“Ella!” My mom’s voice sounds through the window as her fist bangs on the glass. “What are you doing?”
Her eyes are fuming, and I can’t really blame her. Two days ago, I made a deal that I’d stay away from the guy whose truck I’m currently sitting in.
I wave, my hands clenching the keys in my palm.
“Get out of the truck.” She calms, tilting her head to the side in an almost sweet gesture.
“No.” I’m not a fool to fall for her ploy.
“Ella, get out.” The stern look I’ve been given one too many times during my high school years knifes into me.
“You’re mad.”
“I’m not mad.”
My hand hovers over the door handle, and I close my eyes, clenching my teeth, as I spring the door open.
“How could you bring him here? Do you have any idea what your father is probably doing?” Her hands hold on tight to her hips. Hand imprints from flour are on her apron. Eyes of steel are directed right at me.
“You said you weren’t mad.”
“You fell for that?” She shakes her head. “Why would I be mad, Ella? Maybe because you brought home the guy who you know your father and I don’t approve of? He’s under enough stress with the farm.”
She grabs my arm and begins to drag me into the house. I stick my heels into the dirt, and she swivels back around with a look of death across her face. My only saving grace is that there’s no yelling coming from the barn.
“I’m not deserting him,” I tell her.
She sighs. “God forbid we do anything to upset Crosby Lynch.”
She tries to grab my elbow again, and I shrug out of it. Many times I’m amazed, to the strong-willed side of me that emerges when I’m protecting Crosby.
“No. I’m not deserting him…again.”
Her stare grows more intense, and quickly, I’m back to being twelve when I purposely put gum in Ariel’s hair, resulting in shortening five inches off her “gorgeous princess locks”—her words, not mine.
“Save the drama. I don’t need to hear it.”
She raises her hand, but at the same moment, my dad starts hollering in the barn. The next thing Crosby and my dad exit the barn. My dad fires a finger at me and points to the house.
“Get in the house,” he demands
Crosby’s tentative eyes meet mine, and I fear that this is going to be it. I’ll have to make a decision.
My dad waits, his arms crossed, ready for a fight from either of us. My mom enters first, and then Crosby and I follow.
The aroma of cinnamon and sugar fills my nostrils. My mom’s freshly baked apple pie is sitting on a wire rack in the kitchen. She busies herself with the task of preparing dinner, diverting her attention away from the trains about to collide in her kitchen. I’m surprised she’s not ready to fight Crosby and I, like my dad.
He grabs a beer, cracks it open, and sits at the table. With his leg bouncing a mile a minute, his eyes shoot to Crosby, me, and then my mom. “Remind me never to make a deal with you again.” His eyes are pointed at me now.
“I’m sorry. I thought—”
His hand flattens in the air, telling me to shut it.
“I don’t want to hear it. Then, no warning, you bring him here.” He looks at Crosby. “You have nerve, boy. I’m not sure I’d have had the balls to do what you did.” He downs another large gulp.
The thing is, Crosby was the boy my dad never had. Before the accident, Crosby would usually be found in our barn, milking the cows or baling hay, and during breaks in the harvest season, he’d be hitting balls into the pile of hay bales at the edge of our property—a place my dad specifically set up for him to practice.
“Sir, please.” Crosby sits up straighter, ready to plea our case, and my heart leaps for him more.
My dad silences him with his hand in the air. “Do the two of you have any idea what you’re in for?”
“The town has to understand—”
“Quiet, Ella.” He stands and walks around the table before grabbing my mom’s apple pie.
I’d almost laugh at my father’s need for sweets when he’s angry, but this is definitely not the time for that joke.
My mom takes it from his hands and carries it over to the table. Then, she pulls four plates from our cupboard and digs four forks out of the drawer. She slices the pie and