Some silences settle soft. Others land sharp, like a nail in the heel of your boot.
The rain let up by Friday, but the gray stuck around, low and sullen over the hills. Joel was already out in the shed when Jed stepped off the porch, coffee in hand and the dogs trailing behind. He could hear the dull scrape of a shovel against concrete before he rounded the corner.
Joel had cleared space near the workbench, a pile of old boards stacked neatly to the side. He’d stripped down to a white undershirt, flannel slung over the railing, muscles taut as he worked. There was a furrow in his brow, and his mouth twitched like he was chewing on something besides silence.
Jed leaned in the doorway, steam curling from the mug. “You buildin’ a boat or just diggin’ a tunnel?”
Joel didn’t look up. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d do somethin’ useful.”
Jed nodded. He didn’t ask what had kept him up. He already had a guess.
They worked together without much talk—hauling old planks, sorting nails, checking for rot. The quiet wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t easy either. Like a field left fallow too long, waiting for someone to turn the soil.
Mid-morning, they took a break. Jed passed Joel a bottle of water, and they sat on the porch steps, boots muddy, elbows brushing.
“You ever feel like somethin’ in you’s changin’, and you don’t know what it’s changin’ into?” Joel asked, eyes on the distance.
Jed took a sip, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yeah. ‘Bout every ten years or so. Usually when the Lord’s tryin’ to get me to see somethin’ I’ve been avoidin’.”
Joel nodded, jaw tight. “This ain’t about runnin’. It’s about what comes after you stop.”
“I ran so far I forgot what I was runnin’ from,” Joel added, eyes low. “Left good folks behind. Some not so good. Left a church that couldn’t see me clear. Took a long time to figure out not all of that was on me.”
Jed glanced over. Joel looked different lately. Not just leaner from work, but more settled in his own skin—and yet, like something was pressing from the inside out, trying to reshape him. Jed noticed the way Joel’s eyes lingered longer when they talked, the quiet way he started leaving his flannel draped on the back of a chair instead of folded neat. Little things. But they added up.
He didn’t push. Just let the words hang there like laundry on a line, catching whatever breeze might come.
That afternoon, they finished reinforcing the fence near the back pasture. It was slow work—mud sucked at their boots, and the cedar posts had to be set deeper than usual—but they moved like a team that had learned each other’s rhythms. By the time they reached the last post, their shirts were clinging with sweat, and their hands were scraped raw.
Jed sank onto an overturned bucket and cracked his knuckles. “Well,” he said. “We earned supper today.”
Joel stood beside him, wiping his neck with the hem of his shirt. “Mind if I cook?”
Jed shrugged. “Long as it ain’t garlic again.”
Joel laughed—a real one this time, low and easy. “No promises.”
He sat down next to Jed, elbows on his knees, both of them facing the field they’d just cleared. The sky had that bleached look it gets in late summer—washed-out blue, tired but holding.
“You ever think about doin’ something else?” Joel asked. “If it wasn’t farmwork?”
Jed took a slow sip from the water jug, then leaned back. “Not much call for wonderin’, not when you grow up with a pasture for a playground.”
Joel waited. Jed looked down at his hands.
“I like makin’ things,” he said finally. “Used to help my uncle build furniture in the winters. Just small stuff—stools, boxes, once a bench we never did finish. Somethin’ about cuttin’ wood to fit—measurin’ twice, watchin’ it take shape. It don’t talk back, but it don’t lie neither.”
Joel nodded. “That sounds like you.”
Jed gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Ain’t nothin’ noble. Just… clean work. Straight lines.”
Joel looked out over the grass. “I used to think I’d be a teacher.”
Jed blinked. “Really?”
“Yeah. English, maybe. I liked stories. Thought maybe if I helped folks find theirs, I’d find mine.” He gave a soft chuckle. “Didn’t get far. Started runnin’ before I could settle into anything.”
Jed didn’t speak right away. Then: “Don’t sound like nothin’’s keepin’ you from tryin’ again.”
Joel glanced at him. “You think I’m still that guy?”
Jed looked straight ahead. “I think you’re closer than you’ve ever been.”
That line hung there between them for a beat too long.
Then Joel stood, dusted off his hands. “Still gonna cook. But I’m addin’ garlic.”
Jed shook his head but didn’t argue.
Later, after dishes and dusk, they found themselves back on the porch. The sky was clearing at last, stars blinking through the haze. The dogs lay curled on the steps. A jar of tea passed between them, fingers brushing, neither pulling back.
Joel didn’t speak. Just let out a slow breath, like he was still deciding what needed to be said.
Jed finally broke the quiet. “Some things don’t have to be figured out in one day.”
Joel nodded, his voice quiet. “Just don’t want to waste the ones I’ve got.”
Jed looked at him then. Not just a glance—really looked. “You got a place here, far as I’m concerned.”
Joel gave a small nod, like maybe that meant more than he had words for. He’d spent too long drifting—borrowed couches, short leases, jobs that never needed him longer than a season. He’d learned how to act like it didn’t matter. But this—this was different.
Here, under this roof, with these hills behind him and Jed beside him, the offer landed deep. Not just welcome. Belonging.
Joel’s eyes flicked down, a hint of something caught between gratitude and ache.
And that was enough for now.
(Chapter from First Light in the Jed and Joel series. Contact me if you’d like to read the full story)
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