Page 48 of Heartland

“What?”

“The friend zone. Does he flirt with you? Because that might be a good sign. Or are you so far into the friend zone that he farts on you for sport?”

“Ew.” I shudder. “Not that last thing. But he’d never flirt with me. He only dates shiny girls. You know—slick girls with good clothes and the right makeup.”

“Ah,” says Ellie knowingly. “I’ll bet it’s not their clothes. It’s probably the confidence.”

“Probably,” I admit. Dylan doesn’t care very much about money and bling. But confidence is just as unattainable to me as money. “I think he likes sophistication.”

Ellie squints. “Heisa farm boy, right? The work boots are a tell.”

“Sure.”

“Then he’s looking for excitement that he doesn’t think he can get at home. Vermont girls need not apply.”

God, I suppose she’s right. Maybe it’s not personal. But that doesn’t make it easier. “I just wish I could shut it off. I want to stop caring.”

“Or you could just tell him how you feel?”

“No!” I recoil in horror. “That’s never happening.”

“Too embarrassing?” Ellie tucks a frizzy bit of hair behind her ear.

At first I nod. But then I shake my head. “Embarrassment stinks, but it’s not the end of the world.” And I’ve been embarrassed a million times. “I don’t want to lose him. If he pities me, or if I make it awkward, he’ll back away. It’s just not worth it.”

“I get it.” She gives me a sad smile. “He brought you a present?”

“Yeah.” I look down at the box in my hand and tug on the ribbon. “We have this project where we’re making candies to sell at Christmastime. So he keeps buying examples for market research.” I open the box and find two perfect chocolates inside.

“Fancy,” Ellie says. “No hot guy ever bought me chocolates. At least you’ve got that.”

I offer her the box. “There’s one for each of us.”

“Really?”

“Sure.” I take one and then encourage her to do the same.

The chocolate bursts against my tongue. It’s filled with a soft, almost liquid caramel. It’s delicious.

But all I really want is more of Dylan’s kisses.

Seventeen

Dylan

The weekend had beensunny and bright, with a cool yellow sun warming the farm. Chastity and I had made up our big batch of samples. And I put in a lot of face time with the animals and my brother. In that order.

Having survived the anniversary of my father’s death made me more cheerful and less responsive to Griffin’s questions and prodding. I mostly tuned him out, even when he suggested I become a veterinarian because “the vet bill is killing us.”

I told him I’d consider it, just to see what he’d say.

“It’s a lot of extra years in school, though,” was his response. I could almost hear him adding up the tuition bills in his head.

I don’t know what that man wants from me. I really don’t. He spent four years at Boston University. And how many of Dad’s cows had he milked on the weekends? Zero.

But now it’s Sunday evening, and Griffin is many miles in my rearview mirror. Chastity and I have spent the last six hours dropping off our caramel samples. As we approach Burlington again, ominous gray clouds roll in off Lake Champlain, and the sky is darkening in a hurry.

“The wind is really picking up,” Chastity says from the passenger’s seat.