I stalk away across the fields, his words echoing through my mind.

You’re exactly the same girl you used to be.

He acted like he didn’t even recognize me. He lied. Pretended I was nothing more than some stranger whose property he owned half of, when all the time he knew everything. Now he expects me to, what? Suddenly feel nostalgic about him, this life, this place?

The fact that I do, a bit, isn’t the point.

The girl who grew up here alongside Grant Werther is a completely different person. A past life. I’ve got a whole life waiting for me back home in the city, one I built myself. I don’t need him or anyone.

You’re exactly the same girl you used to be, he said. How can I be? I’ve run as far from her as I possibly can.

I pace along the fence he’s been rebuilding. This part of the work he’s done almost entirely himself. I reach out to run a hand along the wire that makes up most of the fence. My fingers dance across the wooden posts every few feet, tracing the rough material. A splinter pricks my finger at one point, and I draw it out with a sigh, dropping the pesky little sliver of wood to the grass at my feet.

Wish I could deal with all my problems that easily. Pluck them out and let them fall to the mud.

But this one, especially, is going to be hard to rid myself of.

So I try to do the one thing I really don’t want to do.

I try to remember.

I start with the house itself. I have good memories there. Playing underfoot in the kitchen while Mama cooked. Running in and out of the living room, to… I grimace, rub my temples. But I force myself to relive that memory. Running in there to find Dad with a newspaper. Leaping onto the couch beside him, tugging at the paper. Making him sigh with exasperation, but then reach for me anyway, tug me onto his lap and ruffle my hair. He’d sit with me, let me read the paper with him, ignoring my childish attempts at pronouncing the big words in the news he always read.

Dad had wanderlust, Mama always said. He traveled for work at first, just weeklong trips here and there. I always cried when he left, but he never looked sad. He only looked sad when he came back.

That’s what made him run in the end, she told me. He couldn’t stand this life. Too country, too provincial. Too small.

He was never mean to us. Never seemed to hate us. Just… when he finally ran, his conscience didn’t let him look back. He used to send me a letter once a year, on my birthday. They’d be filled with a whole lot of nothing. Just platitudes. “Miss you, hope you’re doing well, thinking about you today.” No details about where he was, what he was doing. Why he left.

On my sixteenth birthday, the letters stopped coming.

On my eighteenth birthday, when I left for college, I burned the ones I had saved. I didn’t need that reminder. No more than I needed him.

But I only ended up doing the same thing he did, I realize. I ran too, I left Mama behind to deal with it all herself. I wrote off this whole town because of him.

No wonder people hate me now that I’m finally back. They look at me and see my father. They see another runaway. Another person who abandoned them for something bigger without a backward glance.

I look up, surprised to find the fence has ended. I’ve circled all the way around to the front of the house without realizing, and now my feet, almost by habit, have led me away from the fence line. Toward the big tree out front, the one I first noticed when I pulled up. The one some part of me remembered, even when my conscious mind didn’t want to.

The tire swing is still hanging from its thick lower branch. Up close, I can see that the rope doesn’t look damaged at all. It’s grimy, dirty from all these years out in the weather. But it’s thick and steady as ever, and the tire dangling from it looks exactly the same way it did years ago when I took my last spin on it.

I can see it now. Me and Grant. He still scrawny, but starting to get taller, leaner. Starting to have that athletic build that would eventually turn into every muscle a guy can possibly have.

Back then, we’d play tag across this front field, barefoot. Chasing a couple of the neighbor kids, having them turn around and chase me in return whenever I managed to catch one of them.

Grant would always grin when he caught me, apologize through that gap in his front teeth, a gap that’s long since vanished now.

I remember the way I used to catch him stealing peeks at me whenever we’d sit down around the dining room table in the kitchen for lunch. Mama would be out back eating with the grown-ups, his parents, and other kids’ parents. They’d leave us to our own devices, and we’d shoot eyes at one another, elbow each other for taking the last slice of bread, eating the last helping of stew.

I remember later on. When we were older, maybe at the start of high school. Just before he made friends with the jocks. Before that group of kids all drifted apart, before we made other friends, forgot about each other. I remember him pushing me on the tire swing out front, the way I’d scream higher, then shriek with fear, delight, some mix of it all.

I remember the two of us standing opposite one another on that same tire swing. Pushing it around and around until the rope was wound up tight. Then standing up at the same time, letting go, so it spun as fast as it could. We’d hang onto that rope, our hands touching, both of us shrieking. But our eyes were locked the whole time, like we couldn’t get enough of that feeling. That adrenaline rush, and… each other.

I used to wonder if he wanted to kiss me. I used to think about it. I even almost kissed him, once. But Mama came out, called me home, and I let the moment pass.

I let Grant Werther go.

My feet lead me across the yard, until I find myself standing below the tree. I circle the tire swing, taking it in. I tug on it once to test its weight, and I’m surprised to find that Grant’s right. It is sturdy. Maybe even as sturdy now as the day my father first strung it up.

That’s why I never think about this. About any of it. It hurts too much to think about anything right after Dad’s leaving. But it’s been here all along, at the back of my mind, tugging at my subconscious.

My memories of Grant are all tangled up with Dad leaving, with heartache and pain. But still, I never forgot him. Still, I knew him again the moment I saw him. I’m still the girl I used to be—and he’s still the boy he was too. My brain was trying to remind me, trying to show me what I so desperately wanted to forget.

I walk past the tire swing, letting it drift back and forth on its rope as I approach the tree trunk instead.

Sure enough, I find it on the first try. The set of initials carved one on top of the other. Almost like the initials kids would carve later, in high school, with their sweethearts. We hadn’t dared to put a heart around it back then. Neither of us wanted to admit we liked each other. That would be putting ourselves at risk, going too far out on a limb. We just circled it, flirted, made eyes at one another the way kids do, without ever taking it farther.

But I remember. I remember lying on the grass out here with him late one night, before sophomore year of high school started, before he made it onto varsity track and drifted away, started hanging out with the athletes, the hot girls, the cool kids. Before I lost him—before I pushed him away so far that he couldn’t help but let himself get lost.

I wanted to kiss him. I wanted more. I never had the nerve.

I reach out and brush the tree trunk.

SB

GW

Right there in front of me. The evidence I’d been looking for all along. Grant and I used to be close.

But he abandoned me first. He started hanging with another crowd, stopped coming over to the farm. He never kissed me. That’s the part that really rankles. He never took this chance when he had it.

Then I came back, gave him another chance all over again, and he got angry.

Angry because he thought I forgot him. He believed the same thing I did. I thought he forgot, he thought I forgot…

No wonder he’s pissed, I realize. It’s the same reason I was so angry at first.

Suddenly, it all makes sense. A little too much sense, and it makes my skin itch, to know that I’ve hurt him, too.

I trace my fingers across those initials, over and over.

Deep down, I’d always believed Dad was right about this town. This place is a waste, I remember him shouting at Mama, late at night after they both thought I was in bed. The year before he left. The year he traveled all the time, tried not to come home at all if he could help it. The year he spent trying to talk Mama into leaving with him. But she wouldn’t budge.

This is my home, she said. I like this life.

I can’t stand it, he’d always say. How can you live like this, cooped up? Trapped? There’s a whole world out there. Opportunities! We could make so much more money doing the same thing we do in a bigger city, out in the Midwest…

I believed him. Deep down, even though he’s the one that threw us out, ran away… I always believed he was right. I left here as soon as I could, went chasing my dreams. Success, money, my big-shot career. That was what life was about. That was what was important.

No one would ever abandon me again, as long as I had those things.

But that hasn’t proven true. Guys have dumped me, and I’ve dumped guys, over and over. I’ve never really connected with anyone I’ve dated, not long-term, not enough to trust them to stick around.

And my money, my career? What has that brought me? A whole lot of anxiety about getting more. More money, a better career, the next promotion, and then the next and the next and the next. I’m never satisfied with what I have. I always want more, but more doesn’t satiate me either.

Maybe less is what I really want. Maybe less is actually more, in the grand scheme of things…

I turn away from the tree to squint back at the house. The farm house where Mama grew up, and her parents before her. The farm that’s been in our family since as far back as Mama knew to tell me about.

There’s a light on in the living room. I can’t make out anything more, but I figure Grant must be inside somewhere. Showering or sleeping, if he’s angry enough.

I take a deep breath of the fresh air. Hope that it clears my head enough to say what I want to say without stammering, losing my place, getting distracted.

I cross the lawn and quietly turn the handle on the front door. Step into the living room. He’s not there, but the kitchen light is on too. I follow that to find him still in his work clothes, chopping vegetables on the counter, his shoulders taut with tension. There’s already something bubbling on the stove beside him. Dinner, probably, or lunch for tomorrow. He always cooks when he’s upset.

Strange that I know that already. Strange how fast I’ve gotten to know him. But then again, maybe not strange at all, given how well we knew each other before. It was only a couple of summers that we hung out, but it was long enough. I’m the same girl, and he’s the same guy.

I step up beside him.

“Hey.”

He keeps chopping the vegetables, quiet, unresponsive. But he’s listening, at least.

“I thought you forgot me,” I say. “I believed the same thing you did.”

He turns to look at me then, but his dark eyes are unreadable. Inscrutable in this low light. When he finally speaks, his voice is low. Full of pain. “How could I possibly forget you, Sasha?”

I press my lips together, a tight line. “You abandoned me first, Grant. You started hanging out with the jocks, stopped coming by the farm. Never asked me to any of the school dances, never kissed me, when there were so many chances, late at night out watching the stars…”

“I wanted to kiss you every single one of those times,” he finishes, eyes still locked on mine. Then he sighs and tears them away, shoulders still tense. “I didn’t have the guts. I thought you weren’t interested, anyway—you were hanging out with the artsy crowd, never asked me over—”

“Because I assumed you were busy being a cool kid,” I point out.

“And I thought you were too important for me. I thought you left me behind, the way you left everyone here behind when you left town.”

I bite my lip. “I never meant to do that to you. I just needed to get out of here. After Dad left, after everything Mama went through… I couldn’t spend my whole life here. I needed to get out. Try something different. See what the rest of the world was like.”

“And what do you think?” He lifts a brow.

I dare a tiny half-smile. “The rest of the world? It’s overrated, if you ask me.”

For a long moment, he keeps chopping veggies. Dumps them into the pot, then slowly sets down the knife and turns to look at me. This time, I can read the pain in his gaze all too well. “I’m not a kid anymore, Sasha. I’m not going to beat around the bush. If you’re just looking for a vacation fling before you head back to the big city and your life there, that’s fine, but you’d best tell me now.” He meets my eye, and I cannot look away. Can’t tear my gaze from his. “What do you want, Sasha?” he asks.

I blink, startled. It’s a question I haven’t been asked in a very long time. It’s a question I haven’t asked myself in even longer. I haven’t dared. Because if I were being honest, I’d admit that I don’t want the life I currently have. Everything I’ve built for myself, my little empire in the city… It’s everything I always dreamed of. Everything I thought I wanted. And it makes me feel nothing except stress. Sadness. Emptiness.

He sighs, deep in the back of his throat, and starts to turn away when the silence stretches on too long. But I grab his arm, pull him back to me, and blurt the only answer that comes to mind. The truth. The one that came into my head the moment he asked the question, even though it seems crazy.

“I want you,” I say.

He steps closer. Looms over me. My head tilts back to keep our eyes locked, and my heart beats in my throat at his nearness, the scent of him, the feel of the heat radiating off his skin. “Are you sure about that?”

“As sure as I’ve ever been of anything,” I whisper, and it’s the truest thing I’ve ever said.

Grant cups my cheek gently. Leans down to kiss me, and this time, when we kiss, it’s different. I sink into him, falling up, as I wrap my arms around his neck to steady myself. It’s a slow, sensual kiss, the kind I could lose myself in for hours. His mouth parts, his tongue traces my lips, slides between them, and I tangle my tongue in his, lose myself in him, his taste, his scent.

We part again, and he hovers inches from my lips, his breath hot across my cheeks. “If you stay with me… If you want a life with me… You know that means living here, don’t you?”

“I do,” I murmur.

His eyes search mine. “Can you really accept that, Sasha?”

I open my mouth, but he stops me with a tilt of his head, a flicker of his brow.

“Don’t answer this lightly,” he admonishes. “I know how eager you were to run last time. How badly the big city tugged at you. You couldn’t wait to put all of us—this whole town and me, in your rearview mirror. Are you sure you could really make a life here? Would you really be happy in this town?”

I lean up to press my lips to his, tentative at first, then deeper, harder. When we pull apart again, I know. I wrap one hand around his neck and tug him down until his forehead rests against mine, our eyes fixed on one another. “I want this, Grant. That life, the big city, all the hustle and bustle, it… I enjoyed it, for a time. But it never felt real. It never felt settled. This, you… This feels more real than any of that ever did.”

“What do you want to do about the farm?” he asks softly.

I bite my lip and shake my head once, hard. “I don’t want to sell it. I can’t imagine it, not after everything we’ve built here, not after fixing it all up like this… Together. We built this place. My family built this place, way back when. I want to keep it.” Then I wince and step back a pace to watch him. “But, I mean… I know I only own half the place now. If you want to sell, I can respect that. I’ll…” I shake my head. “I don’t know. I’ll figure out another place to live…”

“I don’t want to sell, Sasha,” he cuts across me. “I never did. Hell, when you told me you did…” He grimaces, and it makes my heart ache to see that pain on his face. “It felt like a slap in the face,” he finally murmurs. “You finally came home, and all you wanted to do was get rid of everything left that might tie you even a little bit to this place. That, and you acted like you didn’t even remember me.”

“Yeah, well, you pretended you didn’t know me either.” I cup his face between my hands, his beard scratchy against my palms. “I don’t know how either of us ever believed that of one another, Grant. I’m sorry for that. But I remember you. I remember it all. I always have. Not just the bad parts, the only parts I let myself think about for years. I remember how much I loved it here, before Dad left. Before I started to worry that everyone would leave me, eventually…”

“I won’t,” he promises, and I smile, as I lean up to kiss him again.

“I know,” I whisper against his lips, and it feels like a new start. Then Grant grabs my hand, tugs me away from the sink, into the living room.

We don’t even make it as far as the bedroom. We fall in a tangle of limbs onto the couch, both of us tearing at one another’s clothing.

I don’t know how I couldn’t see this sooner. How I could ever run away from this place—from a man like Grant–when he’s the first person who’s ever made me recognize how miserable I really was in the rat race of the big city. Here, I’ve seen the stars every night, tasted fresh air, worked up a sweat at hard physical labor that I never dreamed I’d be capable of doing. But I’m stronger than I thought, and capable of so much more than I ever dreamed.

Just look at how quickly we shaped up this farm. In just under a week, we’ve been able to make it look like a completely different place, a real home, and a farm that could start working again. Imagine how much we could do if we lived here full-time, really put our all into getting this place up and running and producing again?

I love this place… And, I’m starting to realize, as Grant kisses me until my lips ache and lowers me down onto the couch, lying atop me, his muscles hard against mine, his body hot and close… I love him.

Grant tosses the last scrap of my clothing aside just as I finish pushing his boxers down, freeing his cock, already rock hard at attention between us.

But when he sits back down on the couch, he grabs me and pulls me onto his lap, until I’m kneeling across him, our lips still pressed together, tongues entwined. He pulls me down slowly, angling me just right, and then I lower myself the rest of the way, pushing the tip of his cock between my lips into my entrance, and slowly, inch by inch, lowering myself onto his thick shaft. I moan, head falling back as I sit down against him completely, and he fills me up, stretching me the way he always does.

Fuck. I will never get tired of this feeling.

“I love your tight little pussy,” he murmurs against my lips, and I grin into our kiss, nipping at his lower lip. He bites mine in response, hard enough to make me gasp, and then he kisses it better, his hands tightening on my ass, lifting me up.

“You feel so fucking good inside me,” I whisper into his mouth, as I slide back down against him, thrust him in deep again. We start to rock in time with one another, building up momentum, and with every crash of our hips together, the tension in my pussy builds, my clit throbbing with desire before long. His hipbone grinds against my clit every time I sit down against him, and it makes me wild. His hands run down my back, nails raking over my skin, as I cling to him so hard I’ll leave marks on his back for days. I don’t care. I want everyone to know.

He’s mine.

And I’m his. And fuck, it feels good.

When he comes, it sets me over the edge too, both of us crying out, his hands pulling me down against him, his cock deep inside me as he finishes. I sag against him, spent, and he holds me up, supports me as I catch my breath, my heart hammering in my chest, my limbs limp with pleasure.

Before I’ve even completely recovered, Grant scoops me up in his arms. Carries me out of the living room, toward the bathroom, with a grin.

“I think we’d better get cleaned up before bed,” he says, though to judge by the wicked smile on his face, I have a feeling we’ll be getting dirtier again before we get cleaner…