Voices carry around the edge of the barn, a low grumble in response before a heavy sigh of exasperation. I turn the corner just as Jeremy pushes a hand through his hair, hip cocked against the side of the tractor. I’m glad to see he’s wearing boots today, even if they look like something out of a magazine. “Beckett said the newbie shovels rocks. I’m not the newbie anymore.”
“One day of farm work doesn’t remove the newbie title.” I clap him on the shoulder and he jumps about ten feet in the air. “You’re the newbie until someone else comes along.” I hand him the shovel and he groans. “Not much left to do today.”
Barney chuckles and runs both hands over his balding head. “Plenty left to do today. Young hotshot over here can’t shovel for shit.”
“These arms were made for love, baby. Not labor.”
Barney and I exchange a look. I bite the inside of my cheek so hard it almost bleeds.
“Good to know.” I grab another one of the shovels and nod towards the fields. “C’mon. I’ll help you.”
A little mindless physical work will be good for me. The tractor engine kicks up and I catch a flash of white bounding across the field towards us as Prancer settles into her spot on the tractor, a thinly veiled look of disgust shot in my direction. She never did come to her usual spot on my bed last night, probably busy carving death threats into my couch upholstery for daring to bring another woman into her home.
Barney rubs her head and we’re off. The work is slow moving, especially with Jeremy shoveling at the rate of a small baby bird, his arms limp at his sides and his grip all wrong. I roll my eyes and lose myself in the work, my mind drifting with each repetitive movement.
Push. Dig. Dump. Did she sleep last night? Push. Dig. Dump. Did I wake her this morning when I fumbled my coffee mug across the kitchen floor? Push. Dig. Dump. How long is she staying? Push. Dig. Dump. Why isn’t she happy? Push. Dip. Dump. How can I help?
Push. Dip. Dump.
Does she want me to help?
Harper calls it my hero complex. She says I fix other people’s problems to avoid my own and she’s probably right about that. I don’t like to see anyone struggle.
I especially don’t like the look I saw on Evelyn’s face last night, the self-doubt mixed with hesitation.
“Alright, boss,” Barney is giving me a concerned look, the tractor at a standstill, his arm slung over the back of the seat. I glance down at the field and the hole I’ve apparently been digging behind the left tire.
“Think you’ve got a morning meeting to get to,” Barney says. He nods in the direction of Stella’s office, a steady stream of smoke pumping out of the chimney. The sun is already well above the horizon, the sky a bright and brilliant blue. Jeremy is flat on his back, chest heaving, his shovel about twenty feet behind him. I think he managed two rocks today.
“Aren’t you on the basketball team?” I call over to him.
He lifts a limp hand into the air. “I ride the bench, bro. I just do it for the ladies.”
We have our partner meetings on alternating Wednesday mornings. An attempt, I think, from Stella to be more transparent after she had hid some of the business details from us last year. Layla usually brings some sort of baked good, and my stomach gives a happy rumble at the reminder. I glance down at my t-shirt with a grimace, covered in dirt and sweat.
Layla mirrors the same grimace as soon as I swing into the tiny office, haphazard stacks of paper on every flat surface. Stella likes to say she has a system, but I think she’s full of shit. I snap a picture on my phone and send it to Luka. He’ll probably break into hives as soon as he sees it.
“Why do you look like you crawled your way over here?” Layla pulls her sweater over her nose and kicks out the seat next to her until there’s a healthy four feet of distance between my seat and … everything else.
Stella frowns at her. “It’s not that bad,” she says. I take a step further into the room and she sucks in a sharp breath. “Oh my god, Beckett. Is that blood?”
It is, and I have no idea how it got on the sleeve of my shirt. I ignore them both and collapse into the chair, the legs giving a protesting squeak at my weight. I’m pretty sure Stella found these chairs on the side of the road and decided to bring them home with her. I peer in the tin sitting on top of a stack of invoices.
“Is this carrot cake?”
Layla plucks a muffin from the top and hands it to me. She pauses, considers, and then hands me another. I narrow my eyes at her. It’s not like her to willingly offer extras.
“What’s going on with you?” I ask, suspicious.
“What’s going on with you, Children of the Corn?” She fires right back.
I debate hiding it from them, but they’ll know soon enough. Especially since Evelyn’s car is currently parked in my driveway and farm gossip is more efficient than the town phone tree. I’m honestly surprised Stella doesn’t already know. I take a giant bite of carrot cake and kick my legs out. “Evelyn is here.”
I get two blank stares in response. Layla smoothes her hands down the bright red skirt she has on, thermal black tights beneath. “Care to repeat what you just said?”
I swallow and reach for the coffee Stella has waiting for me on the edge of the desk. “Evelyn is here.”
“In Inglewild?”
In my spare bed. Wrapped in sheets that have tiny roses on them. In less than half a second, my brain takes some creative liberties with that, imagining her stretched out naked beneath the blankets, one long leg kicked out. I clear my throat.
“At my house,” I say slowly. I drag each word out and watch as Stella’s eyes widen. She exchanges a look with Layla. Layla collapses back into her chair and raises both eyebrows. Stella’s nose twitches and her shoulder kicks up to her ear before it settles again.
“Cut that shit out,” I grumble, finishing the first muffin and moving on to the next. “I know you’re talking about me.”
“We didn’t say anything.”
“Might as well have.”
“Alright, let’s take a step back,” Stella steeples her hands in front of her face. With her behind her desk, and Layla and I in the two chairs in front of it, it feels like every single time I was ever called to the principal’s office. My phone buzzes on the arm of the chair. I glance at it and spot a text from Luka.
Luka: Hurricane Stella.
Luka: Is that carrot cake?
“Stop texting my boyfriend and pay attention.”
I breathe out slowly through my nose and try for a subject change. I glance at Layla.
“Didn’t you have dinner with Jacob last night?”
She makes a face. “I broke up with Jacob two weeks ago. I went on a date with a guy I met through an app.” She waves her hand between us and fixes me with a look that says she knows exactly what I’m doing. “Don’t try to distract me. I’m not letting the Evelyn thing go.”
“Aren’t we supposed to be going over this quarter’s numbers today?”
“Nice try,” Stella adds. “We can discuss this first and move on to reporting after. I also want to talk about why you have Jeremy Roughman doing manual labor out in the fields. But first, how did Evelyn get to your house?”
“She took a flight, I’d imagine. And then rented a car.”