Chapter 9
Matthew woke up late the next morning. He blinked, rubbing his face, and noticed the air mattress on the floor was empty, the blankets and quilt Alex had slept under folded into a neat stack. He was up already, probably down the hall in the bathroom they were sharing with Jessie and Grace, washing up.
He stretched, glancing at the bedside lamp—a soft glow cutting through the morning light. The power must’ve come back on overnight, sooner than his dad had expected. Tom had figured they’d be stuck with the fireplace and flashlights in the morning, but the lamp and the hum of the furnace through the vents told Matthew otherwise.
He swung his legs out of bed, the floor cold beneath his feet, and tugged the plaid comforter straight. Outside his window, the sun blazed in a cloudless blue sky. The storm had left a thick, clean blanket—more than a foot, way past the forecast. In the distance, his dad’s tractor rumbled near the driveway’s end, a plume of white rising as he cleared the drifts.
Matthew turned back just as footsteps padded down the hall. Alex stepped in, hair damp, a chipper “Morning!” on his lips.
“Morning,” Matthew replied, managing a smile, following Alex’s cue to keep it light. “Sleep okay?”
“Like a rock,” Alex said, crossing to the window. “Man, look at that—picture-perfect snow day.” He leaned on the sill, peering out at the glittering fields. “I’m guessing we’re not going anywhere today?”
Matthew shook his head. “Doubt it. Roads will be a mess for a while.”
As if on cue, an orange snowplow rumbled past on the highway, its driver tossing a wave at Tom, who waved back.
“Dad must know everybody at the county DOT,” he said with a shake of his head, then continued. “They’ll get to it, but it’ll take ‘em a while. In the meantime, if I know Mom, she’s whipping up her scratch pancakes—sausage, maple syrup, the works. She doesn’t do big breakfasts often, but snowed-in guests? That’s her jam.”
“Lead the way,” Alex said, eyes lighting up.
*
Downstairs, the kitchen smelled like heaven—batter sizzling on the griddle, sausage links popping in a skillet. Ellen stood at the stove wearing a flour-dusted apron, flipping pancakes with a practiced ease.
“Morning, boys,” she said. “Grab a plate—plenty to go around.”
They did, piling pancakes high, drowning them in syrup, and snagging sausage links still hot from the pan. Ellen poured coffee into mismatched mugs, the rich aroma cutting through the sugar haze, and they settled at the table, forks clinking.
Small talk about last night’s storm flowed, Alex marveling at the snow’s depth, Matthew teasing that Alex would never survive a real Iowa winter.
“Chicago gets plenty of snow, dude,” Alex replied huffily. “I’d manage.”
Ellen chimed in, laughing. “Yeah, but this is farm snow—keeps you in till it’s good and ready to let you out.”
Tom stomped in then, snow flaking off his boots, his coat slung over one arm. “Roads are a no-go,” he said, hanging his cap by the door. “Drifts are thigh-high out past the poplars. You boys are stuck till tomorrow at least, maybe longer.”
“Guess we’re officially snowed in,” Matthew said, turning to Alex. “Wanna explore the farm some more after breakfast? I’ll show you the barn—corn crib, hayloft, the whole deal.”
Alex perked up. “Sure, let’s do it.”
Tom nodded, easing into a chair with his own coffee. “Have at it—but watch yourselves in the hayloft. That ladder’s older than me.”
“We’ll be fine,” Matthew said, brushing it off.
With breakfast wrapped up, Tom headed down the hall to clean up, leaving the boys to help Ellen. They cleared the plates—scraping the leftovers into the trash—and loaded them in dishwasher.
Matthew wiped his hands on a towel and said, “Gonna grab a quick shower before we head out.”
“Sure thing,” Alex replied, heading for the living room. “I’ll wait down here—check my email, see how things are going at my brother’s.”
Alex settled onto the couch, pulling out his phone. He opened Instagram, thumbing through stories—friends back in Chicago, pics from his brother’s Thanksgiving in Nashville—but his mind kept drifting back to the moment with Matthew’s hand in his last night.
Matthew returned after a few minutes, towel-dried hair sticking up in damp tufts. Wearing an old sweatshirt—faded gray with a frayed hem—and jeans that had seen better days, he spotted his mom at the kitchen counter, wiping up the last of the crumbs.
“That breakfast was absolutely dank, Mom. Thanks!” He leaned over and gave her a peck on the cheek. She looked up with a smile, then rolled her eyes at him.
“Nice hair, rockstar. You plan on combing that anytime soon?”
Matthew smiled distractedly, raking a hand through it instead, making it worse. He called over to Alex, who was still sitting on the couch, scrolling Instagram.
“Ready to head out?” he called out.
Alex glanced up, pocketing his phone. “Yep, into the deep freeze.”
*
They headed to the screened-in back porch, the cold seeping through the walls. Suiting up like they had the day before, they pulled on heavy parkas, knit caps, and wool gloves.
Matthew handed Alex a scarf, and they stepped out into the bitter cold, their boots crunching through the deep, fresh powder. The air was sharp—so cold their breaths fogged in thick clouds. Matthew felt the inside of his nose crinkle with each breath, a sure sign the temperature was well below freezing.
They shuffled through the snow, down the long slope toward the barn. The red structure, now snow-crusted, loomed in the distance. A silence stretched between them, heavy with the weight of the previous evening. Matthew’s mind raced, recalling Alex’s hand in his. He wanted to say something to ease the tension, but Alex spoke first, his voice tentative.
“Since you’re home for the holidays, I was wondering if you’re planning on seeing Sarah while you’re here. You’ve been stuck at school since the semester began and I figured you’d want to hook up with her while you’re back.”
“Um, well, I . . . “
Matthew paused and Alex continued:
“I mean, it’s fine with me if you want to go see her. I can hang out here and catch up on my math.”
Matthew squirmed, a pained expression on his face, the lie about Sarah twisting in his gut like a bad meal. Alex gave him a quizzical look.
“She . . . does know you’re here, right?”
They were nearing the barn now, the paddock fence just ahead. Matthew stopped walking and turned to face Alex. The cold bit at his cheeks, flushed bright red.
“Alex, I gotta tell you something.” he said, his voice low.
Alex blinked, stray wind-blown snowflakes catching on his ski cap.
“Yeah, of course.”
Matthew exhaled, the confession spilling out. “I feel so stupid, but I need to be honest with you. Sarah . . . she was just a girl I knew in high school, okay? I never dated her, never even thought about it. I made the whole thing up because I didn’t want you thinking I was some loser who’s never dated anybody.” He paused, then added, “But . . . I haven’t. Not for real, anyway.”
Alex stared at him, processing what he’d just heard, then a slow grin spread across his face. He chuckled, a conspiratorial edge to it. “Me neither, bro.”
Matthew’s eyes widened and he burst into a laugh. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” Alex said, eyes twinkling with amusement at Matthew’s astonishment.
Matthew turned back and began trotting toward the barn, his laughter echoing across the snowy field. He glanced over his shoulder at Alex, who followed close, and pumped his fist in the air, shouting, “Yes! The geeks shall inherit the earth!”
Alex dissolved into laughter as he tramped through the snow behind him, his breath coming in gasps. “You’re ridiculous,” he managed finally.
They reached the barnyard gate, and Matthew lifted the latch.
With a theatrical flourish worthy of a palace footman, Matthew pulled the gate open and bowed. In his best posh fake British accent he said: “After you, my good sir. Do watch your step, Master Kim—we’ve just had the barnyard freshly waxed.”
Alex, getting into the spirit of things, pressed on through the gate with a nod to Matthew, saying: “But of course. Thank you, my good man.”
Matthew giggled as he followed him through, closing the gate behind them with a clang, the metal cold even through his gloves.
“Good thing the ground’s frozen solid today,” he observed, nodding at the packed snow beneath their boots. “If it weren’t, we’d be ankle-deep in the mud.”
Alex curled his lip, a small sound of disgust escaping. “Eww . . . gross.”
Matthew laughed again, leading the way to the barn. “Eh, you get used to it,” he said, sliding the heavy door open on its ancient, rusted track.
They stepped over the threshold and the scent of hay filled their nostrils. Matthew breathed it in, surprised by the ache it stirred—he hadn’t realized how much he missed this place.
He slid the door closed behind them, leaving the bright cold for the dim interior. Their eyes adjusted slowly to the low light as they stood in an open area at the center of the barn, the space sprawling around them. Dust motes floated in the slivers of winter light that slipped through high windows, casting long shadows across the worn plank floor.
To their left, a slatted wall rose, its boards spaced wide. Through the gaps, Alex saw dried corn still on the cob, packed into the room beyond, a golden hoard catching the faint light.
“That’s the corn crib,” Matthew said, gesturing. “We store the harvest there to use as feed for the cattle.”
Alex nodded, peering through the slats. “Wow. Looks full.”
“Always is this time of year,” Matthew said, leading them forward.
A passageway cut through the barn’s center, branching left and right. To the left, across from the corn crib, sat a large bin filled with what looked to Alex like chunky sawdust, coarse, pale, and uneven. In the middle of the passage stood a hulking machine, its metal frame rusted but sturdy, with a chute on top and a long metal tube pointing into the bin.
Alex squinted at it, a memory flickering. “Looks kinda like that wood chipper from that movie Fargo—you know, the one the guy used to get rid of his partner?”
Matthew burst out laughing, the sound echoing off the rafters. “Not quite,” he said, clapping Alex on the shoulder. “It’s a feed grinder. We take corn from the crib and run it through this to make meal for the livestock. Corn-fed Iowa beef and all that.”
“Well, that’s much better,” Alex nodded with an amused expression. “Way less gruesome.”
They turned down the right passage which opened into a wider area cluttered with heaps of ancient, rusting equipment. Most of it hadn’t been touched since Matthew’s grandfather’s days—old plow blades, a broken harrow, a tangle of chains—all covered in dust and cobwebs. But one machine stood out: a 1950s-era Allis-Chalmers roto-baler, its faded orange paint chipped but intact.
“This thing’s a relic,” Matthew said, running a hand along its side. “Still works, though. Makes these little fifty pound hay bales you can drag around by hand. Most farms use those giant balers like the New Holland ones—makes huge bales you need a spear attachment on the tractor to haul. Doing it the old way always seemed like more work to me, but Dad’s never been inclined to modernize this part of the operation.”
Alex tilted his head, curious. “Why not?”
“Dad’s old-fashioned—and loves tinkering,” Matthew said. “Keeps this thing running smooth, which is more than my grandpa could say. He always struggled with it back in the day.” A lopsided grin crept across his face—pure denim-clad mischief. “Dad used to say, ‘Your grandfather’s only tools on the farm were a sledgehammer and profanity.’”
Alex let out a genuine belly laugh, the sound bouncing off the barn walls. “That’s gold. I gotta remember that.”
They crossed back to the entry area, their boots scuffing the worn floor. Alex’s gaze caught on something to the left of the door—a wooden ladder fixed to the interior wall, its rungs weathered and splintered, disappearing up into the shadowy rafters.
“Where does this old thing go?” he asked, pointing.
Matthew’s face lit up. “That’s the hayloft—my favorite place on the farm.” He stepped closer, resting his hand on the ladder’s base. “When I was a kid, if Mom or my sisters were getting on my nerves, I’d grab a book and climb up there to hide out and read. I’d spend whole afternoons up there, just me and the barn cats. They’d nap in the hay next to me while I read.”
“Where are the cats now?” Alex asked, smiling at the image.
“Oh, they’re still around, probably up there keeping warm,” Matthew said. “They’ve gotten old and lazy—don’t hunt as much as they used to. We’ll likely find ‘em snoozing up there somewhere.”
“Why not bring them inside where it’s warm?”
“I’d love to, but Mom’s super allergic,” Matthew said. “She likes them fine—always has—but she can’t be around them too much. They’ve got a pretty sweet life out here, though.”
He pointed to a corner near the ladder’s base, where a pair of battered bowls sat, one filled with water, the other with kibble.
“Feeding them was one of my morning chores till I left for college. Had to make sure they were set before I even got my own breakfast.”
Alex nodded, impressed. “Farm life, huh?”
“Farm life,” Matthew agreed, then pointed his thumb toward the ladder. “Come on—I’ll show you the hayloft.”
He stepped over a pile of old two-by-fours stacked near the base of the ladder and started up, scaling the rungs gingerly, testing each one with his weight. Halfway up, he glanced down at Alex, who was ascending the ladder behind him.
“Watch that fourth rung—it’s a bit loose. I need to grab a hammer and nails from Dad’s toolbox and fix it one of these days.”
Alex continued his careful climb, gloved hands gripping the splintery wood, stepping cautiously over the fourth rung.
“Noted,” he called up, his voice tinged with nervous laughter.
