Page 33 of Mud & Moxie
“You call me when you land,” he says.
“I’ll text.” My voice wobbles; I steady it. “And I’ll email that deck to you tomorrow—the sponsors, the calendar, the gala. I want your notes.”
He grins. “Look at you, delegating.” His smile fades. “You sure you don’t want me to talk to him?”
I picture Dylan’s face when I saidnot yet. The ache that followed. “If you do, tell him the same thing I told him.” I square my shoulders. “Show me. Don’t promise me.”
The train rolls in. I step up, turn back. Matthew’s hands are in his pockets, eyes bright and proud and worried all at once. I blow him a kiss; he rolls his eyes like we’re kids again.
I take a seat by the window. The town slides past in smears of orange sodium light—feed store, diner, the bakery where Carrie pretends she’s just grabbing a coffee. The last thing I see is the WILKES mailbox, rain-slick and stubborn. I press my palm to the glass like I can keep it from disappearing.
***
My phone pings just as the train pulls out of the station:Unknown Number—a photo of the farmhouse porch lit up like a stage, rain still glittering on the rails. No text. Just the porch. Just home.
My chest tightens. I don’t know if Dylan sent it—if it’s his way of sayingstaywithout words—or if it’s some small-town number trying to twist the knife. I set the phone face down on my thigh and breathe.
City lights will catch me when the night spits me out. Tomorrow I’ll build a pitch deck, make sponsor calls, and prove—again—that I can turn nothing into something. I’ll plan a harvest gala that makes this farm more than a headline.
But as the dark unspools and the town shrinks to memory, one truth keeps pace beside the train: I can build a brand from scratch. I can design a retreat. I can sell a story. What I don’t know—what terrifies me—is whether the man I left on that porch is willing to fight for any of it.
I close my eyes against the window’s chill and let the road carry me away from him—for now.
***
15
Realizations
DYLAN
The farmhouse has never sounded so quiet. Every creak of the floorboards echoes through the empty rooms, louder without Madison’s laughter or the rhythmic click of her keyboard when she worked late at the kitchen table. The suitcase-shaped hollow near the door mocks me. Even the air feels different, stale without her perfume lingering in the hallways. I wander through the rooms like a ghost, touching Ray’s coffee mug, the ledger on the desk, the half-folded blanket she used the last night she stayed here. The place feels abandoned, but the worst part is knowing it isn’t just the farm that’s empty—it’s me.
I try working—checking fence lines, updating ledgers, sorting bills. But without her commentary, her half-joking suggestions, even her complaints, the silence presses in. The farm isn’t just work anymore; it’s a mirror of what I’ve lost. Every corner reflects her absence.
***
I step onto the porch, the fields stretching out under gray skies. They’ve never looked more unforgiving. For years, I told myself the Carter name, the legacy of our farms, meant everything. That reputation was survival. But with Madison gone, the land feels like dirt and debts, stripped of meaning. Family reputation won’t patch fences or rebuild trust. It won’t bring her back. And it sure as hell won’t quiet the ache in my chest that only she managed to ease.
I remember my father’s words, the lectures about duty and name. He believed in building walls around emotions, in sacrifice. And maybe I inherited that too well. But Ray saw something different: that the farm needed both grit and vision. I realize now, reputation without heart is just soil turning to dust in your hands.
***
MADISON
After staying at Matthew's I got myself back to the city as fast as I could. I told myself I needed space, but really I was running—again. My apartment is spotless, staged for perfection like the feeds I curate. In the morning, as I sit in my favorite café, the hum of conversation rises and falls around me. The latte art is perfect, my phone buzzes with brand emails, and yet I feel hollow.
The neon signs, the glossy storefronts, the endless rush—they all look like filters over a life I no longer want to live. I scroll through photos of the farm: the barn lit by lantern light, Dylan fixing the fence in the rain, Matthew’s lopsided grin. My followers comment, thousands of likes pile up, but none of itfills the emptiness inside. The glamorous world I built online suddenly feels paper-thin.
Later, I try recording a video update for my channel. I stare into the lens, smile painted on, but my words falter. All I can see is Dylan’s face in the storm, the way he looked at me before everything fell apart. I delete the recording, close the laptop, and bury my face in my hands. For the first time in years, I don’t know what story to tell.
That night, I call Matthew. My voice shakes, but I tell him about the idea forming in my head—hosting a gala at convention centre downtown, a test to show sponsors what Mud & Moxie retreats could look like. “It doesn’t have to be huge,” I say, pacing my city apartment. “Just a night to prove it’s real, to prove the farm can be more than barns and debt.” He’s quiet for a long time before saying, “You really think people will drive from the city out to the farm for retreats?” I bite my lip. “I know they will. I just need the chance.”
***
DYLAN (with Madison & Matthew voices intercut)
At the same time, both of us admit truths we’ve been too stubborn to face. I belong to this land—the dirt, the mud, the long hours—but it doesn’t breathe without her. She belongs to the city, but it doesn’t sing without the roots she left behind.
