Page 6 of A Wedding in a Week

He passes me his phone. “Take a look.”

I do. “A new rotation spreadsheet?” It’s much clearer than our usual paper tally. “Thanks for making it.” I tap my elbow. “Appreciate you taking up so much of my slack here lately, full stop.”

John sounds sheepish as he slides his phone away. “I would take the credit, but that was all our Marc’s handiwork.”

That use of our pokes at a soft yet sore spot in my chest. I rub it for the second time today as John continues.

“Good with figures and not afraid to get his hands dirty? You’d never guess he wasn’t from a farming background like you. You’re a chip off the old block. Your dad…” He straightens, and I recognise the signs from a man who was Dad’s right hand long before he was mine. A man who, like me, doesn’t say much. It means this has impact. “It would have made Richard happy to have all three of his boys back on the farm, pulling together like family. Wish he could have seen it, Stef.”

Me too. So much.

John nods like he hears my thoughts. “He always said Marc arriving each year meant the summer had truly started.”

Again, I can’t find the words to answer, so John continues. “I missed Marc being here for the last few summers. I know it was good for him that he got to intern at those accounting firms in the city. Surprised he hasn’t already been snapped up by one of them.”

Marc has though, hasn’t he?

If he hasn’t mentioned it to John, he must be serious about relocating here instead.

John points to my arm. “No sling today? Does that mean you’re back to full speed and Marc will be leaving as well as Lukas?”

“Not sure,” I manage to get out. “I’m still on light duties for a while longer. Doctor’s orders. Or a future-doctor’s orders anyway.” But no matter what Lukas said about still taking it easy, continuing to do that feels like playing hooky now that I can at least bend and flex my elbow. I show John my range of movement and maybe my guilt shows as clearly as the last of my bruising.

“Don’t rush it,” he tells me, echoing my brother. “I’m sure Marc will stay longer if you let him know you need him. He’s slotted back into place like he’s never been away. Could have been born and bred here apart from that London accent.” He surveys me the same way he used to survey our herd, spotting lameness long before I ever noticed. “Make the most of having an extra pair of hands while you get back to full fitness, Stef. Take your time or you’ll regret it.”

We talk farm business while part of me nags that I should find Marc and... And what? Tell him Lukas asked me to vet his potential partners? Not a chance.

I know what I need to do though—apologise for what happened between us. Or for what almost happened at least. I’m still not convinced turning him down was the wrong decision. Not back then. But this is now.

I still put it off.

It isn’t until after lunch when I go back to the barn, scanning what a man put to rights, not a teen who didn’t know what he was doing. An adult did this, one who hasn’t only come to Kara-Tir for a summer visit. He’s potentially back in Cornwall for good, so maybe we could—

I slam the door on that line of thinking.

He’s still my brother’s best friend. Still someone who stayed away after the last time I hurt his feelings.

Risk a repeat of that now he’s finally back?

I shake my head. I can’t let that happen and there’s no point wishing things were different.

There’s no sign of Marc until I hear the faint chime of a phone. It comes from across the yard. A second chime leads me to him.

He’s behind the feed store, hosing out the heavy steel bins, although his focus isn’t on his work. It’s on his phone, and he wears the same soft smile I saw earlier through my bedroom window. Now he also chuffs out a quiet laugh while thumbing a reply one-handed. He’s still smiling after putting away his phone to get back to his chore, only he splashes himself with the hose when his phone chimes again.

He laughs aloud at his fumbling, and fuck me, but doesn’t that sum up the version of Marc that I remember? He always laughed at himself first. I’d forgotten how that sound was my own signal that summer had started.

Marc turns away to drop the hose in a bin, his T-shirt already saturated, and that’s how I get another up-close lesson on how the last few years have changed him.

He strips it off, his back a play of muscles, his shoulders broader than the last time I saw him shirtless. He’s filled out. Yes, he’s still wiry compared to me, only he’s stronger now, and I can tell he must have worked with his shirt off plenty while I was laid up. The freckles across his back are darker than I remember. He’s speckled with what looks like cinnamon and nutmeg that I want to taste so fiercely I’m glad my brother can’t see my reaction.

Marc grabs the hose again only for it to kink and twist in his hand, sending up a spurting crystal fountain. He laughs at himself one more time, and denying that I’ve missed that sound is pointless. It’s low but lovely, and if farming is good for one thing, it’s for appreciating every single glimpse of beauty amongst all the cow and sheep shit.

I’ve seen it in sunrises after a long night of lambing and in chicks turning from wet to fluffy. Even barley poking through bare soil has a certain magic, so I’m no stranger to finding it on this farm. I’m spoilt for beauty every time the mist clears around the headland or seagulls spiral around the ruins of tin-mine chimneys, but none of what I’ve grown up with comes close to Marc. Not when he turns, smiling at the phone in his hand, his face lively in the same way it always used to be around me.

Drips of hosepipe water dot his chest with damp diamonds, and it guts me that I missed the years that changed him. It’s the only explanation for my voice coming out like gunshots, echoing between the farm buildings.

“What are you doing?”

---