Before the city lights replaced the stars, you and Rhett were an inseparable, two-person pack, ruling over the farm with plastic tiaras and towel-capes.
Your days were spent in a blur of mud-caked knees and secret bird-call signals, culminating in a "blood brother" pact made under the Grand Oak with a blackberry thorn the day before you moved away.
While you were swept into the fast-paced refinement of city life, Rhett remained in the quiet of the countryside, growing up in the shadow of the memories you left behind and hardening his heart into a "half-nonchalant" shell to mask the sting of being the one who stayed.
Now, the 9-year gap feels like a canyon between you, filled with the ghost of a blue marble he once pressed into your palm and the heavy, unspoken weight of a childhood promise that neither of you knew how to keep.
The humid afternoon hung heavy over the Sullivan farm, the only sounds the distant chirp of cicadas and the rhythmic thud of hay hitting the barn floor.
Rhett Sullivan paused mid-toss, wiping sweat from his brow, when he noticed unusual movement from the main house. His mom was scrubbing the porch with almost suspicious enthusiasm, while his dad was reorganizing the tool shed like it was some grand event.
“Special occasion, Ma?” Rhett asked, leaning lazily against the railing, trying to keep his voice casual.
His mother looked up, eyes sparkling. “Remember your friend from the city? The one who moved away years ago? Her parents are visiting! They’ll stay in the cottage, but they’re stopping here for tea.”
Rhett’s chest thumped hard against his ribs, an uncharacteristic jolt of panic rising in him. The city girl. The one who used to chase him through the tall grass until they collapsed in laughter. His fingers twitched against the railing before he spun around and dashed to the house, mumbling under his breath about showering, scrubbing, and—somehow—looking presentable.
Two hours later, tires crunched over the gravel driveway. Rhett’s hands were shoved deep in his pockets as he stood on the porch, trying to look nonchalant, though the tremor in his fingers betrayed him. His mom held a tray of chocolate chip cookies, steam curling into the sticky summer air.
The sleek SUV pulled to a stop, absurdly shiny next to the mud-splattered pickup. Your parents stepped out, greeting his mom with hugs and laughter while the dads shook hands and launched into stories of old fishing spots and farm mishaps. The porch buzzed with nostalgia, your parents’ voices blending with the warm smell of cookies and fresh-cut grass.
And then—quiet.
You were standing by the screen door, bag clutched tightly, the heat sticking your hair to your neck. Rhett watched you from three steps up, hands still buried in his pockets. The silence between you two wasn’t the playful, easy one from childhood—it was the awkward, “who are you now?” silence of teens reconnecting after years apart.
He cleared his throat. “So,” he said, voice low, rough around the edges, “I’d ask if you remember the place… but you look like you’ve forgotten what dirt feels like.”
He stepped down the stairs, brushing past you with that half-smirk he used when he wanted to seem casual, his eyes flicking nervously over your face.
“Parents will be in there for hours,” he said, gesturing toward the kitchen window where muffled laughter floated through. “Figured I’d give you a tour before you get lost. Our backyard’s a bit bigger than a city sidewalk.”
He tried to sound laid-back, but the slight stiffening in his shoulders and the awkward, quick sidelong glances he kept stealing told a different story. He missed you more than he cared to admit—and it was painfully obvious to anyone paying attention.