Page 71 of Forbidden to Fall

“Is that why you left?” I could hardly believe my daring, but I needed to understand James—to find some kind of harmony between the man who sat across from me and the one who’d betrayed my brother’s trust in such a painful and selfish way.

“After he died and then what happened with your brother, everything felt tainted here. I tried to convince Mama to leave with me, but she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. She said the farm was all she had left of Dad. It made her feel connected to him. But for me, it was torture.” He shook his head, playing with his food. “I had to get out.”

I nodded. Was it just his dad’s memory and the falling out with Ryan that had tortured him? Or was it the pain of heartbreak from Lily too? James must’ve thought he had a fighting chance with her to do what he’d done, but she’d stayed with Ryan.

That was a lot of heavy emotion to carry.

“What brought you back this time?” I asked.

“Archer,” he said. “And Mama’s stubbornness. Even though she didn’t want to leave Autumn Ridge, she supported me in leaving. She never wanted me to feel like I needed to be here for her sake, so she wasn’t honest with me about the issues at the farm—or her health. She made Archer swear not to tell me, either. And he didn’t. But his hints were enough that I figured something might be up. I just hadn’t realized the state she was in. Or the farm.”

“She sure loves having you around.”

There was a pause. “I’ve missed her. I shouldn’t have abandoned her.”

“You didn’t abandon her, James. You were dealing with a lot.”

“So was she.”

I couldn’t argue with that.

The fire crackled, the embers glowing and warming the front of my legs, while the backs were cooled by the night air.

“Ready for dessert?” James asked.

“There’s dessert?” I scooped up the last big bite of food and shoveled it into my mouth.

“Of course.” He took our foils and put them in a black garbage bag, then opened up the cooler. “I was going to make a cobbler, but I figured you’d like this better.”

I craned my neck to see what he had.

He pulled out the long, thin metal rods he’d bought at the hardware store yesterday, then a bag of marshmallows.

“S’mores?” I said with excitement.

“The best s’mores.”

“Can you improve upon normal s’mores?” I asked.

He handed me my roasting stick—it was even skinnier than I’d realized—then the bag. “You’ll have to let me know.”

The s’more marshmallow game had improved measurably over the past decade. They made rectangular shapes specifically meant for the dessert. But the ones James handed me weren’t perfect rectangles to complement a graham cracker. They were regular old mini marshmallows.

He smiled at my frown. “I’m telling you, Sadie—your life changes tonight. You’ll never go back to Jet Puffed.”

I shot him a skeptical look. “Is that a promise?”

“You can take it to the bank.”

Sitting across from each other, we threaded tiny marshmallows onto our roasting sticks like toddlers stringing cheerios onto yarn.

“This feels wrong,” I said.

“Trust the process.”

“Fine, but only because that dinner was fantastic.” I was still skeptical.

One benefit became clear quickly, though: the mini mallows browned quickly.