Page 32 of Mud & Moxie
***
Dylan’s voice comes out low, rough-edged. “You leave when things get hard. You did then. You’re doing it now.”
The words land like gravel. “I left because staying made me small,” I fire back. “Because every time I tried to show you who I was, you looked away. And now when the town points fingers, you look away again.”
Matthew moves like he’s about to pace a groove into the floor. “Enough. Both of you. Ray didn’t put your names on this because you’re the same. He did it because you’re different and the farm needs both.” He jabs a finger at the pages. “Five weeks until the first review. Either we show progress or Jenkins shortens the leash. If one of you walks, auction. I will not watch the lower orchard get bulldozed for condos because you’re both too proud to talk.”
My eyes sting; I blink hard. Pride tastes a lot like fear when you’re swallowing it.
***
The kitchen feels too bright, the overhead light humming like a nerve. Dylan scrubs a hand over his face. “Madison—” My name on his tongue shivers through me.
He looks wrecked. It would be so easy to step into that look, to admit our unexpected kiss rewired me. To tell him how small the town made me feel and how much smaller his silence made me feel. I open my mouth—
—and close it again. Because if I hand him the truth, I need to believe he’ll hold it. And right now, I don’t.
“We have to be practical,” I say instead, pushing the folder toward him. “Roof bids. Fence crews. Dates for fall retreats.”
His eyes search mine. Something honest rises—too slow. It dies on his tongue, and what replaces it is stubborn. “Get your dates. I’ll handle the fields.”
The space between us stretches thin as wire. One good tug, and it’ll snap.
***
On the porch, the night smells like wet hay and ozone. Matthew hangs back while I carry my suitcase back down the steps. “You sure about leaving tonight?” he asks, voice low.
“No.” Honesty tastes like rain. “But if I stay, I’ll say something I can’t take back.”
He nods, keys dangling from his finger. “Then don’t make tonight the last word.”
We slide into his truck. I keep my hands busy—texting my assistant to pause the content calendar, drafting a note to my sponsor rep about pivoting from city launches to rural partnerships, scribbling a few lines in my notebook labeledRetreats. Lanterns in the maple alley. Bread ovens on the patio. A harvest gala that reintroduces this place to the state.
“You’re working,” Matthew says, not a question.
“I’m planning.” I point my pen at him. “If we do this, it can’t just be fence posts and invoices. It has to be a story people want to step into.”
His mouth lifts, reluctant and fond. “Tell me.”
So I do. The pop-up suppers and sunrise yoga in the hay meadow. The sponsor list I can call tomorrow. The way Dylan’s family mill could grind flour for the bakery workshops, how we’d feature local vendors at every retreat. My voice steadies as the picture fills in. It’s the first time all day I feel like I can breathe.
“You think it’ll work?” I ask, too soft.
“I think you’re the only one who could make it work like this,” he says. Then, quieter: “And I think you should be the one to tell him.”
The pen stalls. “Not yet.”
“Maddie—”
“Not yet,” I repeat, sharper. “He had a chance to back me in front of this town, and he didn’t take it. I’m not handing him my dream gift-wrapped so he can decide if it’s real.”
Matthew exhales, a rough sound. “Fine. Go to the city. Catch your breath. But don’t confuse time with giving up.”
I stare at the silhouette of the farmhouse through the rear view mirror. One upstairs window glows. I don’t know if Dylan’s behind it. I don’t look long enough to find out.
***
Matthew drops me at his place to grab the things I left there, then drives me to the last train of the day. The station smells like old coffee and diesel; the fluorescent lights hum like the kitchen did. He hefts my suitcase onto the curb and waits while I pull my hoodie tighter.
