Page 45 of Higher Ground
“You gonna help me, or you gonna stare off at the forbidden fruit?”
Byron choked. As he turned to face his son, he was sure his cheeks must have been a bright shade of red, for how they burned. He did his best to ignore the comment, stepping further into the water and helping Tucker pull the rowboat onto dry ground.
“I wasn’t staring.”
Even as he mumbled the words, Byron felt the tips of his ears turn hot. He could blame it on the sun peeking out through the clouds all he wanted, but there was no fooling anyone. Byron was head over bloody heels for Emory because being with her was everything he imagined it might have been and then a million times more.
“How’s town?” he asked in a desperately vain attempt to change the subject.
Tucker just scoffed, hoisting a large crate from between the two small bench-style seats in the boat. Fine, if Tucker could ignore Byron’s question, then Byron could ignore Tucker’s. It was childish, Byron knew it even as he stormed past his son and grabbed the smaller bags from either end of the small boat. They were heavier than he imagined they would be. A lot of weight for a tiny boat, Byron thought. But he supposed Tucker had madeit across the water alright, so he’d be fine to make it back once they’d cleared out all the food.
He marched up the hill, carrying the bags and chasing down his adult son. Scoffing and changing the subject aside, there was something he needed to chat about. Byron hadn’treallygiven much thought about when he would hand the farm over to his son. It had always felt like some far-off moment that he didn’t need to worry about yet. But with each day he was stuck here in the house, Byron felt his love for the farm wear a little thinner.
Truth was, he knew his time was nearly up. This flood had just made that all the more clear, and he finally understood why his old man had called it quits when he did. There was something aboutnothaving to work on the farm while isolated in the farmhouse that felt almost freeing. His mornings were more relaxed, his afternoons peaceful—even with Clayton’s noise—and his evenings were calm. Gone were the aching muscles that left him collapsed on the couch as the night wore on. Instead, his days felt rich and full of life. Not at all the strenuous monotony he’d grown accustomed to.
Now, he was realising that passing the farm to Tucker was no longer some distant future event. It was a reality that was far closer than he had imagined. And surprisingly, he wasn’t at all sad about it. He felt a little bad, sure, lumping so much responsibility onto his son. Tucker was no older than Byron had been when he took over, and look how that had ended up. Maybe this whole tradition of keeping the farm in the family was finding its slow end with this generation.
Most of the land had been sold off as the years wore on anyway. The farm Byron had inherited was barely a quarter of the size it used to be. Back when the town was established, you could stand up on the high paddock to look out over the horizon, and all you’d see was Gardner land. But as the years wore on, each generation sold off a little more. Byron’s farm wasrelatively small in comparison to so many others, but he wasn’t complaining. It was more than enough for him, and he was willing to bet it would be more than enough for Tucker.
As he passed Clayton and Emory playing with the blocks on the grass, Byron did his best to hold back the wide grin that crept across his face every time he looked at her. He was kidding himself if he thought she wasn’t part of the reason his days felt so easy now. That’s what scared him the most. The what-ifs that he would never be able to answer.
Like, what if she left town and he was stuck without her, back to his lonely old self, running the farm? Or what if she decided to stay? He wasn’t sure which one scared him more. Not having her, or her giving up a part of herself, her dreams, just for him.
He trudged into the house, not realising how far down his shoulders had rolled. It had nothing to do with the weight of the bags he carried and everything to do with the weight of the future. He knew he should talk to her, but every time he tried, his throat jammed up and he just couldn’t. Something screamed at him to just enjoy the now and not worry about the future. Because whatever she wanted to do when she finished her degree, it felt as though one of them was going to end up hurt. Or both of them.
In the kitchen, Tucker had already started unloading the crate of fruit and vegetables into the fridge and pantry. The fruit bowl was once again filled, and the crisper was beginning to overflow. Byron rifled through the bags he’d brought in and started making room for everything in the pantry. It was a lot. Far more than he’d told Tucker they would need.
He gruffed, clearing his throat, and was about to tell Tucker to take some of the food back with him, but Tucker cut him off.
“Apparently, Emory told Mya that Clayton is going through a growth spurt; that’s why he is eating so much.” He closed thefridge and handed Byron a beer. “And the SES said the bridge should be open in a few days, but I don’t trust it.”
Byron didn’t either. The water was still far above the bridge.
“I didn’t realise you and Mya were close?”
Tucker took a long sip from his bottle. He drank slowly before looking up at Byron. “She’s staying with me. We’ve already checked, and her house is clear, but only just. The road is still closed.”
“She’s staying with you?”
“And Emory is staying with you.”
Byron scoffed. He moved past Tucker to sit at the table but gave his son a swift kick to the ankle as he passed. “That’s different.”
“Fuck,” Tucker yelped. Reaching down to rub one hand along his ankle, he shifted his grip on the beer bottle to give Byron the finger. “It’s not that different. You like Emory, I like Mya. We’re all just seeing what a few weeks stuck in a house together does for our relationships.”
“Who says Emory and I have a relationship?” Byron did his best to keep his tone light and his demeanour cool. Didn’t stop his fingers from picking away the label on his beer, though.
“You just fucking then?”
Byron choked on the sip he’d taken. Frothy bubbles reached his nose as he did his best not to spit out the mouthful of beer. Tucker dropped his hands to his knees, shaking his head as he cackled.
“Fuck, you are,” he spat out between gasping laughs.
“Watch your tone, Tucker,” Byron warned, even though he knew he’d never get away with it. He could dad-voice Tucker all he wanted, but ever since he’d left the farm, Tucker had always seemed a little more like a friend than his son. Sure, Byron was still there anytime Tucker needed some fatherly help or advice,but they got along better when Byron let go of his parental persona a little.
“Actually,” Tucker added when he finally had his breathing under control. “I really don’t want to know.”
“So, stop asking.”
