Page 11 of A Fighting Chance
“Dean, what on earth are you doing here on the farm?” I ask, making my way over to him.
“Oh, girl, I’ve been working here…I guess about a year or so now,” he says.
The way he calls megirlhits me in the face like a brick of nostalgia, makes me remember things. Things I don’t want to remember.
“Wow, I didn’t know. What do you do here?” I ask.
He stands up a little straighter and rubs the front of his shirt. “Well, I’ll have you know, I’m basically in charge of all the cattle now. I’m just over here getting some apples for them that won’t sell anyway,” he says.
I nod, looking down at his buckets of imperfect apples. It’s sad people won’t eat the ugly ones. As a kid, I always ate that kind. “Well, good for you!” I say, giving him a once-over.
He sounds proud and he should be. The livestock is no easy task. Sure, the farm doesn’t have hundreds of head, but we do have around twenty bovine and half a dozen horses. I never cared for the horses but oddly enough have always loved the cows.
“Thank you, thank you. So, what are you doing back here?” he asks me, looking me up and down, assessing me a little too hard.
I shift. “Well, Harper—”
“Ah, yeah,” he says, cutting me off and shaking his head. “It’s a real shame what happened.”
Wow. Not even thirty-six hours.
News certainly travels fast around here.
“Everyone hated Charles,” he says. “We couldn’t believe what he did to her—and with Allie, no less.”
“Allie?!” I shriek. This is news to me. This I hadn’t heard.
Allie’s been Harper’s best friend since grade school. They went everywhere together, did everything together, and for the longest time, she even worked here on the farm for our family.
He nods at me softly, sadness and disappointment over the whole situation on his face. “It’s a real shame. Obviously, she quit working here after it all came out. Broke your grandparents’ hearts to see it all,” he says.
I can’t believe my sister didn’t tell me this part of the story. It would have been one thing for it to be a random woman, but the pain Harper must be feeling, the double betrayal from her husband and best friend, I can’t even fathom it.
“Unbelievable,” I say, shaking my head.
Dean’s hand grips my bicep. “Maybe we can catch up while you’re here? Get reacquainted?” he asks, but I don’t like his tone or the way he’s holding my arm a little too tightly.
Suddenly, I feel seventeen again. I study Dean’s face once more, really giving it my attention this time. Time hasn’t been kind to him. He has a little more chin now and his hairline is farther back than you’d expect for someone in their late twenties. His midsection isn’t in the once sleek shape it used to be, but he isn’t carrying the majestic appealing hot dad bod either. He’s just sort of…frumpy.
“Uh, maybe, I’m not sure. I’ll probably be really busy with Harper,” I say, trying to sound as noncommittal as possible. I step back and out of his grip.
His eyes narrow and for a moment, I think he might step forward to keep his hold, but he releases me. A smile spreads across his face and he nods—but I don’t like this particular brand of smile, and I grow uneasy under his gaze.
“Sure, I understand,” he says. “But you know where to find me if you have some time. I gotta get back to work, okay?”
I’m already turning toward the neat rows of apple trees and putting my headphones back in. Truthfully, I need to process the information I just heard. I pick my pace back up to a run, passing tree after tree as I feel the sun overhead.
It’s late summer and a small breeze is in the air, rustling the leaves on both sides of me. In a few weeks, everything will start dying. It won’t be much longer now before the farm starts to prepare for fall. The pumpkin patches will pop up, and they’ll start brewing cider. The sweet aroma of pumpkin rolls will fill the store. The trees lining the property and the ones scattered throughout will turn—being lit on fire by the changing seasons—and it will officially be my favorite time of year.
I make it to the end of the trees and turn toward the barns. I want to check on Paw and Maribelle, my cow. Not just any cow,mycow. I helped Paw deliver her when I was in high school and made him promise to never send her to the butcher. She was born premature and I had to bottle-feed her. She was mine from the moment she arrived. Of course, unlike a cat or dog, I couldn’t exactly take her with me to college or have her in an apartment—let alone in Boston—so she had to stay here. But I do ask about her all the time—always have—and on each of my short trips here, I make sure to visit the barn as often as I can.
I reach for the barn door and lurch forward, trying to catch my breath. I press pause on the music and remove the headphones only to hear someone calling out.
“Who’s there?” Paw asks from inside.
As I lean around the barn door, I catch sight of his face.
He sees me and returns a smile, his shoulders relaxing.