I’ve been visiting my parents’ friends in the countryside for as long as I can remember. They live out in one of Washington’s valleys — quiet, wide, and way too far from the city for my liking. Their son, Myles, has always been the reason I dread it. We grew up side by side, but we couldn’t be more different. He’s a country boy through and through — boots, flannel, and that smug grin that makes me want to roll my eyes as a city girl we didn’t agree to easily.

When we pull up to their farmhouse this chilly November afternoon, the air feels heavy with wood smoke and cold wind. I step out of the car and spot him by the fence — taller, broader, his sleeves rolled up like he’s showing off. For a second, I almost don’t recognize him. Then he smirks, and just like that, I remember exactly why I can’t stand him.