Page 69 of Riding the Sugar High

“No, uh, sorry. I’m here.”

“Oh, guess who just parked in front of the office? Sorry to bother you; it looks like your boyfriend was just horribly late.”

“Yeah,” I say faintly. “Okay. Bye then.”

Once I hang up, I bring a hand to my chest. Each new wave of emotion is chasing the last so fast that I can’t fully feel anything. Is he seriously selling this place? His home?

Kyle and Simon can’t possibly know a thing about it, or it would have come up. And his brother—his family. Nobody knows about this, I’m sure.

Why is he giving up on this farm? On what’s most important to him?

The fresh scar of betrayal bleeds again as I slowly make my way over to sit on the couch. I thought he was starting to open up to me—that we were becoming something like friends—but maybe Derek is right.

Maybe there’s no friendship, no affection or loyalty. Just an opportunity to escape jail. And I’m an idiot who’s falling for the same scheme a second time.

your boobs distract me

Logan

With the doorclosing behind me, I exhale, my eyes bouncing from the candle on the coffee table to Primrose’s makeup bag on the bookshelf and her tablet abandoned on the carpet in front of the small fireplace. Her book is face down as if she’s using the whole couch as a bookmark, and all the lights in the house are on, though she’s nowhere to be found.

I click my tongue, tossing away an empty yogurt cup. I’m not a neat freak, but living with this woman is like being swept up by a tornado.

As I approach the corridor, the phone rings rings, and I stop to answer. “Hello?”

“Hi. Farm Coleman?”

“Yes. Who am I speaking to?”

“It’s Ashton Clifford. From Clifford’s Vegotruck.”

“Uh, yeah.” I rub the side of my head, trying to figure out if I’ve ever heard of it. “How can I help you?”

“We’d like a quote. We heard your produce is vegan?”

Oh, fuck. A new client? We haven’t had any requests in months. “Yes, we’re certified by the Vegan Farming Association.” I grab my notebook and a pen. “Happy to send you a quote. Give me your contact information, and I’ll have one of my guys call you.”

He recites his number, and I say, “Thanks, man. We’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

When I hang up, I’m smiling. This hardly makes a difference in the big picture, but it’s a new client. It’s something. Especially seeing as the quote I got from the mechanic nearly gave me a stroke. Could it be the ads I set up throughout the region? Or maybe word of mouth is doing its job? Well, who cares? What matters is that I’m doing something right after all.

As I turn around, Primrose comes out of the corridor with a book held open against her chest. She drops on the couch, her eyes running down my mud-covered clothes, and begins reading without so much as a “Hello.”

“Hi,” I mumble. “All good?”

She ignores me, flipping pages like I don’t exist.

Is she mad about lunch or something? She tried to discuss it as we drove back, after whining about Josie, who apparently tried and nearly managed to trick her into confessing. I managed to calm her down when she freaked out about the keys they found, though I’m most certainly concerned about it, then successfully avoided her billion questions about my brother and me.

I was rude, but nothing out of the ordinary. Normal-rude. So why does she look pissed off?

Glancing at the sweater on the chair, then the empty dish on the counter, I clear my throat. I’m not sure what exactly happened in the three hours I’ve been out of the house, but she’s pissed. Seeing as I’m already annoyed after the day I had, I can’t say I expect this to end well.

“Did you decide what recipe to send Marisol?”

She shakes her head but doesn’t say a word. Seeing as she’s physically incapable of silence, it’s not a good sign. Maybe that’s why she’s in a shitty mood, though it seems targeted at me.

“Well, why not?”