A big chunk on the side of the sign is missing as though someone took a shotgun and blasted it off.
Fantastic, huh? I don’t know what kind of PR Fred thinks he’s spinning, but I’ve got a bad feeling this place won’t live up to the hype.
Not even close.
I sigh as Drew’s truck crawls toward the run-down barns ahead. Roofs sagging. Paint peeling. Rust chewing through every hinge.
“This place could use some work,” I mutter.
My only real memory of this farm is from junior high, sneaking off with Krissy Thompson during a field trip. We got caught kissing in the hayloft and the whole football team roasted me for months.
Ah, good times.
“That’s why we’re here,” Drew says with a wink. “Plus, it’s time for you to stop moping and get on with your life.”
I flip him off. He cranks the radio in response.
“See? You gotta be more like Shania,” he yells over the music.
He must be joking. “You wantShaniato be my guide?”
He laughs. “Just listen to the lyrics, numbnuts.”
I catch the chorus. “So you want me to dedicate my life to improving my skills with women?”
“It couldn’t hurt.” He props his elbow out the window and shoots me another wink.
I give him a dead stare.
“I’m kidding,” he says, shaking his head. “What I mean is Shania knows what she wants. She asks for it. No hesitation. You just need to find the thing you want and go after it with the same fire you used to have with football.”
“That easy, huh?”
Drew shrugs, eyes forward. “No. But you’ve always been more than an arm, Shaun. You’ll find something that makes you happy and gets you out of this town.”
I drag my hand through my hair. I wish I believed that. I wish I believed in anything.
“You’re here,” I say. “It can’t be that bad.”
Drew’s grin fades. “I’m meant to be here. Help my folks. Keep the farm running. And I’m okay with that.” He pauses, then glances at me. “But you? You’re destined for more, my man. Trust me.”
His voice lands heavy. Not in a bad way. In a way that makes something deep inside me ache.
I hope he’s right.
I really do.
But what the hell am I supposed to be doing? What does “more” even look like?
Dust kicks up behind the truck as we roll to a stop a few feet from an old white farmhouse with chipped blue shutters. The wraparound porch dips in spots, boards loose enough to swallow a shoe. A rocking chair lies on its side like it gave up. The planter boxes hold more weeds than actual plants.
If this is how Fred treats his house, I don’t want to think about the rest of the farm.
Drew kills the engine. Silence drops over us so fast it’s suffocating. For a second, all I hear is my own pulse and the faint hiss of cooling metal.
His door creaks open and the smell hits me—manure, sweat, sunbaked dirt—strong enough to make my eyes sting. He grabshis red letterman jacket from between us, hops down, and then leans back through the open window.
“Besides, if you don’t get your ass out of this town by next semester, I’ll kick it out of town myself.” He flashes a wide grin, slams the door with a grunt, and heads toward the barn.
