Page 29 of Holiday Pines

“Yeah? How’d that go?”

“Good.Reallygood, actually. He had a lot of ideas. Expanding things, events, using the farm for more than just trees.”

“That’s great, Wes.”

“Yeah.” Wes stood. “I should order.”

“Get whatever. I’m buying.”

“No, you’re not. Why?—”

“Because I want to.”

Wes looked at him for a beat, then went to the counter. When he came back with his own number tent, he sat down more slowly this time, deliberately, like he was choosing to be here instead of just grabbing food to go.

“Can I ask you something?” Jake said.

“Sure.”

“So, Pedro helped? Really?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I worry sometimes that I’m pushing too hard. Telling folks more what to do instead of listening to what they need.”

Wes studied him. “You listen a helluva lot more than most people.”

“I try.”

A server brought Wes’s burger and Coke, then disappeared back behind the counter.

They ate in silence for a moment, comfortable but aware, like sitting next to someone in a movie theater and pretending to watch the screen.

“Tell me more about yourself,” Wes said suddenly.

Jake looked up, surprised. “What do you want to know?”

“You mentioned foster care. What was that like?”

Jake set down his burger, wiping his hands on a paper napkin. People rarely asked about his childhood, thinking it was too painful or too personal, perhaps. But Wes was looking at him with genuine curiosity, not pity.

“It was difficult. A lot of moving around. Seven different homes between the ages of eight and eighteen. Some were okay. Some weren’t.” His eyes glanced again at Wes’s hands. “I built up calluses, so to speak. Learned not to get attached to places or people because nothing’s ever permanent.”

“That sounds lonely.”

“It was.” Jake picked at a fry. “I used to dream about having a real home. Not just a house, but roots… history…family.”

Wes’s expression softened. “Is that why you do this? Save farms? Help people?”

“Part of it. I can’t have that history for myself—can’t manufacture generations of family legacy. But I can help other people keep theirs.”

“You could still have a home. Build your own history.”

Jake smiled, small and sad. “Maybe. I’ve kinda gotten used to the nomadic lifestyle. Never really found the right place, I guess.”

“What would it look like? Your perfect place?”

Jake thought about it. “Land. Not a lot, but enough to feel like I’m not boxed in. Old house with character—crown molding, original hardwood, windows that stick when it rains. Workshop for projects. A garden, maybe. Somewhere quiet but not isolated.” He paused. “Someone to share it with.”