Chapter Four

ONE YEAR AGO

Jules’ POV

The afternoon sunlight lingered lazily, cascading in golden threads through the small, old-fashioned windows, catching the dust particles in its path and making them glimmer, suspended in their quiet, aimless dance. I watched them float, as I often did. Outside, the vastness of the fields stretched endlessly—wheat swaying with the same gentle rhythm, as if time itself had lulled the farm into a perpetual hum of sameness. I was not a part of it, not really. The farm was a stage, and I, a bystander, waiting for a cue that never came.

I loved writing. I could almost feel the tactile click of keys beneath my fingers, the soft glow of the laptop illuminating the stories waiting to be released from my mind. But here, on the farm, everything moved slower. The stories stayed locked inside, and instead, I found myself in Nana's kitchen, caught in a different kind of rhythm—her rhythm. The scent of apples simmering in sugar and cinnamon filled the small kitchen, mingling with the warm, comforting smell of bread rising slowly in the oven. I loved her pies, loved the way she would tell me stories of her wild, untamed youth in the city, a life so different from this one, where she eventually settled. But lately, her stories weren’t as clear. There were more pauses, more gaps where her mind wandered and returned confused. Today, though, she was sharp, her laughter crisp and real, filling the space between us.

I hadn’t noticed the car at first, so wrapped up in the familiarity of my thoughts. But the rumble of the engine, deep and throaty, broke the delicate silence, pulling me back into the present. I turned toward the window. A sleek, chrome-colored car, too polished for the dust of the gravel road, had stopped by the fence—the one we never quite got around to fixing properly.

Another city person. Great. I knew the type: restless, seeking something they couldn’t find in their concrete jungles, believing the farm could offer them a glimpse of simplicity, of nature unspoiled. They came for the romanticized version of this life—early mornings with dew-kissed fields, sunsets that painted the sky in warm pastels. They never stayed long enough to see the grit beneath the charm.

“Nana, is it another one of those city people?” I couldn’t help the sigh that slipped from my lips, already imagining the questions about cows and goats, the inevitable I*******m photos of freshly laid eggs and rustic barns.

She smiled, a smile full of quiet amusement and warmth. “Now, Jule, don’t be like that. It’s good to have company other than you and Danny.” Her hands, wrinkled and soft, moved with practiced ease as she slid a perfectly browned pie into the oven. “You might even like them. Besides, it’s nice cooking for someone new every once in a while.”

I groaned internally but stood up, following her to the door. Her hand, resting on my shoulder, was firm but comforting—a silent reassurance. The kind of touch that told me she knew this routine would be good for me, even when I resisted it.

Outside, the sun was lower now, slanting across the fields in long rays that made everything seem bathed in gold. And there, by the car, stood a guy. He was facing away from us, unpacking something from the back seat, but even from where I stood, there was something about him—something that drew my attention, the way a well-placed word in a sentence can make you pause.

Nana, never one to hesitate, waved enthusiastically as we walked toward him. “Hello there! So glad you could make it!”

He straightened and turned around, his gaze locking with mine almost instantly. My stomach fluttered—no, it somersaulted, the kind of flip that catches you off guard. His eyes were dark, warm, the color of rich coffee swirled with milk, and they held mine as if they were asking something, something I couldn’t quite understand yet. For a second, I forgot how to breathe.

“I’m Adam,” he said, his voice light but steady, like he was testing the waters of this new place.

“Adam,” Nana echoed, always quick to welcome. “And this is Marjorie, though no one calls me that anymore. And this,” she beamed, pulling me a little closer, “this is my granddaughter, Julie Rose.”

“Just Jules,” I murmured, feeling my face grow hot. I hated that name, Julie Rose. It felt too delicate, too much like a flower about to wilt. Jules was simpler, cleaner—something I could mold and shape on my own terms.

“Nice to meet you, Jules,” Adam said, and for a brief second, I thought I saw something in his eyes—a flicker, a kind of recognition, or maybe curiosity. It was so brief, though, it might have just been my imagination.

His smile, though, was real. Broad and easy, it softened his features and sent another round of flutters through my stomach. God, I must’ve looked like an idiot standing there, staring at him.

“Why don’t you show Adam to the loft?” Nana’s voice cut through the moment, cheerful and light, unaware of the tiny war waging inside me.

“I can manage,” Adam interjected quickly, but Nana, always one to have the last word, waved it off with a laugh. “Nonsense, you’re our guest. Jules will show you the way.”

I grabbed his suitcase before I could think too much about it. It wasn’t heavy, but the weight of the moment felt like something else entirely. The path to the barn, normally so familiar, now stretched long and uncertain before me. Adam walked beside me, his presence easy, though I could sense he was sizing up the place, trying to make sense of this new world he’d stepped into.

“So, what brings you here?” I asked, surprised at my own voice breaking the silence.

He shrugged, glancing around before answering, “Needed a break. Too much noise back home. Figured this would be…different.”

Different. Yes, this place was that, all right. But something about the way he said it made me think he wasn’t talking about the farm.

“Jules,” he said softly after a moment, his eyes catching mine again, “Thanks for showing me around.”

And in that moment, as the light shifted and the evening breeze stirred the tall grass, I wondered if this—this fleeting connection, this unspoken understanding—wasn’t the real reason he had come. Not the farm, not the break. Maybe, just maybe, he had been searching for something he couldn’t name. And in a way, so had I.