Page 91

I stare at the screen, thumb hovering. How do you summarize a person falling apart in a way that makes sense to anyone but you?

I finally type a simple, She’s just overwhelmed. Give her time, and send it to them both.

Three dots pop up. Disappear. Pop up again.

Riley: I didn’t know how to tell her. I should have tried harder.

I don’t have it in me to soothe either of them. Not tonight. Not about this. I know my feelings and Felicity’s on the topic are far from similar. I know she’s still texting her mom. I know she’s still decidedly not texting Rowen or Riley. She’s picking sides and maybe expects me to do the same, but in my eyes, there’s only ever been one side that I can’t leave—whichever one Felicity is on.

And unfortunately right now, it seems that means going against my every instinct to not have anything to do with her mom.

I send another short text to the group chat. She’ll come around. And I put my phone on the shop bench.

The last few days have been…rough. Not dramatic rough. Not screaming or crying or slamming doors. Something worse, honestly.

Quiet. Felicity’s brand of quiet.

Which is not really quiet at all. It’s the kind of weird silence that comes with her shrinking into herself like she’s afraid to take up any space. The kind where she excuses herself from dinner before anyone else even lifts their fork. The kind where she’s polite and kind and smiling, but all wrong.

Yesterday at family dinner, Walker told a joke so stupid that everyone, even Mom, laughed, and Felicity didn’t. She just stared at her mashed potatoes like she was being pulled into them in a trance. Lottie made eye contact with me across the table and pointed her fork at my girlfriend. She mouthed a tight-lipped, FIX THIS. I so badly wish I could.

At lunch today, she sat next to me at the long table at the diner, knees tucked tight together instead of slung wide like she usually sits. Her fork barely scraped the plate. She didn’t try to steal the glazed carrots off my plate, even when I left it right at the edge where she normally would. I nudged it closer slowly, hoping she’d notice. She didn’t. We left more hungry than when we got there.

It feels like watching a star dim. Slow. Painful. And you keep asking the sky to just give it back.

I’ve always prided myself on my ability to fix things. From day one, that’s how I’ve been, for as long as I can remember. I was putting puzzles together or breaking a toy apart just so I could repair it. Helping Miller and Dad with the four-wheelers when the clutch would mess up. Fixing the broken wheel on Felicity’s wagon. Always fixing something.

But I don’t know how to fix silence.

I dropped her off at Riley’s, waited until the light in her room went on, and headed back home. I went outside, thinking the cold might clear my head, but the air this afternoon is all thick November dampness—wet leaves, pecan shells crushed under boots, smoke drifting from the chimneys near the barns. It smells like everything I grew up with, waiting for the day I would hear it was going to be mine. Everything I’m supposed to love.

Dad and Miller spent all day going over winter pasture plans, mapping rotation schedules, and discussing some deal with the feed distributor. Dad kept looking at me, sliding the notepad across the table like it would magically spark my interest if he shoved it close enough.

I nodded along. Wrote a few things. Pretended I wasn’t drowning.

Every time Dad says, “You’ll take this over someday, but for now we’ll have…” Something cold slides down my spine. Like a wrong note in your favorite song struck on a piano.

But then there’s Felicity. And her mom. And now Rowen and Riley, and everything that blew up in her face this week.

Who the hell am I to be sorting out my existential crisis when hers is at DEFCON 1?

Inside the main house, I can hear Uncle Miller washing dishes in the sink, humming that old Conway Twitty song he always hums when he thinks nobody’s around. I walk back in, grab a towel, and help him dry. It’s not like I have anything better to do tonight.

He eyes me. “You look tired, kid.”

“I’m fine.”

“You worried about the girl?”

Always. Constantly. “Yeah,” I say, because he deserves the truth. And maybe because I’m too tired to cover it up. “She’s been quiet.”

“Mmm.” He hands me a plate. “Quiet ain’t always bad. Sometimes it means someone’s thinkin’ real hard.”

“It’s not a good quiet.”

He nods. “That girl’s tougher than she thinks. She’ll make it through.”

Yeah. I know that. I just wish she didn’t have to be tough right now. If I could just fix it for her…