Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 43239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 216(@200wpm)___ 173(@250wpm)___ 144(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 216(@200wpm)___ 173(@250wpm)___ 144(@300wpm)
Someone knocks on the front door, but Jackson ignores it. He sits across from me, leaning in.
“You really think your brother wouldn’t want you to follow through with what you two planned? That’s all you ever talked about.”
“I could just give up. Take the easy route. Inherit everything and pretend that’s enough.” The words fall flat. “My parents would love that.”
“That’s exactly why you’re not doing it.”
“They’re acting like nothing happened, Jackson.” I wipe at my eyes. “Like he was just a family friend we’ll see again someday. Meanwhile, I’m here trying to survive this shit alone.”
I sigh. “Even if I did want to keep going, I haven’t studied for the MCAT in months. I’m probably set back an entire year.”
“Nah, I don’t think so.” He walks over to my bookshelf, grabs a stack of unopened mail, and pulls out an envelope. “Here.”
“What’s this?”
“Your official MCAT results. I already saw the digital version, but they mailed the hard copy yesterday.”
I tear it open, frowning. My name is correct. My score is just four points shy of perfect.
“You… paid someone to take it for me?”
“Fuck you,” he laughs. “I was you.”
“You took the MCAT for me?”
“I’m just a business minor, I know. But you suit-and-tie types overcomplicate everything. I’m pretty sure I can point out the exact questions I got wrong. Couldn’t let you get a perfect score. Gotta leave room for me to outshine you someday.”
I stare at the page, stunned.
“By the way.” He hands me my license. “Figured you’d want that back.”
“I don’t even know what to say.”
“Thank you would be a great start.”
“Of course. Thank you, man. Thank you so fucking much.”
“I turned in your final papers for Hershwin and Jansen, too,” he adds. “But Nolan’s only giving you an extra month to take his final. You’ll have to do that one on campus, in front of him.”
“That’s my easiest class anyway.” I’m still trying to process everything. “Wait, did you finish your own coursework?”
“I’ve been done since January,” he says with a shrug. “His stuff’s easier than running a farm, so I used my downtime.”
“What were you doing when you said you were going to study, then?”
“What do you think?”
I laugh—for the first time in weeks.
“My dad’s gonna be thrilled to have me back home after graduation,” he says. “Plenty of work waiting.”
I study his face. Harrison’s dad has been dead for over a year. He’s never talked about it, but I found out after overhearing a call and tracking the funeral. He left for the weekend, came back like nothing happened.
“Were you ever going to tell me your dad passed away?”
“I just did.”
I open the mini fridge and toss him a beer. He catches it without missing a beat.
We drink in silence for a while, the air thick with things we won’t say.
“I owe you for the MCAT,” I finally say.
“You’d have done the same if I hadn’t made it to the Agri-Exams.”
“Except I would’ve failed spectacularly,” I admit. “I don’t know shit about farming.”
“It’s the thought that counts.”
“I’m serious, Harrison. If you ever need anything—anything—just call. I’ll come running.”
“We could use a new bull steerer.”
“Anything non-farm related.”
He laughs. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
ELIZA
Conference, Day Nine
My palms are sweating as I grip the edges of the podium, trying to steady my breath.
I click to the next slide in my pitch deck—an aerial rendering of what the farm will look like in five years: luxury guest rooms tucked behind restored silos, a serene wedding lawn outlined by wildflowers, an actual rose garden that looks like something out of a magazine.
I stick to the facts. I talk about occupancy rates, sustainable revenue models, customer loyalty metrics. But my voice doesn’t sound nervous anymore.
It sounds strong.
Confident.
Somewhere along the way, I stop reading from my notes. I just talk—and I can feel the shift. People are paying attention. Hanging on every word. Even Harper Sage isn’t checking her phone.
“I may be a Southern girl who spent most of her life tending cattle instead of spreadsheets,” I say, letting the edge of my accent slip through, “and I know I only have a business degree, not an MBA. But my late parents taught me how to recognize a sure thing when I see it.”
I pause, looking out at the room.
“And my farm resort? That’s a sure thing.”
I hit the final slide.
Silence.
Dozens of eyes still locked on me, unreadable. For one awful second, I wonder if I completely misjudged the room. Were they captivated… or horrified?
Did I just blow it?
I scan the crowd—searching, aching for reassurance—and then I see him.
Harrison.
He’s near the back. Rising slowly to his feet.
And he starts clapping.
One slow, deliberate clap after another.
And then someone else joins in. Then another. Until nearly the entire room—everyone except Harper—is on their feet. Applauding me.
A standing ovation.
I nod into the mic, barely remembering how to breathe. “Thank you.”