Page 21 of The Strawberry Field
I could be bitter.
And some days, I am.
But I refused to let bitterness consume me. That was the one piece of ground I could still claim. I built this life out of what remained. And for the most part, it’s enough.
I finish the last row, drop the sprayer, and wipe sweat from my brow with my sleeve. The sun is strong today, the first full-sun day in a week.
Sawyer drifts back into my mind.
I wonder how long she’ll be here. Whether I’ll see her again.
I assume not. That’s probably best.
A horn sounds at the top of the driveway. Hattie barks, tail up, ears forward.
The UPS truck rumbles in, dust blooming behind it. The driver—brown mask, quick wave—jumps down with a package and places it beneath the big oak tree. He returns with three more, shouts a cheerful have a good day, and rolls back down the drive.
And just like that, my human interaction for the day is over.
A pang hits, sharp and unexpected.
Loneliness. I haven’t felt it in so long that I almost don’t recognize it. The weight of it settles in my chest like humidity before a storm.
But I know where it came from.
Seeing Sawyer.
She’s from a time when I believed life might look different than it does now. A time when I still hoped for something more than solitude and land and the quiet company of a dog.
Regret nips at the edges of my thoughts.
Not for my choices.
But for what never had the chance to become anything at all.
I don’t know what Sawyer’s carrying, but I saw the weight in her.
And it didn’t look any lighter than mine.
There was something about her yesterday, something unspoken but undeniable.
Recognition of history. A quiet grief.
And I still see it in her. I feel the pull. The temptation to reach out.
But I don’t move.
Because I know better. I’ve lived long enough to understand that some things are best left alone.
I would rather she remember me as the boy who wanted her—but said no.
And not the man the world has told her I became.
Chapter Nine
Sawyer
I’M IN THE bathtub when I see it.
