Page 34 of Mud & Moxie
Madison, sitting in her apartment window with city lights below, tells herself she can be both—city and country, mud and moxie, blogger and farm girl, influencer and heir. And me? I stand in the barn Ray and I once repaired, whispering into the dark that I can love her without losing the farm, maybe even save both in the process. For the first time, it feels possible that what Ray wanted wasn’t just survival, but rebirth.
Meanwhile, Matthew wrestles with his own silence. He hasn’t told me about Madison’s gala plan, torn between loyalty to his best friend and his little sister. He walks the fence lines with me, listens as I curse at broken rails, but the words stay locked in his throat. He wants to protect her dream and protect me from disappointment, and the strain shows in every furrow of his brow. He doesn’t yet realize that keeping the secret only tangles the knots tighter.
I picture her walking through the orchard, phone in hand, describing the blossoms to her followers while I plan the planting rows beside her. I imagine the balance, messy but alive. And I wonder if she’s imagining it too.
***
But possibility isn’t certainty. The farm groans under deadlines, and Madison’s pride still keeps her away. I sit on the porch at dusk, staring down the lane, half-hoping her car headlights appear, half-terrified they never will.
Matthew stops by, his boots heavy on the porch. He doesn’t yell this time. He doesn’t have to. He just lowers himself into Ray’s old chair, sighs, and says, “Maybe I’ve been wrong. Maybe she and you… maybe you’d be good for each other.”
But I see the weight in his eyes, the secret he’s still carrying. He knows more than he’s saying, and though he doesn’t spell it out, I sense it—the hint of Madison’s dream simmering beneath his silence. It unsettles him, tests his loyalty, and for the first time I wonder if Matthew isn’t just bristling at us—he’s bristling at the choice of when to tell me.
His words hang between us like a fragile bridge. And for the first time, I let myself believe we might still find a way across—if she doesn’t close the door first. And maybe, just maybe, Matthew won’t stand in the way anymore.
I look back at the lane one more time, the night settling in, and wonder if tomorrow will bring her home—or end it all for good.
***
The next morning, I walk the fields alone. The grass is wet with dew, soaking through my boots as I check the fence line. Every task reminds me of her—how she tripped over fence posts, how she laughed even when mud clung to her jeans. I used to think her clumsiness was a liability. Now the silence without it is unbearable.
At the creek, I pause and lean on the post Ray hammered in years ago. I can almost hear his voice, steady as the current:Don’t shoulder it all yourself, boy. Let others carry some of it.For the first time, I wonder if he wasn’t talking about chores, but about her. About the way she carried light into places even I couldn’t reach.
I drag my hand across the weathered wood and mutter, “Damn it, Madison,” because the land itself seems to miss her.
***
MADISON
Back in the city, I try to slip into my old life like it’s a familiar coat. I accept an invitation to dinner with friends at a rooftop bistro. The table is picture-perfect: candles flickering, plates arranged like art, laughter spilling into the night sky. My friends chatter about brand deals, vacations, the latest campaigns. I smile and nod, but my thoughts drift to the farmhouse kitchen with its chipped mugs and the smell of bread baking.
One of my friends leans in. “So, are you going back? To the farm?” The question knocks the air out of me. I take a sip of wine to buy time, then say lightly, “Just visiting. Nothing permanent.”But even as I say it, I know it’s a lie. The truth pulses under my skin: the city fits, but it doesn’t fill.
I glance out over the skyline, glittering like a promise, and all I can think about is lantern light strung across the barn and Dylan’s rough voice calling me stubborn. My chest aches with the knowledge—I don’t belong fully here anymore. Not without the mud. Not without him.
***
16
The Grand Gesture
MADISON
The ballroom at the convention center hums with anticipation. Strings of lights loop across the ceiling, cameras flash in every direction, and the murmur of voices swells with the promise of opportunity. My face is plastered on the digital screen behind the stage—Madison Wilkes: Mud & Moxie Live—a title that once thrilled me but now feels like an ill-fitting jacket. PR teams hustle, sponsors chatter, and assistants with clipboards check their lists twice, their eyes darting like hawks. The smell of espresso mingles with perfume and hairspray, heady and exhausting.
I grip the mic tighter than I should, rehearsed words scrolling across the teleprompter. This is supposed to be my moment, the culmination of years of hustle—brand partnerships, sleepless nights editing posts, endless flights to conferences. And yet my mind drifts to the farmhouse porch, the creak of Ray’s chair, Dylan’s boots on the steps, the sharp smell of hay after rain. I blink and swallow, my throat suddenly dry. The crowd is here fora polished influencer, but all I can think about is mud, fields, and a man who doesn’t believe any of this counts as real.
Applause rises when I introduce the first sponsor. I paste on my smile, the one that has sold skincare and organic teas and travel guides. Cameras flash. Hashtags bloom on screens. But beneath the gloss, my chest aches with hollowness. I imagine Dylan standing at the back, arms crossed, eyebrow arched in that infuriating way, silently daring me to prove him wrong. And somehow, despite everything, I wish he were.
I switch slides to a projection of the farm—the barn lit by lanterns, orchard rows stretching behind it, peonies in bloom. The audience leans in, curious, enchanted. They see aesthetic; I see legacy, responsibility, grief. My voice wavers as I tell them about Ray, about the dream of Mud & Moxie retreats blending agriculture and storytelling. The applause is polite, but my heart is racing too fast, pulled in two directions: the city’s glitter and the farm’s quiet gravity.
As I wrap the segment, I glance down at Ray’s cap tucked discreetly in my bag near the podium. My hand aches to hold it, to anchor myself. Instead, I force another smile and nod at the crowd. They roar approval, but my insides whisper a different truth: I don’t want to win this stage if it means losing what matters most.
***
I step offstage for the scheduled intermission, the clatter of applause still echoing in my ears. The event coordinator rushes over, pressing a water bottle into my hand, rattling off the timing for my next panel. I nod automatically, barely hearing her. My heart is pounding for a reason that has nothing to do with public speaking.
Because there he is.
