Page 10 of A Fighting Chance

She looks around for a moment and then back at me. “Look, everybody’s got a past, a story. I can’t tell his for him, but I will tell you this: he’s single,” she says, winking at me and smirking.

I gasp. “Oh my god, no. That’s not why I’m asking—not atall,” I say, rushing to correct any misunderstanding.

“I don’t care why you asked, sis. The answer is still the same,” she says then opens the door to go back inside to the kitchen.

I follow behind her and notice my grandparents are gone. Gentry, too. “Where is everyone?” I ask.

“Nan is probably over in the store. Paw’s probably in the barn. They may not manage the place anymore, but they still like to work. It’s good for them. And as the owners, they still have the final say, of course. Gentry consults with them all the time on any changes, improvements, or issues. He’s probably having a staff meeting with some of the workers. Then he’ll make his rounds and ensure everything is running smoothly before heading to the office.” Harper says this like it’s routine, and it probably is. One she knows well.

“And what will you do?” I ask.

I watch her expression change a little. “I have to go to the cabin on the back side of the property. That’s where Charles and I were living. We made the cabin our home instead of staying here in the main house to give ourselves some privacy and a sense of ownness, if that makes sense,” she says—and it does.

“What do you have to do?” I ask her.

Harper lets out a breath. “I have to take the belongings that once made up a whole life and sort them out. I have to sort the one life into two separate lives.”

“Do you want me to help?”

“Not today. How about you get dressed and reacquaint yourself with the farm? Tomorrow you can help me if you want. I can’t do all I need to do in one day, anyway,” she says.

I shake my head, understanding that sometimes mourning is accompanied with a desire for solitude. Or maybe she wants to break a few things that belonged to Charles. I never really liked him, so I wouldn’t care either way. The only reason I accepted their relationship was because Harper seemed to be happy. Now, Charles had hurt her. Charles went and fell in love with someone else, which means Charles is a cheater.

And,by the way, he always insisted on being called Charles. Not Charlie, not Chuck, not any other shortened version or nickname that would make him sound like less of a snob. It had to be Charles.

If there’s one thing I know for certain, it’s that Harper definitely deserves the love of a man who is not a cheater and who is not named Charles.

“Wait, what should I do with my rental?” I ask. I mean, let’s face it, I make a decent living, but I’m not rich. To have it a day or two is fine but who knows how long I’ll be here.

Harper considers this for a moment before a smile spreads over her lips. “I’ll ask Gentry if he can follow you back into town and bring you back later. He’s the only one with free time.”

I roll my eyes because I don’t believe a word that’s just come out of her mouth. But apparently, I have no choice in the matter.

I go back up to my room and find some leggings and a sports bra. I’ve jogged nearly every morning since high school and even though this morning has gotten off to a rocky start, I’m not about to let it stop me. A jog through the farm is the perfect solution to both realign my day and do as Harper suggested and reacquaint myself with the place.

I slip my clothes on, opting for one of my thin tank tops to complete the outfit. I pin my long brown hair back into a ponytail and search for my running shoes before stepping back out onto the porch. I put my headphones on and brace a hand against the porch railing while I scroll for the right running music. The irony isn’t lost on me when I search for my country music mix. Being back on the farm just seeps right in. I hit play, hop down the stairs, and take off toward the store.

The farm runs a store on the front end of the property. It stocks homemade jams and jellies made right here on the property, fresh apples from the orchards, vegetables from the fields, and even farm fresh eggs from the chickens, plus an assortment of other goodies. People come from town to shop local, and tourists come from the city for the weekend to experience thefarm life. In truth, they know nothing and experience nothing. Farm life isn’t picking apples into a cute little basket or going on a hay-ride. Farm life is blood, sweat, and tears. Early mornings and late nights. A farmer is part veterinarian, part biologist, and part businessman.

I round the row of trees and the front of the store comes into view. It’s just as quaint and charming as I remember from childhood. On my rather infrequent visits here, I never manage to make it to the store. Buckets of mums sit on the porch and the tin roof extends over a patio with rocking chairs and small tables. People frequently eat here after purchasing fresh fruit and deli sandwiches from inside. My favorite has always been our freshly squeezed lemonade. People can buy it by the cup or take home a whole gallon, which they often do.

Making a mental note to come back tomorrow and actually go in, I pass the store and take the trail down to the orchards. In high school, I used to run between the rows of trees, which made for a beautiful and calming scene. I start down the first row when I hear a voice calling to me, just as a song is ending.

“Lyla? Is that you?”

I turn to look over my shoulder and see a face I think I recognize, but I can’t be sure. I stop and turn, eyeing the man.

He’s about my age. His rusty brown eyes look expectant. His dirty blond hair sweeps over his forehead messily and I notice a small scar over his left eye.

All at once, it hits me. “Dean?”

He was my high school boyfriend. My first love. Myonlylove—the aforementioned love who didn’t love me back. We dated for a time before he suddenly broke it off. On the day of prom. He’d told me he never loved me. And so, given our love had only ever been my love for him, unreturned, I decided I didn’t want to count it asloveat all.

“Yeah, girl! It’s me! How the heck are ya?” He motions me over with his hand in an excited manner.

What the hell is he doing here?

Then it hits me. I recall a conversation with Harper a while back, when she’d tried to bring Dean up. I had told her I didn’t want to talk about him. I was pretty rude about it, actually. Now, I wonder if she was trying to give me a heads up that he’d be working here.

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