He grabs our jackets and walks me outside. The gravel crunches under our boots. The moon paints everything in silver.
At my car, he opens the door but doesn’t look at me. “Drive home safe.”
“Quinn—”
“Please.” His tone is final, quiet. “Just… drive safe.”
I start the engine. The headlights cut across the barn as I pull away. He’s standing there in the glow, hands shoved in his pockets, watching until the road curves out of sight.
The sweatshirt still smells like him. I keep it on even after I get home.
FIVE
QUINN
The first weekend arrives with a bang.
The farm swells with people. Families pushing strollers crusted with mud, twenty-something in flannels taking selfies, and teenagers racing down the zipline.
It’s better than we could have hoped.
And I owe it to the woman who showed us how to get more eyes on our social media channels and website.
I try to be everywhere at once. I check on the ticket lines, test targets at the apple cannons, and make sure the POS works smoothly across the property.
My siblings and I fall into our rhythms easily. I appreciate how busy I am. It keeps my mind focused on what matters most: saving the property.
But then I see her.
And all sense of focus and control goes to hell in a hand basket.
Tricia is crouched on the gravel outside the Snack Shack. She has chalk in hand, sketching a sign on a board that will live for the weekend.
Her tongue peeks out the corner of her mouth in concentration. Sun shines on her face. When she sits back, she claps her knees and grins at what she’s made.
It’s the kind of smile a man could lose himself in if he isn’t careful.
A dad with a kid on his shoulders wanders over to her.
“Hey, that looks good. Did you do that?”
“Thanks.” She gives the same friendly, patient smile she’s been doling out all weekend. “I thought the chalkboards would add a little personality to our line-up.”
“Mind if I—” He reaches for the piece of chalk like he’s been invited into someone’s studio for the first time.
I’m three steps away before he finishes the sentence.
“Actually, those are Tricia’s boards,” I say, my voice a little louder than necessary. “We don’t want anyone but her drawing on them.”
“Oh. Right.” He blinks, polite confusion clouding his face. “Sorry, man.”
He backs away. I don’t say anything else. I don’t need to. The scowl on my face and squared shoulders are enough.
Tricia just looks at me strangely. As if I’m a puzzle she’s trying to unscramble.
Later, when she’s painting faces, I catch her laughing as a pint-sized boy demands a tiger “with extra teeth.” She’s a blur of color and patience.
Another dad hangs around, leaning toward her like he’s got all the time in the world and wants to use it.
