I press send and hiccup. The phone rings.
Shit. Why is he calling?
Do I answer? What kind of question is that? Of course I need to answer. If I don’t, he’ll know I’m blatantly ignoring him.
Trying to sound casual, I press the green button. “Hello?”
He’s silent for a second and then says, “Thank you for answering.” The rawness of his voice breaks any last wall I might have had erected.
I sniffle.
I try to suck in the sob that wants to escape, but I’m apparently not quiet enough. “Haze, are you crying?”
A sob wracks my chest. I hate this. I’ve never been one to cry so quickly or for so long. Clearly, nothing my mother did ever hurt this bad. Never sliced through my heart.
“Haze, please talk to me. Work this out with me.”
“Work out what?” I’m able to say, catching my breath. “You left.”
“To give you space. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“I don’t know what I want,” I admit.
“I thought you wanted me,” he says, his voice trailing off, causing me to rev up with another wave of sorrow. When I don’t answer, he says, “I see. I guess I was wrong about how you felt in Germany.”
“I can’t let myself have feelings for you, Crew.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because—”
“Because why?” he asks. He’s irritated now.
“Because I’m trying to save the farm and you’re trying to get rid of it.”
He sighs. “Hazel, they’re selling. There’s nothing you can do.”
“I can talk to the investors. I can try to convince them of the worth of the farm. I can fight for something that matters to me. Something that should matter to everyone else. It’s not over, and I’ll be damned if I don’t try everything.” I wipe at my eyes. “This was a bad idea. I never should have answered. I should go.”
“No, please don’t go,” Crew says. “Please, let’s talk out the options. If we do sell, you can come stay with me until we figure something out. The boys wouldn’t mind if you spent the semester with me, and they’re all pretty cool.”
“You’re not getting it, Crew. I’m not leaving the farm until someone pulls my body off it.”
“And when they sell, then what? You’re not going to be with me out of spite? You’re going to have to go somewhere, Hazel. Why are you being stubborn?”
“If you think this is me being stubborn, then you don’t know me at all. Goodnight, Crew.” I hang up before he can say anything else, and I power off my phone before turning into my pillow and crying myself to sleep.
* * *
“Thank you, Miss Allen, for your well-thought-out presentation,” Davie, one of the investors who’s interested in the farm, says.
“Your passion for the farm is quite unique,” Gary, the other investor, says.
I can feel a but coming. They’re offering me praise, only to shoot me down.
“But”—See? There it is—“even though the farm is a lucrative business, quite profitable, to our surprise, the land is much more valuable to us,” Davie says.
I try to stay calm. I knew going into this they would say that. I gave them the numbers, I laid out the business, now I need to bring the heart.
“This property, this farm, isn’t just a source of income. It’s home. It’s home to many people. Visitors come from all around the state for our fall experience, to cut down their trees for Christmas, to go apple and blueberry picking in the summer. This is more than just a place of income; this is a place where families congregate. They build memories here, traditions. Babies’ first pumpkins are found here, prom pictures are taken here, interest in the earth and agriculture—the backbone of this country—grows here. We offer the chance to drop technology for a day and just have good, unfiltered fun. This farm has hosted weddings, anniversaries, birthdays, family reunions, and baby showers. We aren’t just in the business of making money, but creating memories, and this is truer than ever for me.”
I flip to the last picture of my presentation. It’s the picture of me, Pops, and Crew standing in front of the oak tree.
“This was my home for many years when I didn’t have one. This was my safety net. This was the foundation where I grew into myself and became the woman I am today. Without this farm, without this man by my side, I don’t know where I would be. I ask that you take more time to think about what you’d be stripping down. I ask you that you consider investing in the farm, rather than the strip mall and highway you have planned. I ask that you invest in families, in traditions, in this beautifully wonderful man who spent his entire life turning this farm into a place of solace and beauty.”
Gary glances at Davie and they both let out a deep breath. Gary lays his palms on the table and says, “Miss Allen, I appreciate you taking the time to enlighten us, but I’m sorry. Our decision stands.” He rises from the table with Davie, offers me an apologetic look, and then they walk out of the conference room.
The door clicks shut and I sink down into a chair.
A wave of despair and hopelessness washes over me as I drape my arms over the cold surface of the table in front of me.
It’s done, Pops. I tried my best, but it’s all gone, and I’ll be sorry for the rest of my life that I couldn’t keep your legacy alive.
* * *
Crew: My mom said you had a meeting with the investors today. How did it go?
Crew: You can talk to me about it, Haze.
Crew: Please don’t ignore me. I need to hear from you, make sure you’re okay.
Crew: Please, Hazel.
Hazel: It went as well as you think it would.
Crew: I’m sorry. Want to talk about it?
Hazel: No. I’m going to take a bath.
Crew: Can I call you later?
Hazel: I don’t think that’s a good idea.
Crew: Okay . . . I love you, Hazel. In case you forgot. I love you so fucking much.
Chapter Eighteen
CREW
“My suggestion to you is you need to slow down,” Hutton says, helping me rack my weights. I sit up on the bench press and smooth my hand through my hair.
“I didn’t ask for any suggestions.”
“I’m giving them anyway. Dude, if you don’t relax, take a day off, you’re going to injure yourself, and you won’t be able to compete at the combine if you’re injured.”
Hutton is back in town for a few days after winning the bowl with Brentwood. He came floating in on a high, only to be met by his best friend, who’s in a shitty mood. To say I rained on his parade is an understatement. Even though he has little time here, he’s spent at least an hour of every day working out with me.
“Maybe it’s best if I injure myself. Then I won’t have to deal with all the indecision racing through my head.”
“Indecision? What the hell are you talking about?”
I blow out a heavy breath. “I don’t know.” I stand from the bench and grab a towel to wipe down my face. “This doesn’t feel right.”
“What doesn’t feel right?” Hutton picks up my water and hands it to me before picking up his own.
“All of this. Working out, training for something I’m not sure I want. Football. It doesn’t feel right, not since my Pops passed.”
“Are you thinking about quitting?” Hutton asks, shock in his voice. “Dude, you’ve spent your entire life working toward this goal.”
“I know, and I feel as though it’s been a giant waste of time.” I gesture to the home gym my parents put together. “All of this—it’s kept me going, moving forward. It’s brought me to every next step in my life, and the responsible thing to do would be to show up at the combine, despite my losing record this past season, and give it my all to earn myself a spot as a top pick in the draft. But when I think about it, it holds no appeal. I don’t get excited about competing. I’m not thrilled for the draft. I feel absolutely nothing.”
Hutton pauses and gives it
some thought. “You know, when I received Sir Charles No-Pants in the mail—”
“Who the hell is that?”
“Uh, the sweet, musical-playing cherub you sent me from Germany.”
“Oh.” I chuckle. It’s light, but it’s something.
“I named him, and he sits on my dresser except for the nights when I try to freak out the guys and stick him in other places around the house. Fucking great gift, man. But when I received him and pulled him out of the box, a large smile spreads across my face and I erupted in laughter, because I thought, 'Shit, Crew is back. He’s fucking back. Before this past summer, he’d have sent me some weird pant-less-instrument-playing figurine because he thought it was weird.’ It was an indication that the Germany trip really helped you clear your head, that you found happiness again. But now I’m not sure. You almost seem more lost than before.”
“That’s how I feel. Lost.” I drape the towel over the back of my neck and hang on to the ends. “I thought I knew what I wanted, but then I was thrown for a loop when Hazel stepped onto the plane. The letters, the time I spent with her—it’s fucked with my head and made me think that I want more than what I’ve planned for myself.”
“What do you mean?” Hutton steps one foot on the bench and then leans on his propped-up leg.
“I mean, what if . . . what if I didn’t go pro?”
“I think people would be shocked. But then again, you don’t owe anyone anything. Is football not making you happy?”
I shake my head. “I can’t remember the last time it was fun. Even when we were winning last year, it felt hollow. It wasn’t until I was in Germany with Hazel that I actually felt fulfilled.”
Hutton slowly nods his head. “Remember this past summer when we were practicing out on the beach? Before your Pops passed away?”
I nod.
“You were throwing these bombs to me, and I was having the time of my life sprinting across the sand and catching them. I remember catching one with my fingertips and thinking, ‘What a fucking thrill.’ I wouldn’t give up that feeling for anything. I looked back at you and you were pushing your foot through the sand, walking through the motions. There wasn’t any joy in your eyes, more like you were just tossing the ball around because you had to, not because you wanted to. When was the last time you had fun playing football?”
I think about it, my mind whirling back to a specific day. “Summer, my junior year of high school. I was playing out back with Pops, my dad, my mom, my uncle Paul, and Hazel. We were a raggedy bunch. We dropped the ball, accidentally tackled each other when we shouldn’t, and we had one of the best times I can ever remember. But there was no pressure to play, no pressure to perform. When things got serious, that’s when the joy was taken out of it.”
Hutton nods. “You don’t want to do something you hate.”
“I don’t hate it. I just don’t think I love it as much as I love other things.”
“Other things, as in Hazel?”
I drag my hand over my cheek. “Yeah, football isn’t even in the same stratosphere as Hazel.”
“So, what are your options?” Hutton asks.
“Two,” I say, looking him in the eyes. “Life with Hazel and life without her.”
“I’m pretty sure I can guess which one you’re leaning toward.”
“More like jumping toward.”
* * *
Crew: Headed back to school today. You should come down and visit. Have you ever been to Georgia?
Hazel: Crew, after everything that’s happened, I’m just not sure if we should be talking.
Crew: You don’t have to talk to me if that’s how you really feel. But I’m going to talk to you because I promised I’d never leave you again.
Hazel: It hurts too much hearing from you.
Crew: Then don’t let it. I don’t understand what’s holding you back from being with me. It’s simple, Hazel, just you and me.
Hazel: It’s not that simple. Do you not have any regrets about the farm? No sentimental loyalty to the place you spent your summers? Or your parents, a place where they grew up? It’s going to be demolished, Crew.
Crew: I do have regrets about it, but my regret of leaving without making sure we were good outweighs that. If Pops didn’t want it sold, he wouldn’t have set up the investors.
Hazel: I can’t believe you’d say that.
Crew: Can we not argue, please?
Hazel: I really have nothing else to say to you at this point.
* * *
“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” River asks, talking to me on Facetime while holding his figurine I sent him from Germany. Hollis called him to discuss my “present.”
Keeping a straight face, I ask, “What do you mean?”
“I mean, where am I supposed to put this?”
“You got a tuba player,” Hollis says, “I got a violinist.”
“And what did you do with it?” River asks.
“Set it on my dresser.” Hollis shrugs. “The heartfelt letter explained it all.”
“My heartfelt letter said: ‘This cherub’s ass reminds me of yours,’” River deadpans, and I crack a smile. I forgot I wrote that.
“Ah, look, you got him to smile.” Hollis points at me. “Finally.”
River sets the figurine on the table next to him and then sits on his couch. Hollis takes a seat in the chair across from me, and I can feel both their eyes staring me down.
“What?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest.
River says, “I thought you were going to return in a better mood.”
“I’m in a fine mood.”
Hollis shakes his head. “False, man. The other guys are nervous to go near you.”
“I really don’t want to get into my issues right now. Can we talk about something else?” I hand the phone to Hollis, not wanting to stare River in the face, or either of them for that matter.
They fall silent, and then Hollis asks, “Did you try on any lederhosen?”
Sighing, I stand from the couch and head to the kitchen, where I grab myself a water bottle, and then head up the stairs to my bedroom. I hear Hollis shout, “I’m going to take that as a no.”
Once in my room, I shut my door and lean against it. Bags for the combine are still unpacked, sitting in the middle of my room, reminding me that I haven’t decided what the hell I’m going to do.
Dreams are a funny thing—you fixate on them for so long that they inevitably become a part of you. They mold into your being and become the driving force behind your actions, your attitude.
I’m going to go pro one day, Pops.
I declared it, put it out there in the universe.
And I trained. I missed three summers with Pops because of that training. I neglected the one person that matters the most to me because of football. And I lost time, time I can never, ever get back.
And for what? To say I became a professional football player? To play on the big stage, throw a ball for a living?
A dream for some. It was a dream for me, but I’m not so sure anymore.
I take a big gulp of my water and then go to my backpack. I unzip it and grab my laptop, and as I pull it out, a white envelope floats to the floor. I pause and stare at the familiar handwriting that says: “Crew – for emergencies.”
Confused, I pick up the letter and take a seat on my bed. Setting my laptop to the side, I open the letter and steel myself as I find a new letter from Pops.
Dear Crew,
If you’re reading this letter, it’s because your parents have decided you need it. They see you going through a life moment and believe you need to hear these words.
First, I need you to know something, I love you. I know I said it every chance I got, but I wanted to say it one more time. I love you, kiddo. You remind me so much of your father that sometimes I almost found myself calling you Porter. And not just because you look just like him, but the way you chase your goals. How you set your mind to something, and you don’t ease
up until you have it.
But you also remind me a lot of your mom and her stubbornness. Which she gets from me, unfortunately. Why am I saying this? Because, if you combine your goal-driven self with stubbornness, you could possibly find yourself headed down the wrong path and too stubborn to admit to it.
I want you to remember this: don’t mistake expectations for passion.
What you expect from yourself—that’s not passion. That’s your brain communicating to you to keep pushing. Passion is a deep-rooted feeling that you can’t shake off. A strong, uncontrollable emotion you have for a particular thing or particular person.
You have a choice in life, this one life you get to live. You can follow expectations, check off the boxes, and accomplish what you or others believe is the path you need to choose.
Or you can follow your passion.
One choice will bring joy to others. The other choice will bring joy to you.
My advice: you have one life to live. Don’t waste it on expectations when you can live joyfully through your passion.
I love you, kid.
Pops
“Fuck,” I whisper, leaning back on my bed and pressing my fingers to my forehead. “Fucking hell.”
Chapter Nineteen
HAZEL
“Knock, knock. Are you in a good mood or are you going to bite my head off?” Mia asks, holding a plate of cookies as she walks into the farmhouse.
“Too mentally exhausted to bite your head off tonight,” I say, staring at the TV in front of me.
“Good. Saturday was touch-and-go with our friendship, and I thought I’d give it one more go before I divorce you.”
Curled up on the couch, I give her a soft smile. “I’m sorry, Mia. I know you’re trying to help. I’m not handling my emotions very well.”
“Understandable, but remember, I’m your friend. I’m here for you, so please don’t attempt to eat me with your lady fangs.”
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