“Uh-huh. Fences, water pumps, that truck, the garden, the chicken. Very neighborly.”
I didn’t answer. Because she was right, and the reasons were getting embarrassingly thin.
The night that changed everything, we were fixing her water trough — float valve stuck, mud everywhere, the whole nine. We finished as the sky went that gold color right before dark and just… sat. Two overturned crates, horses shifting in their stalls, cicadas starting up.
“You ever feel like the farm gets too quiet?” she asked.
I almost lied. Said the truth instead. “Sometimes, yeah.”
She looked at me. “Getting used to being alone doesn’t mean you like it.”
I had nothing. I just sat there with my elbows on my knees, staring at my boots, because she’d just said out loud the thing I’d been pretending wasn’t true for years.
I wanted to tell her she was the only thing that made my quiet feel less empty. I didn’t say it. Not yet.
She didn’t push. She just sat with me until the stars came out, then stood, brushed off her jeans, said “Drive safe,” and walked back to her place.
I drove home with the windows down, the night smelling like cut grass. Sat in my truck in the dark, looking at her kitchen light across the field.
