Page 8 of Fall Over You

I turn the key again, hoping maybe the twelfth time will be the winner. “Come on, come on.”

The damn engine still won’t turn. I lean my head against the steering wheel. I’m a few towns over from Paint, out running errands to avoid the inevitable back at the farm: prepping for another weekend of madness.

When I’m in town, it doesn’t seem as daunting. I forget the do-or-die nature of it. I can pretend it’s fine.

My bank statements say otherwise. It’s the small business equivalent of a Hail Mary. I inherited this farm two years ago, and once I left Stone for good, I moved out here. It started with me, a handful of chickens, and a dream. I eventually figured out that if I can host my weekend festivals, I might be able to make enough to invest in everything else that needs to happen around here.

It costs a lot to put on the festivals, and I need every dollar I can get. But as long as the weather holds, it’ll be enough to get me through a whole month of the off-season.

I’m trying to figure out a way to not have an off-season anyway, but that’s after I survive the fall weekend rush. At least I grew my own pumpkins this year to save money. I have the land. Why not use it?

And while my land is free and clear at the bank thanks to my family friend Kenny’s generous will, it’s not completely without strings. Mamaw was the gym teacher at Paint High, and Kenny was Mamaw’s coworker and best friend. He tutored me whenever I had trouble in school because, according to Mamaw, I was “the stubbornest thing that ever was” when she tried to help me. I was slightly more forgiving with Kenny. I only bit him once, and considering Mamaw’s track record with me in the bite department, that’s pretty good.

Kenny owned what is now my farm with his partner, Ernest, but the farm sat unused for a year or so before Kenny passed. Their health deteriorated quickly, and both of them moved into a nursing home on short notice. They saw how expensive things were going to get and that Ernest might outlive their funds.

So, Kenny made me a deal: make sure Ernest was taken care of and the farm was mine to have. He wouldn’t have made enough just selling the acreage, and I wouldn’t have had the money to buy it outright either. They decided they’d rather the farm went to someone who would love it like they did, and I’d use my farm income to foot their end of life care bills.

I can eat ramen and the things I grow and get by just fine, but Ernest’s nursing home bills don’t come cheap. And I would never, ever consider breaking my promise to Kenny.

But that leaves money tight at various points in the year, like now. I really don’t have the time or money for my truck to fail. Darcy’s husband, Jake, has been raving about some new mechanic he found, saying what a nice guy he is and what a good deal he gave him. Jake’s like me: he knows cars and tractors and everything in between, but there are some repairs you can’t do without an auto shop at your disposal. I’m working on fixing up my garage to be able to do work like that, and by working on, I mean it’s on my mile-long list of upgrades I want to do at the farm. But once that cash starts flowing again, watch out. Every windfall has a place to go.

This truck repair will be another windfall out the window. I jump out and open the hood to find what I’ve been suspecting: the timing belt snapped.

“Well, T, looks like we’re gonna have to get help this time,” I say to T-Bone, who has been licking her chops in the backseat and tracking a gnat.

I open my phone, taking care not to cut my finger on the deep chasms of broken glass on the screen. That should probably go somewhere on my repair list. I dial Jake.

“Hey,” he whispers. “I’m at work. What’s up?”

“Never mind then, get back to work.”

He sighs. “Oh, quit. What’s going on?”

“My truck has a busted timing belt and I need your mechanic’s name.”

“Ah, shit. Where are you?”

“Hurricane. Out on a supply run.”

A keyboard clacks in the background. “Let me look at something. Oh, perfect. It’s within five miles of the shop. I’ll call my roadside assistance people to come get you.”

“Thanks, pal. And maybe put in a good word for me? Since you’re so tight with this guy.”

“I mean, it’s not like I hang out with him,” he backpedals, “but I’ll call him and let him know you’re coming.”

“Appreciate you. I’ll owe you a pie or something after this.”

He chuckles. “Just put it on our friendship tab.”

I make small talk with the tow truck driver, who, surprisingly, I don’t know. The closer we get to the shop, the more my stomach sinks. I pet T-Bone, who lays her head in my lap.

“Hey, which shop are we going to?”

He lets out an especially lung-crackling cough and sighs out a “‘scuse me, woo,” before saying, “Paint Auto.”

I scrunch up my face and exhale a shallow breath. “I was afraid of that.”

“You want it to go somewhere else?”