“Good,” I answer on reflex. “Busy.”
“And the market?” Chloe asks. “Liv said you sold out last weekend.”
“Yeah,” I say. “We did. I’ll double the truckload next weekend.”
Mom hums her approval. “Probably a good idea.”
I reach across the counter and snag a slice of jalapeño from the bowl beside Chloe, popping it into my mouth before she can stop me. The heat tingles across my tongue.
She swats my hand with her spatula. “Knock it off,” she scolds. “Those are for dinner.”
A smile tugs at my mouth. “You miss me living at home, don’t you?”
She rolls her eyes. “Not a chance.”
I know she does, though. Sometimes I miss it too—the easy closeness, the way we could spend an entire evening cracking jokes and laughing until our stomachs hurt. My siblings are the one constant in my life, and I’d do anything to keep it that way.
Even if it means keeping a part of myself hidden from them.
When dinner’s ready, we crowd around the table with steaming plates and elbows knocking as everyone settles in. Luke and Justinare already mid-argument, voices overlapping as they debate the merits of whatever new video game just dropped.
“I’m telling you, the combat system’s completely broken,” Luke insists, stabbing his fork into an enchilada.
Justin snorts. “You just don’t know how to play it right.”
Olivia and Chloe sit across from me, carefully spooning toppings onto their plates. Mom hovers a moment longer, making sure everyone has enough sauce before finally taking her seat.
Dad takes his place at the head of the table, quiet as ever. He listens more than he talks—always has. It’s something we’ve all learned to respect. When Dad speaks, it’s never filler, and you ought to pay attention.
Sure enough, his voice cuts cleanly through Luke and Justin’s bickering.
“Ashton,” he says, calm but firm. “Did you ever fix that cracked hydraulic line on the old John Deere?”
I straighten in my chair. “Yeah,” I answer. “Replaced the line and tightened the fittings. It’s running fine now.”
Dad nods once, satisfied. “Good.”
Mom shoots him a warning look. “Let’s not talk about work at the dinner table, Mark.”
Well. If there was ever a perfect segue…
I clear my throat. “Actually,” I say, setting my fork down. “There is something I wanted to talk about.”
Every conversation at the table dies instantly. All heads turn toward me, waiting.
“I’ve been working on a business partnership,” I continue, choosing my words carefully. “With Black Cat Brewery. They’re interested in sourcing fruit locally, and we’re starting with cherries for a small cider run.”
Luke’s eyebrows lift, intrigued. Chloe’s eyes widen. Mom stills, watching me closely. Dad doesn’t react at all—just waits.
“It’s a trial batch,” I add. “If it works, it could open up a steady off-season revenue stream for the orchard. They’ll put our logo on the bottles, so it’ll be great for advertising.”
The silence that follows is thick and heavy. Dad studies me from across the table, lips pressed into a thin line. His bushy eyebrows draw together, deepening the grooves in his wrinkled face.
“Black Cat Brewery,” he says slowly. “That place owned by the kid with all the tattoos and metal in his face?”
My stomach drops. The dining room goes eerily quiet, the soft whir of the ceiling fan suddenly loud in the stillness.
“His name is Troy Fischer,” Luke cuts in. “He’s a nice guy.”
