“Thank you,” I said, taking in the ruins of the outbuildings in the dim porch light, “for dealing with all that.”

“All what? They were happy. They believed us. They love you, Chloe, and seem to think I’m an okay guy. There’s nothing to deal with.”

“This,” I said, gesturing to my parents’ property in general, “is a lot. And I’m not making a pun,” I added in all seriousness.

“This is your parents’ home. It’s where you came from. There’s nothing to thank me for dealing with, okay?”

He started the engine, as if everything was settled.

In his mind, everything was settled, because these weren’t his roots. As well intentioned as he was, it was something he’d never understand. I was something he’d never truly understand, because unless you’d been here and lived it, you didn’t get it. As much as I’d tried to outrun it, remove myself from it, I feared it would always be deep inside of me.

Chapter 10

Holden

Before I could knock on Kemp’s door Thursday evening, there was a cacophony of friendly, excited barking coming from his two Labradors, Baxter and Mack.

I could relate to the dogs completely. I, too, was about to burst out of my skin with excitement and had been ever since last weekend when Chloe had first proposed our deal. Somehow, though, I’d managed not to say a word to Kemp by phone or text.

Kemp had been at a craft brewing conference in South Carolina for the past few days, soaking up info we would use for our brewery. We’d gone to a conference together last year, and before that, we’d hit a couple of home-brew cons when we could. Back then, it’d been just for fun. A few years ago, when Kemp decided to take classes to become a master brewer, we’d both turned serious and started pursuing what it would take to open our own brewery.

More than once over the past week, as Kemp had filled me in on the phone or by text about what he’d learned at this session or that, I’d had to literally bite down on my tongue to keep from blurting out the news of Chloe’s offer, but this wasn’t something I wanted to share in a text message or celebrate long distance.

“Hey, man,” Kemp said as he opened the door, wearing old jeans, a blue tee, and a ball cap. His dogs flanked him on either side.

“About time you get your ass back to town,” I said as I entered Kemp’s house, roughing up the fur on Baxter, the yellow Lab, while Mack, the chocolate, assaulted my legs with his killer tail wags.