. Her lingering frustration melts.
“Did you ask him?”
I nod and pick at a loose thread on my duvet.
“And?”
“He said he’d do it,” I mumble into cotton, having slowly pulled the pillow fully over my face. Last night when I asked Luka, I was so fixated on him saying no that I didn’t consider the implications of him saying yes.
Pretend dating. We’ll have to pretend other things too. Pretend romance.
Pretend affection.
Does Luka realize? We didn’t really talk much last night after our dinner conversation. I was pretty aggressively against discussing any details, mortified with myself for even asking. I was too afraid to talk about it more.
Have him change his mind. Or worse, have to explain the situation in detail.
We turned on Sleepless in Seattle and tangled ourselves on the couch. I fell asleep with my feet tucked under his thigh and my head on the armrest.
Layla tugs on a piece of my hair. “Then why are you so sad, honey?”
Embarrassment, probably. A little bit of loneliness. Fear of change, absolute terror at the idea of messing all this up. Luka finding out the truth
about my feelings for him.
Take your pick, Layla. It could be anything.
Instead, I breathe out long and slow into the pillow and let that answer for me. Layla gently lifts the pillow from my face and tucks it under her cheek.
“I think it’s time we have a talk about this.”
“No, thank you.”
“Stella.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to. How about we talk about you and Jacob instead?”
Her eyes narrow into slits. Layla’s track record with romance is interesting, to say the least. She has a tendency to pick the worst sort of guy.
“We’re not talking about me right now. We’re talking about you.”
“We could be talking about you.”
“You have feelings for him, Stella.”
I know that. Of course I know that. I’m just unwilling to act on those
feelings.
“I’m—”
“You have big feelings for Luka, and he has big feelings for you, and I don’t understand why neither of you has ever done anything about it.”
It’s easy for Layla. She’s always been utterly confident in who she is and what she feels. Despite everything she’s gone through, she’s always managed to dust herself off and roll right along with sunny optimism. She is graceful in her disappointments. I am not.
And things with Luka are great—amazing even—just as they are.
“Honey”—her eyes trip back and forth between my own, a sad smile pulling at the corner of her lips—“just because you let yourself love someone doesn’t mean they’re going to leave.”
But it sure as hell doesn’t mean they’ll stay.
“I think—” I swallow around the tightness in my throat and try to channel just a little bit of Layla’s confidence. I curl up on my side and mirror her position, hands clasped under my chin. It feels like we’re in a cloud, under my comforter like we are. Weightless. Here, like this, I confess my most
secret thoughts. “I think if something were supposed to happen between Luka and me, it would have already happened.”
Layla doesn’t like that answer. I can see it in the twist of her lips. “Maybe he’s waiting for you to say something.”
I shake my head sadly. I once watched Luka walk up to a girl in a bar, prop his hand on the back of her chair, and tell her something that had her chin tipping back with a laugh. He was confident, charming. They left together not a half hour later. Luka has never been hesitant with vocalizing what he wants. If it were me he wanted, I think I would know by now.
“I think this is what we’re supposed to be.” I nuzzle down farther into my blankets, blinking against the prickling sensation in the corners of my eyes.
“We’re supposed to be friends. Just friends.”
“Then why did you lie on your application?” It’s a gentle accusation, but I feel the sting of it nonetheless. “Beckett was right. You didn’t need to do that.”
“I didn’t plan all of this, if that’s what you mean. I wouldn’t trick him into pretending to be my boyfriend. I’m not—” I scrub both hands across my face.
“I’m not that desperate.”
I’m not. The lie in the application—I just wanted this place to seem romantic. Homey. When I turned in the personal statement portion, I didn’t even think we had a chance. It seemed like a small, harmless detail. I wanted us to have the best possible chance.
Cool fingers thread between my own, the press of her rings against my
skin leaving tiny indentations.
“Honey, no. That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
Her eyes are kind as she tucks my hair behind my ear. “I’m just saying I think this might be the something you’ve both been waiting for.”
LAYLA’S WORDS PING-PONG around my head as I trudge my way over to the office. If last night was all the reasons I bought this place, this morning is all
the reasons I probably shouldn’t have. Walking in this direction, I can see the scraggly outline of dead and dying trees. There is decidedly not a supply truck in the driveway of the barn like I had scheduled, and one of the pumpkins that lined the stairway to the office is now smashed to bits on the ground.
It’s the last thing, though, that has me cursing under my breath. If one of the McAllister twins thought it would be funny to trash the fields again, I’m pretty sure Beckett might commit murder.
Last fall, the high school population of Inglewild decided our farm was the place to be for illicit activities. I saw more pasty white skin belonging to sixteen-year-old boys than anyone ever ought to. Beckett and Luka had handled it in the way that any grown man would.
They dressed up in camo, hid in the cornfield, and scared the ever-living shit out of all the kids sucking face in their cars.
It’s been quiet since then, and I’ve laughed to myself more than once walking through town, listening to the kids talk about the demented creatures that live in the fields at Ms. Stella’s farm. I think about Luka and Beckett using my tiny bathroom to put on their camo paint. The absolutely ridiculous amount of green I had on all of my cute bathroom towels.
I’ve always wanted to be an urban legend.
I’m picking up the pieces of the pumpkin when a car door slams, two heavy boots appearing in my field of vision. Luka squats down and picks up the biggest piece of pumpkin carcass, an extra large take-out cup cradled in his other hand.
I catch a hint of hazelnut and immediately drop all of the pumpkin goop I’m holding. I reach out for it with both hands, a greedy little whimper caught in the back of my throat. He doesn’t even fight me when I curl one hand around his wrist and the other around the cup. He just lets it happen.
Warm, creamy hazelnut welcomes me to nirvana as I take a deep pull. I make a slightly inhuman sound and then drink again. And again.
“What did you say to her?” I ask.
Ms. Beatrice makes the best hazelnut latte in probably the entire universe, but only when she wants to and only when you give her the oddly specific
compliment she’s waiting on. It’s never the same compliment twice, there’s never a clue, and god forbid you deliver it without the exact inflection of
sincerity required.
She still only serves me decaf.
Luka huffs a laugh through his nose, a little puff of white in the cold October morning. He hands the cup over with a little nod of his head. “I told her that purple hair suited her mighty fine.” He grins, bashful. “I think I made up a Southern accent? I’m not sure. I smelled hazelnut and it’s all a blur from there.”
I peek up at him, curling my hands around the cup and holding it close to my chest lest he gets any ideas about taking it back. God help me, he’s wearing a black beanie with a forest green puffball on top. I’d bet the slim funds in my savings account that his mom made it for him. Ms. Beatrice probably took one look at him and blushed all the way down to her compression socks.
I take another drink of latte. “The things we do for good coffee.”
“Yeah, sure, we.” He laughs. He arches an eyebrow and extends his hand, gloved fingers not so politely requesting his drink back. “I got you a coffee too.” For the first time, I notice an extra take-out cup resting on top of his car.
“But I’m pretty sure it’s still decaf.”
I curse.
“Come on. Let’s go inside and I’ll split and mix.”
Together we trudge into my office, the pumpkin pieces left scattered across the steps. I’ll grab a broom later, or maybe I’ll leave it for the raccoons. A peace offering of sorts. Luka collapses into the faded leather armchair, legs sprawled and elbows haphazard on the armrests. He always has trouble making his body fit, all long legs and toned arms. Maybe I’ll make him and Beckett do that calendar together.
He shifts back and forth, a valiant attempt to get comfortable. I still haven’t released his latte, and warm brown eyes jump from the cup to mine to the cup again. His gaze begins to get a little forlorn. Somewhere in that beautiful brain of his, he’s realizing he’s made a terrible mistake.
“I hope you had some of this in the car.” I take a pointed sip.
He shifts, the chair squeaks, and he frowns. “It was too hot to drink in the car,” he mumbles. “Are you going to give it back?”
“Probably not.”
He grunts and shifts in the chair again. “Stella, listen.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’ve been a good friend to you, haven’t I?”
I sit down primly in my chair. My perfectly sized, appropriately upholstered chair. “You have.”
He leans forward, hands cupped loosely between his legs. “Do you remember the summer of 2016? I gave you my waffle at the First Friday block party.”
I have no recollection of Luka ever once giving me a waffle. I slurp loudly.
“Stella. C’mon. I took you to the Lord of the Rings midnight showing when I didn’t even know what a hobbit was. I got you a cape.”
That’s true. He did do that. And then proceeded to ask for seven consecutive weeks if he should grow his hair out like Aragorn. Like the universe needs Luka to be more attractive.
He continues. “I didn’t tell my grandma your snickerdoodles were from Layla.”
I raise my eyebrows and take another sip. I’m not afraid of her.
Not really.
Maybe a little.
He leans closer, tongue pressing at the inside of his cheek. His brown eyes flash a shade darker, and his voice drops. “I agreed to be your fake boyfriend for a week.”
Suddenly it sounds like he’s not teasing me at all. All my bravado and good humor slip away with that little comment, a rush of heat pressing at my cheeks. It’s the tight curl in my stomach that I hate, and I avert my gaze to the top of my desk. Is this what it’s going to be like now? Luka holding on to this as a bartering chip for the rest of our relationship? A funny little anecdote at cookouts and parties? Oh, remember that time you were so desperate you asked me to pretend to date you?
I get it. I’m the one who asked for this as a favor. But still, that felt . . . weird. Not good.
After an indeterminate amount of time staring at the nick in my desk from that time I got too aggressive with my stapler, I clear my throat and look back up at him, fixing my gaze somewhere over his left shoulder. I hand over the coffee and congratulate myself when my hand doesn’t shake.
“Here you go.”
His fingers overlap mine, but he doesn’t let me release the cup. He has a deceptively strong grip, and that sends my thoughts tumbling down a
separate, albeit more vulgar, path.
“Stella.”
He manages to infuse a lot in those two staccato beats of my name. It’s a gift. I blink my gaze away from the calendar on the wall and back to him, sighing when I see the way his lips are settled in a thin line. Concerned Luka.
Damn it.
“Why are you upset right now?”
I try to pull my hand away, but he just tightens his grip. I’m worried for the paper cup. The hazelnut latte doesn’t deserve to go this way. “I’m not upset.”
He makes a sound in the back of his throat. “I have known you for almost a decade. Why are you upset?”
“I don’t want—” His fingers flex on mine. I don’t want him to do this because I forced him into it. I don’t want him to hate every second of it. I don’t want to be a bother, a nuisance, an obligation. “I don’t want this to ruin anything.”
“It won’t. Stella, look at me please.” When I manage to meet his gaze, those brown eyes of his are as serious as they’ve ever been. With the sun filtering through the window and that stupid hat on his head, I can see the flecks of gold in them. The light brown ring of color just at the edge of his iris that reminds me of coffee with too much milk. Hazelnut lattes. “This isn’t going to ruin anything, okay? It’s me and you.”
I nod, and his hand squeezes mine again on the cup. My arm is starting to tingle from keeping it outstretched. He opens his mouth to say something
else, his hand pulling, the front half of my body beginning to lean toward him, but the door to my office swings open, a very grumpy Beckett standing there with his hands full of smashed pumpkin.
“We have a problem.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing in the pumpkin field staring at the carcasses of hundreds of smashed pumpkins. It looks like a battlefield but with more . . . orange. So much for my raccoon peace offering of a single pumpkin back at the office. They can have an all-you-can-eat buffet out here.
I make a mental note to google if raccoons can eat pumpkin.
“Well . . .” I stretch my neck back and forth. This is fine. This is—it’s absolutely fine. Next to me, Luka hands over his hazelnut latte without a word. “Halloween is in two days. We were going to harvest these anyway for Layla. Maybe we could—I don’t know. Turn this into a haunted field?”
Beckett makes some sort of grumbling noise under his breath. He’s probably nervous I’ll make him wear a zombie costume. “I’m going to kill those McAllister shits.”
He sounds like an eighty-year-old man standing on his front lawn. It feels a bit like I manifested this.
I look around at the sheer range of damage. Every single pumpkin left on the vine has been caved in. It seems excessive for two teenage boys. It’s too organized, too methodical. “We don’t know it was them.”
I guess I’ll have to install cameras.
Luka and Beckett give me matching looks of disbelief, though Beck manages to infuse a layer of hostile frustration into his. It’s difficult to take Luka seriously when he’s wearing that poof-ball hat.
“All right, well”—I channel my inner optimist—“it’s time we switch over to Christmas anyway. We’ll leave the big decorations for next week, but we can start putting Halloween away. I’ll ask Layla to make extra goodies for the bakehouse, and if anyone shows up for pumpkins, we can sell what we’ve already pulled off the vine at a discount.”
“What are we going to do about whoever did this?” Beckett sounds like he has a few ideas.
I shrug. “I really don’t know. What can we do?” I briefly consider using what I’ve learned in marathon viewings of Law & Order SVU, looking for shoe imprints in the dirt and clothing fibers on tree limbs. What I wouldn’t do for Detective Stabler right about now. “I’ll have some cameras installed at the major spots, but we can’t cover the whole farm.”
I can’t afford to cover the whole farm.
The three of us lapse into silence. It’s a good thing this happened at the tail end of the fall season. I can’t shake the feeling that this—the fertilizer, the trees—it’s all connected. No one is this unlucky, right?
“You think this has anything to do with your supply issues?”
I frown at Luka and press my fingers into the back of my neck. He’s heard me complain about missing shipments and random incidents since I bought this place. My shoulders tense from yet another thing landing on top of them.
“I don’t know. Probably.” I drop my hands by my sides and look around.
“Maybe.”
Whatever is happening, we need to figure it out. Preferably before the farm is featured before millions of people.
