Page 20

THE RHYTHMIC CLATTER of metal against wood filled the sugar shack as I worked, scooping out the last batch of syrup for filtering.

The early spring day was cool, but the heat from the evaporator kept the room warm, and the sweet scent of maple hung thick in the air.

It should have been comforting and grounding, but instead, it felt suffocating.

I leaned against the workbench and cursed.

I’d screwed up. Royally.

I was like a hormonal kid—one kiss and thought I was in love.

No wonder he ran from me.

Fuck. My. Life.

I was hiding in the sugar shack, pretending to be busy, licking my wounds like a fool.

And for what? Ben was gone, back to Boston, back to whatever mess he was dealing with, and I couldn’t stop replaying our last conversation—or lack of one—in my head.

I dropped the ladle into the sink with a clatter and ran a hand through my hair.

“Idiot,” I muttered under my breath.

The door opened. “Hello, Sam.” Harriet’s voice was light and cheerful as always.

I glanced up to find her standing there, a smile playing on her lips, her coat draped over one arm.

“Morning, Harriet,” I replied, straightening and wiping my hands on a rag.

Have you heard from Ben?

Is he coming back? Why did he go?

What did I do wrong?

I didn’t say any of that.

Instead, I talked as though we didn’t have this Ben thing between us.

“What brings you out here? I thought you’d be in the house with Mom.”

She stepped inside, eyeing the rows of jars cooling on the counter.

“I was, and your mom’s catching me up on all the gossip over coffee, but I couldn’t resist popping in to see how things were progressing.”

I chuckled softly, gesturing toward the steaming pans.

“Same as always. Busy, sticky, never-ending.”

Harriet wandered closer, her sharp eyes taking in everything like always.

“This place is the heart of the farm, isn’t it?”

I nodded, but my thoughts were elsewhere.

My fingers fiddled with the edge of the rag as I debated how to steer the conversation.

“So, Ben sent me some photos of his hotel in Boston.”

“And you’re telling me this why?” Wow, way to sound rude.

“Sorry, bad night.” Bad few days.

Seemed I couldn’t sleep without Ben tucked in my arms.

“It’s okay, Sam. I know you miss him. I do, too. Any who… his hotel is this adorable, converted firehouse hotel near MIT, and he said he’s busy working.”

My stomach twisted at the mention of him, the mental image of Ben in Boston flashing in my mind.

“‘Busy working’, huh?” I said, keeping my voice neutral as I returned to my task.

Harriet didn’t press.

“He’s been quiet in our calls, but he seems… okay. I think he’s sorting things out.”

His calls?

To Harriet? There went my last hope.

I filed the information away, unsure what to do with it.

He hadn’t replied to my texts, not even the one where I’d asked if he’d made it to Boston safely.

There’d been nothing from him since he left, not a single word.

“Good to know,” I muttered, scraping the last syrup into a jar.

“He’s probably got a lot on his plate.”

Harriet said nothing for a moment, but when I glanced at her, her expression was thoughtful.

“Sam,” she began, “I know it’s not my place, but sometimes people imagine they can do everything alone and don’t ask for help. Or worse, they don’t know how to return from what they’ve done.”

I nodded, the weight of her words settling heavily in my chest. “Yeah,” I said.

“Maybe.”

Harriet gave me a small smile, reaching out to squeeze my arm.

“Take care of yourself, Sam. And don’t overthink things.”

As she left, her words lingered.

I stared at the bubbling sap, the warmth of the sugar shack suddenly stifling.

Ben was out there, in Boston, figuring out his life.

And me? I was here, rooted in the farm, surrounded by the life I’d always known, happy here.

But sad without him.

Devastated.

So damn angry.

Sad.

Broken.

I told myself I didn’t need answers or closure.

But deep down, I wasn’t sure how long I could keep pretending.

Conor: Beer at mine?

Haider: I’m in

Ryan: See you in thirty

Me: I’ll try

Conor: Do or do not.

There is no try

Me: Fuck off

Conor: Rude

Whatever.

I made it to Conor’s place an hour later, still in work clothes, desperate to see my friends and for them to slap the idiocy out of my head.

Ben was gone. I was here.

Get over it.

I sat in the corner of Conor’s living room, nursing a beer I wasn’t drinking.

The guys were in their usual spots—Conor stretched out on the chair, Haider perched on the armrest, and Ryan sprawled across the couch.

Their voices bounced around the room, but I wasn’t listening.

My thoughts were stuck on Ben.

“I don’t even know where he is,” I finally muttered, breaking into their conversation.

I stared at my untouched beer, tracing the label with my thumb.

Silence and I glanced up—all of them staring at me.

Conor raised an eyebrow.

“Ben?”

“Sam’s pining,” Haider added.

I sent Haider my best glare, but he smirked at me.

“Harriet says he’s working. In the city,” I said with a sigh.

“Working. As if everything is okay. But he told me there was trouble in the city.”

“What kind of trouble?” Ryan asked, bristling.

“Something he signed NDAs for.”

“Has he messaged you?” Haider asked.

“No.”

“Did you message him?” Ryan asked, and I nodded.

“A couple of times.”

“Did you tell him you love him?” Haider asked.

I did my best impression of a goldfish, all the words to deny that trapped in my head.

Hell, who was I kidding?

“No, I haven’t told him that I love him or want him to be my boyfriend, and I didn’t push him to tell me what was worrying him, and fuck, who even uses the word boyfriend anymore! I’m an idiot!”

“I’d kind of like a boyfriend,” Ryan said.

“And me,” Haider added.

“All of us want what you and Ben have,” Conor finished.

“Now you’re telling us you love the guy, you miss him like hell, but you’re just sitting here staring at your beer?”

“He left. All I got was a lousy note with one single word. Sorry! He doesn’t want me like I wanted him,” I shot back, my voice low.

“Yet again, I fall for someone who’s just screwing me around!”

“He loves you,” Haider said in the softest voice.

“We can all see that, right?”

“Yeah,” Conor agreed.

“Yep,” Ryan said, then sighed.

“He always looked as though he had all this weight pushing him down, but when he was with you, hell, Sam, he was smiling and relaxed.”

“This,” Haider agreed.

Conor tapped his knee.

“Come on, Sammy. You’re not the type to give up that easily. If you want Ben, you’ve got to tell him how you feel and love him. Then let him decide what to say back to you.”

“I love Ben,” I said, my voice cracking.

“I miss him. I want to know why he left me. I need to know that he’s okay… I want him here—or I’ll go there.” The words spilled out before I could stop them, and the room fell silent.

Conor’s jaw dropped.

“You’d go to Boston? You?”

“I would,” I admitted, my heart pounding.

“I don’t know where he is. I know Harriet said he’s staying in some hotel near MIT.”

Haider pulled out his phone, already scrolling.

“That doesn’t exactly narrow it down, buddy. You know how many hotels are near MIT?”

I stared at Conor, my brain working overtime.

Something was missing—something right in front of me.

Then my eyes landed on the logo on Conor’s sweatshirt: CCFD.

A memory clicked. “A converted firehouse.”

Haider blinked, then sat up straighter.

“What?”

“The hotel is a converted firehouse,” I repeated, the realization hitting me like lightning.

Haider’s fingers flew across his phone.

“The Kendall Hotel. That’s where he is.” He tapped some more.

“One hour, thirty-two, and we could be there.”

Conor stood, his expression resolute.

“Get in my truck, Sam. I’m taking you to pack a bag, and we’re going on a road trip.”

I stared at him, my chest tightening.

“You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” Conor said, his grin wide.

“I haven’t even touched my beer, so I’ll drive, and hell, you’ve been miserable without him. Let’s fix that and determine what he’s up to either way. Ryan, you can be the muscle in the showdown, and Haider… well, you can sit on Ben if he tries to escape.”

Ryan stretched and smirked.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

Haider shoved his phone into his pocket.

“I can sit. I’m in.”

For the first time in days, I felt a flicker of hope.

I stood; my legs shaky but my resolve solid.

“Guys—”

“Get in the damn truck, Sam!”

Haider called shotgun, leaving me in the back seat with Ryan.

We stopped at my cabin, and I shoved random items into a duffle: my charger, the battered copy of a book Ben had left at mine, and organized cover with Dad, who promised he was glad to help before hugging me.

“Go get him. We like him,” he said.

“I love him, Dad.”

“Then bring him home.”

WHEN WE LEFT Caldwell Crossing, Ryan and I were quiet, letting Conor and Haider dominate the conversation as always, and it didn’t take long for a debate to kick off.

The moment Haider connected his phone to the Bluetooth and Taylor Swift’s “Cruel Summer” filled the cab, I knew we were in for it.

“Seriously, Haider?” Conor groaned, gripping the steering wheel as if the music offended him.

“You’re gonna make me listen to this?”

“What’s your problem now?” Haider shot back, jabbing at his phone to turn the volume up.

“It’s perfect road trip music.”

“It’s whiny,” Conor said.

“You know what’s real music for the road? ‘Enter Sandman’. Now that gets the blood pumping.”

“Right, because Metallica growling into a mic is so uplifting,” Haider shot back, rolling his eyes.

“Taylor Swift writes art. She tells stories. She makes you feel things.”

“Yeah, nauseous,” Conor muttered.

“Come on, Conor. She’s not that bad,” Ryan offered.

“Not that bad?” Conor glanced at him in the rearview mirror, looking hurt.

“Ryan! I thought you had standards.”

Ryan snorted.

“Says the guy who made us listen to “Whiskey in the Jar” for an entire trip to Albany.

”

“That’s a classic! You don’t skip Metallica,” Conor barked, as if it was a rule of the road.

Ryan leaned back with a grin; arms crossed.

“You guys realize this argument is pointless, right? Apples and oranges.”

Conor’s glare caught me in the rearview mirror.

“It’s not pointless. It’s about what’s real.”

Ryan shrugged.

“I’m just here for the show. And for the record? Pearl Jam beats both of them.”

The truck went silent for half a second before Haider groaned, and Conor let out an exasperated laugh.

“Pearl Jam?” Haider said, twisting to glare at Ryan.

“You’re joking.”

“Nope,” Ryan said, deadpan.

“‘Better Man’ is untouchable.”

Conor muttered something about ejecting passengers, and Haider grumbled about people with no taste.

It diverted my mind, but I didn’t participate.

My eyes stayed fixed on the window as the scenery blurred by.

The middle of nowhere transformed into endless stretches of highway, and then, finally, the towering skyline of Boston came into view.

The sight of it twisted my stomach.

I was here for Ben, but would he want me here?

We pulled up to the Kendall Hotel just after seven, the building’s brick facade glowing under the streetlights.

As we parked on a side road, I stared at it, nerves tying knots in my chest.

And then I was lost.

“What now?” I muttered, stepping out of the car and jamming my hands into my pockets.

“They’re not going to give me his room number.”

“They’ll let you leave a message, though,” Ryan said, his tone matter-of-fact.

“But what am I supposed to say? ‘Hey, it’s Sam. I drove from Caldwell Crossing because I miss you?’ That’s not going to work.”

Conor snapped his fingers, a grin spreading across his face.

“Tell them there’s a package for him in reception.”

I frowned.

“A package?”

“Yeah,” Conor said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“They’ll call him down to collect it. When he comes down, there you are. Package delivered.”

Haider smirked.

“The package is you. Obviously.”

Ryan chuckled beside me, and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes.

“This is ridiculous.”

“Got a better idea?” Conor shot back, crossing his arms.

I sighed.

Of course I didn’t. “Fine. Let’s do it.”

The four of us walked into the lobby together, but I shooed them off to a sitting area near the windows.

This was my mess to handle.

Approaching the front desk, I plastered on what I hoped was a confident smile.

“Hi,” I said, clearing my throat.

“I’d like to leave a message for one of your guests, Ben Marshall. Could you tell him there’s a package for him at reception?”

The receptionist gave me a polite but skeptical look and held out a hand, waiting for the package—we hadn’t thought this through.

“The package is me,” I said and pasted on my best, most innocent smile.

Maybe she’d seen this before because she pulled her hand back.

“I can pass the message along, sir. Would you like to leave your name?”

“No,” I said, then regretted my snapping.

“I mean, no, it’s fine… just that there is a package.”

“A big one,” Haider snickered behind me before letting out an “oof,” which I assumed was Conor or Ryan poking him.

She connected to Ben’s room and passed on the message.

My heart pounded as I stepped back, rejoining my friends.

“Now we wait,” Conor said, clapping me on the shoulder.

“This is gonna work. Trust me.”

I wasn’t so sure, but I sat down anyway, my leg bouncing with nervous energy.

All I could do now was hope my rom-com idiocy would work out and I’d find out what was going on.

Either that or make a colossal ass of myself.