“Right,” I say quickly. “But I’m not the one who needs to do farm work forevermore. This is your spread.”
“And yours,” he adds, still not getting the message.
“It was never mine.”
“Bullshit. That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard. Just because you and Dad argue sometimes doesn’t mean he’s cutting you out of the will or some shit.”
I want to shake Kyle and scream, Pay attention!
Then again, it’s not my brother’s fault. He can’t see what I see, because he doesn’t have all the information. “I’m not Dad’s choice. It’s nice of you to pretend otherwise, but it isn’t helpful right now. This is your farm, and he needs you to step up and take over. Either you do that, or he’ll reinjure himself. You know it’s true.”
“Fuck.” Kyle shoves a bale of straw further onto the truck and then looks around, like he’s seeing our darkened farm for the first time. “I’m a good worker. But I’m shit at the business stuff. I’m no good at planning.”
At least he realizes this. “All you need is some focus. Channel your inner Griffin.” Our apple-farming cousin is a savvy businessman. “Hell—ask Griff to help you. You know he would.”
“But you won’t,” Kyle grumbles.
That’s right, and it gives me a pang of guilt. Except I know better than to help, because Kyle would just let me do everything. “I’m busy making other plans. New house, new classes in the spring.” I’m finally taking control of my life. And that means weaning Kyle off of my assistance.
“Just don’t move out,” Kyle says, as if this were a negotiation. “I’ll step up. I’ll plan everything. But you should really stay here.”
“It’s a done deal. Sorry.” Just saying those words is a big deal for me. I’m no longer caving to everyone’s expectations.
Kyle’s face creases in frustration. He kicks the last bale of straw over and then stalks off without me.
I suppose I could walk off without finishing the job, too. Just to prove a point. But I squat down and grab the last bale, heave it into the truck, and then drive it back to the barn.
Kieran
My mother has made dinner by the time I get back to the house. It’s lasagna, which is one of her better dishes. It’s edible, anyway.
We eat in the same tense silence I’ve always known. Usually it’s my dad who’s stewing in his resentments, but tonight Kyle is also adding to the stony vibe in the room.
For the first time, though, I know I’m here by choice. The keys to Zara’s rental house are burning a hole in my pocket. Soon I’ll be sitting in my own space, eating food of my own choosing. It won’t be good food—I don’t know how to cook, and I can’t afford to eat take-out every night—but it will be all mine.
“You boys get all the oat straw in?” Dad asks, interrupting my thoughts.
“Not all of it,” Kyle says.
“Kieran could have started earlier,” says the old man.
“We were out of diesel,” I say.
“Could have gotten the diesel yourself.”
Kyle has the decency to cringe.
I shove another bite of lasagna into my mouth, and the noodles are tougher than they should be. I’m going to learn to cook for real, I decide. Everything is going to change. I look down at the cow-shaped salt and pepper shakers on the table. I made them for my mother in art class when I was fifteen. She loved them and filled them immediately, standing them in a place of honor in the center of the table.
My father had said they were silly and asked her to keep the old ones out. To this day, there are two competing sets on the table.
I’ve always accepted his disapproval quietly. I never really had a choice. But now I do, and it’s dawning on me that I could move to my new place right now. The only inconvenience would be commuting back to the farm for chores.
Sitting here at the silent dinner table, once again in the shadow of my father’s disapproval, I’m beginning to think my sanity should rate higher than convenience. I clear my throat. “Got some news to share.”
It’s rare that I start dinnertime conversations, so the scraping of plates pauses, and everyone stares at me.
“I’m moving out, into a place I rented. Tonight,” I hear myself add. And why not? I’ll still have to drive between Hardwick and Colebury, but this way I’d be commuting to do farm work instead of coffee-shop work.
For a second my parents just blink at me. Kyle scowls.
“Honey!” my mother gasps. “What brought this on?”
Just everything. “I’ve been saving up,” I say. “And this will make my Busy Bean commute a whole lot easier.”
Kyle shoves another bite of food in his mouth, glowering.
He won’t stay mad, I remind myself. And he doesn’t pay attention, so he doesn’t realize how unhappy I’ve been.
“Waste of money,” my father mutters.
“No, it isn’t,” I say. “I’ve been meaning to get my own place for a while, now. Zara’s tenant fell through on the place she rents out, and she made me a deal I couldn’t refuse.”
“A house? You don’t have furniture,” my mother points out.
“That’s true,” I admit. “But everyone starts somewhere.”
“You can take your bedroom furniture,” Mom offers.
“Like hell,” my father says. “What if we have a guest?”
The rest of us stare. Nobody can even remember the last time we had a guest. My mother’s sister comes once a year and stays in a motel.
“Don’t worry about it. I have money,” I say. I don’t want my old twin bed anyway. I want to start fresh.
Kyle avoids my eyes.
I finish my dinner in a few quick bites. “I’d better get my clothes together. Thanks for dinner, Mom. Excuse me.”
“You can borrow my big suitcase,” she offers.
“Thanks.”
Fifteen minutes later I’m sliding that suitcase into the back of my truck. I have barely anything to move into a house. Clothes and toiletries. A box of my favorite books. Art supplies. My sleeping bag and camping mattress.
My mother comes outside carrying a very ugly lamp. I assume she’s dug it out of the cellar, because it’s only vaguely familiar.
“Thanks.”
“I don’t want you sitting in the dark.” She chews her lip.
“I’ll be fine. Hey, Mom? Could I take my desk? From my room?”
“That old thing? You go ahead. Kyle!” she shouts, and I spot my brother slinking off toward Dad’s truck.
“Kyle! Help Kieran with the desk.”
My brother is silent as he follows me one more time up the little staircase to our rooms. He waits while I remove a few things from the desktop, and then grasps one end of it. But then he lets go and stands tall again. “Why are you doing this?” he asks suddenly. “This is ridiculous.”
Of course he thinks so. Because he doesn’t pay attention.
“It’s not ridiculous. I’m moving out because I want to. It will be easier this way. You’ll see. More room.” Less tension.