“Don’t know what you mean,” I reply, hefting the post holer into position and stomping it into the muddy grass. It’s shocking how fast the holes left by the fallen posts of this fence filled up. Nature has a way of claiming anything left alone long enough. And God knows this poor farm was left to its own devices for far too long.
Thanks to Sasha, I remind myself. Thanks to the runaway daughter nobody ever thought we’d see around here again. Thanks to the runaway I’m being idiotic enough to start falling for.
No. I’m not falling. I’m just… Enjoying this ride.
“You’ve been weird all day,” she says. “You skipped breakfast, you don’t want lunch either?”
“I’m not hungry.” I draw up the holer and squint down into the hole its left behind in the ground. A perfect square-peg hole, just big enough for the new fence post. Looks deep enough, too, at last, so I bend down to pick up the post and start to position it in the hole.
“You aren’t talking to me either.” She crosses her arms and bends into my field of view while I fiddle with the fence. Her foot starts tapping, in a nervous, energetic way that frays my already spent nerves.
“I’m a bit busy,” I point out. But she’s clearly not going to let this drop, so I straighten and wipe my sweaty hair back from my brow, squinting at her in the midday sun. The fence is almost finished. Two more posts, then I just need to finish stringing the wire along it, and it’s ready.
The house is looking miles better too. The roof is done. The gardens are weeded and re-seeded with attractive plants. The front gate has been oiled and straightened on its hinges. The electrical wiring has been finished inside, the rooms all repainted, cleaned and tidied. It’s still not a state-of-the-art modern cabin, but it was never going to be that.
It’s back to what it always was, at least. Cozy. Comfortable. Neat. A real home. The kind of home someone could live in.
The kind of home I feel like we’ve been living in for the past week. We haven’t really, I know. We’re just guests. But… It doesn’t feel like that. Not while I’m right here in the middle of it.
None of this feels temporary. Not even the way Sasha is glaring at me right now, head cocked, those shrewd green eyes of hers flashing. She knows that something’s bothering me, and she’s not going to let up about it—like anyone in a relationship wouldn’t.
Except this isn’t a relationship. She’s about to turn tail and run, in less than two days, as soon as we officially declare this farm ready for sale.
“Seriously, Grant,” she says, and I can’t help it. I relent a little, relax at the sound of my name on her perfect, smooth, so-fucking-kissable lips. “Tell me what’s wrong. Please.”
“Farm’s looking great,” I say instead, squinting past her at the fields. We haven’t gotten around to seeding those yet, but we’ve tilled them. They’re almost in workable order. Too late in the season for any produce this year, but next spring they’ll be ripe for the planting. For whatever lucky owner wants to come and try their luck at growing anything out here.
A frown line appears on her brow. But she follows my gaze nonetheless, and studies the place alongside me. “We’ll be finished by tomorrow or the next day, don’t you think?” she agrees softly.
“Easily. Maybe sooner if we hustle on the fence and the back garden.”
Now it’s her turn to sigh and run her hands through her hair. She stretches, and I can’t help it—my gaze drops to trace her curves. The tug of her breasts under her tight T-shirt, the way her flat belly peeks out between the hem of that shirt and the edge of her tiny, sexy little jean shorts.
“I never thought it would look this good this fast,” she admits, her voice low. “When I first pulled up here…” She laughs and shakes her head a little.
I smirk. “You were very concerned, I seem to recall. About the fence, the house, the tire swing…”
She snorts. “Well. There’s one thing we still need to fix. That tire swing is definitely a death-trap.”
“I don’t know about that,” I counter, raising an eyebrow. “It always was sturdy.” There it is again. The reminder that she doesn’t even remember. The two of us taking turns on that swing, me pushing her so high she screamed. Her trying and failing to push me hard enough to get any momentum at all. Us standing on opposite sides, winding it up and letting go so it spun, and pulled us apart, both of us shrieking, hanging onto the rope for dear life as it spun.
“I bet we’ll get a lot more than you first expected,” Sasha says, eyes still on the property. Because of course. That’s all she sees in this place. Future money. A burden to offload on someone else.
“I’d reckon so,” I reply, my tone carefully, painfully neutral.
“What do you plan to do with your share?” she asks, head tilted. Oblivious to what she’s doing. To how I’m feeling.
“Don’t know.”
She turns to look at me at last, frowning, head tilted in concern. “You don’t know? It’ll be a decent chunk of money. You must have some plans for it.”
I wanted this farm. I wanted to be the one to take it, turn it back into what it used to be in its heyday. Or at least turn enough profit to keep going, to build a life here. A life for me, and…
It doesn’t matter.
“You know me. I’m just a simple country man,” I mutter. “Don’t have any big lofty plans in life.”
“I didn’t mean that,” Sasha protests. “I just meant… Surely you were thinking about… after…”
“Probably not as much as you. I’m sure you can’t wait to get on home to your fancy new life. This all must seem way too simple for you. Boring and slow, just like all us townie folks.”
“Grant, what—”
“That’s fine, Sasha. You like what you like. You always have. You’re exactly the same girl you used to be.”
Her frown deepens now, creasing her forehead. “What are you talking about?”
“You don’t even remember. That’s the worst part. How can you be mad at someone for something they don’t even remember doing?” I laugh and run my hand through my hair again. Then I tighten it into a fist, grimace, tug at my hair as I spin back toward the house.
“Of course I remember,” she spits as she steps in my way, barring my path.
That throws me.
My brow furrows.
“I remember everything, Grant Werther. You’re the one who didn’t. You forgot that of course I know how to handle a hammer and climb a ladder—we built a whole tree house together. You forgot that we used to be friends before you got all high and mighty in high school, running with the jocks. You even forgot me—when I got here all you talked about was my mama and me leaving town. Like you didn’t even remember those summers.”
I’m staring at her, wide-eyed. She never said…
She shoves past me, shoulder colliding with mine. “But you’re right,” she says, angrily. “I can’t wait to get home to my fancy life. Where I matter, where people give a damn about me.”
She storms past me into the house.
It’s too much. “Fine,” I call after her. “Then you can go on back now, Sasha. I’ll take care of the rest of this. Sell your share for you, and mail you the check. That’s all you really want, isn’t it? Go on home and leave the dirty work to me.”
I don’t look back to see if that blow landed. I don’t stop walking until I’m at the back door of the house, wrenching it open, storming inside. I can’t stand to look at her anymore. Those too-familiar green eyes, her face fallen in a sad expression. I can’t take it.
She knew. All along she knew. She thought I didn’t. What does that mean now?
It doesn’t matter. She made clear just now what she intends to do about this—about us. I’m nothing more than a passing nostalgic fling to her. She’s on her way back to the big city, and this time, I’ll need to really forget about her, if I ever want to move on with my life.
11
Sasha Bluebell
I stalk away across the fields, his words echoing through my mind.
You’re exactly the same girl you used to be.
He acted like he didn’t even recognize me. He lied. Pretended I was nothing more than some stranger whose property he owned half of, when all the time he knew everything. Now he expects me to, what? Suddenly feel nostalgic about him, this life, this place?
The fact that I do, a bit, isn’t the point.
The girl who grew up here alongside Grant Werther is a completely different person. A past life. I’ve got a whole life waiting for me back home in the city, one I built myself. I don’t need him or anyone.
You’re exactly the same girl you used to be, he said. How can I be? I’ve run as far from her as I possibly can.
I pace along the fence he’s been rebuilding. This part of the work he’s done almost entirely himself. I reach out to run a hand along the wire that makes up most of the fence. My fingers dance across the wooden posts every few feet, tracing the rough material. A splinter pricks my finger at one point, and I draw it out with a sigh, dropping the pesky little sliver of wood to the grass at my feet.