Yeah. A real low point.

But the only way from here is up. Right? And I’m done making shitty decisions. I’m going to move along from the Barns, find a new job, and start over. Going to make myself proud.

“Did they like it?” I call when Everett strides closer, Harry chatting a mile a minute at his side. “Did they like the dresser?”

Everett nods, the corner of his mouth lifting under his beard. He’s pleased, then. And he looks more relaxed too after a few days away, his shoulders looser under his faded gray shirt.

“Josie finished your vegetable patch,” Harry’s telling him, throwing me a wink as they brush past into Everett’s kitchen. I follow, chewing on my bottom lip. “It’s the best damn rectangle of soil you’ve ever seen in your life.”

“In anyone’s lives,” I add, propping the door open with a brick behind us. There’s not much of a breeze today, but if we can coax it inside, we will. “Folks will write poems about that patch of dirt.”

“Oh yeah? How are your hands?” Everett asks, glancing over his shoulder, his deep voice rolling through the kitchen. I try not to shiver, turning and hopping up to sit on the counter, then wiggle my fingers.

“Good as new.”

We fall back into a familiar rhythm: Harry at the table, holding court with his stories and wild jokes; Everett brewing peppermint teas at the counter; and me staring at the floor and trying not to make heart eyes at the one man I can’t have.

Maybe I could nanny somewhere. Those jobs come with room and board, right?

“Fire pit tonight,” Harry announces. “To celebrate.”

And that takes me back to coming here as a teenager. Everett would get the fire going for our little crew, lecture us all on fire safety, then leave us with marshmallows to toast and a handheld fire-extinguisher.

I glance up, and hazel eyes watch me from over by the counter.

“Josie?” Harry prods.

I inhale sharply and nod. “Sounds good.”

The next job doesn’t matter really. Don’t need to be picky.

I just need to get gone.

* * *

Flames flicker and dance, red, white and gold, licking over our stack of firewood. Every now and then, there’s a soft pop, and a flurry of sparks bursts toward the stars.

“Motherfucker,” Harry sighs. “Why can’t I get this?”

He’s lying on his belly, his phone three inches from his nose, trying to work out the perfect shot. Every time he takes a photo he leans back, blinks at the screen, and groans all over again.

“These cameras are supposed to be idiot proof.” Harry wriggles against the earth, resetting for the dozenth time. “For fuck’s sake.”

Over his nephew’s dark hair, Everett catches my eye. His eyes crinkle with humor, and I choke back my own laugh.

We’re clustered around the fire pit, Everett sitting on a log while I’m cross-legged on the dry, crunchy grass. Piles of stones keep the fire contained, scorched black after so much use.