Page 5 of A Bittersweet Summer

The door at the front of the shop opens up, Remi shouting her arrival and intent to sue the contractors if they take any more time with the renovations to the front of the building.

“Noted,” Ryan shouts back.

I adjust my head where it’s resting on my elbow. “It’s a farm job. I figured it would be nice to be outside with horses again—sure beats the dusty interior of a bar.”

“You’re going to have to be extra careful with this, then,” Ryan says. “Keep it out of the sun, and keep it bandaged appropriately. I think it’ll be fine, but if anything goes wrong, I’ll touch it up for free.”

Conversation continues easily as Ryan’s employees start popping in and mulling about, preparing to open the shop for the day.

I check my phone to text Lennon and Ellis about my newest life update in our group chat namedThe Roast Room. Lennon happens to be the one doing the roasting while Ellis texts photos of her newest sketches. I participate with photos of the sky. And like the good friends they are, Lennon and Ellis always send a million hearts in response.

Me:I’m finally getting away from the bar. Starting a new job tomorrow.

Lennon:We have all officially made it past our quarter-life crises.

Ellis:What about a two-week notice? Did you tell the bar?

Me:I’ve actually had a bit of time off. I quit prematurely.

Ellis:I aspire to your level of bravery.

“Alright, Cass,” Ryan says, the buzzing ceasing. “Go take a look, and if you don’t like it, Remi is the one who gave you this tattoo.”

“I heard that,” Remi shouts from the hallway.

Ambling over to the mirror, I look at the delicate lines of the petals. The detail in the center showing no signs of Chad’s name—finally erased from my life.

I grin, turning to face Ryan. “It’s perfect,” I toss in his direction. “The perfect tattoo for the perfect fresh start.”

Three

Wes

Steam wafts off my morning cup of coffee, the chipped mug boasting of countless mornings of mistreatment. Its rough edges match the rest of the farm. Missing paint, falling fences, and a never-ending supply of broken lead ropes.

It seems Miller Run Farm is always under construction—waiting for the next big improvement.

I pull the key ring from the belt loop of my jeans, opening the side door of the barn and scuffing my boots on the concrete floor next to the office entrance. I close the barn door behind me, stealing a sip of black coffee before setting the mug on an old mounting block.

When the barn lights flip on, I watch dust swirl in the air between the empty stalls. Sawdust meets the concrete slab I stand on right next to the office. Rows of stalls line either side of the barn, the sliding doors chipped, much like the mug I brought down to the barn from the house. Despite its imperfections, the carefully raked aisle makes things look a bit nicer.

It’s the kind of place where things break down often, fixed by myself and the few employees I have consistently during the week, but lately, we’ve been falling behind.

I was never any good at fixing things growing up. It was something I had to learn rather quickly.

One winter, when I was a teenager, my sister and I had gotten it in our heads to drive on one of the empty fields where ice had formed after a rather nasty storm. It had been her idea, and certainly fun until we slid right through the brand-new fencing my dad had installed.

I spent hours repairing the thing because even though it was my sister’s idea, I was the one driving the vehicle.

From that point on, I found myself learning more and more about fixing things that were tangible. All the way until the stable, well-loved, had been passed down through three generations until it landed in my lap following my parents’ retirement.

Despite my years of being prepped to fix stall doors, fence posts, and occasionally severe drainage issues in the indoor riding arena, I found myself struggling to keep up as oflate. That’s why hiring a new full-time employee has become essential. Especially after the guy I nearly hired got arrested at the diner because of an outstanding warrant.

I run my hand down my face as a cat weaves its way between my legs, stress bunching the muscles at my shoulders. The lean calico meows pointedly up at me. “Alright, Rory,” I mutter, heaving out a sigh. I bend at the waist to scratch her behind the ears. “You first.”

Grabbing a can of cat food from the office, I return to the door and drop breakfast down to the stray cat that showed up here about three years ago.

My coffee abandoned, I find my way up to the hayloft, dropping flakes down to each stall before trudging to the feed room and loading two large buckets of grain.