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161 pages

English

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A teen rock star returns home to Minnesota and finds himself falling for a local farm girl in this electric YA romance Seventeen-year-old Gabe's life is a mess. His debut album-produced by his rock star dad-made him an overnight sensation, but his second album tanked, he just got dumped by his on-again, off-again girlfriend, and he's desperate to come up with the money he needs to fix a major screwup. The only place he can be free from the paparazzi and rumors is the family farm-the farm that seventeen-year-old Juniper's family has managed since before she was born. When Juniper learns that Gabe's about to inherit the farm, she worries that he'll sell it. She comes up with a plan to get close to him and stop that from happening. At first, Juniper and Gabe couldn't be more at odds, but the more time they spend with each other, the more they grow to like each other. Can they set aside their differences to do what's best for the farm-and each other? Or will all the drama and secrets tear them apart? "A beautiful and tenderhearted exploration of the meaning of home, Sara Biren's Bend in the Road will stick with you like a favorite song that instantly transports you to a place and time you always want to remember." --Marisa Reichardt, author of Aftershocks and A Shot at Normal "A pitch-perfect, slow-burn romance combined with loveably complex characters and the most charming farm setting, Sara Biren's Bend in the Road made my heart soar." ~ Katy Upperman, author of Kissing Max Holden, The Impossibility of Us, and How the Light Gets In

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Publié par	ABRAMS BOOKS
Date de parution	28 septembre 2021
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781647000714
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	2 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0777€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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PUBLISHER S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for and may be obtained from the Library of Congress.
ISBN 978-1-4197-4873-8 eISBN 978-1-64700-071-4
Text 2021 Sara Biren Book design by Hana Anouk Nakamura
Published in 2021 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.
Amulet Books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact specialsales@abramsbooks.com or the address below.
Amulet Books is a registered trademark of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.
ABRAMS The Art of Books 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007 abramsbooks.com
To my parents-thank you for always believing in me. Mom, you are the strongest woman I know. Dad, I miss you every day.
Chapter One
GABE
Welcome to Stone Wool Farm.
The sign hangs from a stone pillar at the main entrance to the farm. Tall, sprawling pines hug one side of the long driveway. Cones of light from lampposts on the opposite side scatter across the gravel, some of them dim, some out altogether. Frank s pickup bumps along ruts in the long road to the main house.
Place looks better in the daylight, he says.
Frank hasn t talked much since he met me at the baggage claim at Minneapolis-St. Paul International a couple of hours ago. A gruff, You hanging in there all right, kid? along with a tight, bone-crushing hug. A few comments like, No fancy limo, then, huh? and You hungry? I could go for a burger myself.
I ve always liked that my uncle Frank is a man of few words. A man who recognizes that you don t have to fill every moment of silence with meaningless conversation. This whole ride up from the airport, he didn t ask about the album or my very recent ex, Marley, or even Chris. He s smart, too. Knows how to read a room. Or the passenger seat of a pickup truck, as it were.
We continue down the gravel road until Frank turns in to the driveway at Gran s, a big white house with a wraparound porch and stone columns. The porch lights are on, as though someone knew I was coming.
I asked you to keep this to yourself, I say, my words hard and cold. My pulse races and I can feel that familiar weight of dread settling in, a brick low in my gut.
I told Laurel, he says. That s it. I had to make sure the place was livable, Gabe. She won t call the paparazzi, if that s what you re worried about.
I shake my head. I don t give a fuck about the paparazzi. It s not exactly true, but I m running out of fucks to give.
I didn t tell your dad, either, so you don t need to worry about that. He sighs.
Laurel will if she hasn t already. It s her job.
I asked her not to. Come on, kid, give me a little credit.
He s right. I know I can trust Frank. That s why I called him in the first place. I take a deep breath, try to break up that brick of dread. I ll need to talk to Chris at some point while I work my way out of this mess. But I m not ready yet.
Thanks, I murmur. Bet you never expected so much drama when you married into this family.
He shrugs and turns off the ignition. It s not so bad. Besides, a little drama is worth it for the free concert tickets and backstage passes, am I right? Let s do this. I m beat, and those cows won t milk themselves in the morning.
I probably should have gotten a car instead of calling a guy who s up every day before dawn to milk cows and whatever the hell else he does. Busts his butt to keep a farm and a family above water. Helps with this farm, too. But I called him, and he dropped everything and drove two and a half hours one way to meet my sorry, incognito ass at the airport so I could pretend to be nobody special, getting picked up at MSP by a regular guy with a beard wearing a Minnesota Wild ball cap and a rust-orange Carhartt jacket.
Truth is, I m not pretending. I m nobody special after all.
Leaves crunch beneath my feet as we walk up the driveway and sidewalk to the porch, the paint grayed and chipping. I tighten my hold on my guitar, swing the duffel bag onto one shoulder, and grab the wooden railing, which wobbles under my grip. My memories of this place are few and far between and, to be honest, hazy. After Gran died-five, six years ago now?-so did our main reason to come back. Chris spends a few weeks here every summer, a couple of days here and there, but otherwise the farmhouse sits empty. Empty and exactly the way Gran left it when she died. Laurel runs the farm. She asks Chris every now and then if he wants her to clean out the closets or pack up Gran s belongings. He ll say something like, That s my problem, not yours. I ll worry about it when the time comes. I asked him once, not long after Gran died, if he planned to sell someday since he wasn t there much, anyway. He shrugged and said, We ll see.
Frank holds out the key ring. Take good care of the place. When I wait a beat longer than I should to reply, he says, You sure about this? You know you re always welcome at our house.
Nah, I m good. I shake my head and grab the key ring.
So, there s one for the round barn. Big barn. Garage, but don t get any ideas about the Mustang. Laurel and Chris are the only ones with keys. He skims over this like it s not a big deal, but I wouldn t mind getting behind the wheel of Chris s vintage Mustang. Coupla other sheds. You ll figure it out.
I shrug. No reason to figure out any of it. It s not like I m going to be here more than a few days. Which one is for the house?
He takes the keys back and flips through them, stops at one in the middle, gold with a broad, square head. Look here, he says, placing his calloused thumb on the surface. This one s old.
I take the key back and hold it close. An engraving, worn almost completely off: Stone Wool Farm 7-20-1964.
Your grandparents wedding day. Your great-grandpa gave them the farm as a wedding gift and moved to the cabin on Halcyon Lake the next day. The place has been in the family since 1907, but it s a lot older than that.
I never met my great-grandfather or my grandfather, who died when I was a baby. Thanks for the family history lesson. I can t help the undercurrent of sarcasm. I m tired and need to sit my ass down again before I collapse, and what difference does any of it make, anyway? The farm s past means nothing to my present.
He ignores me. Last chance, he says.
For what? I know exactly for what.
Gabe, come on. You re seventeen years old. You re still a kid. You shouldn t be alone right now. Come to our place and hang out with Ted. Janie would love to have you over. She ll feed you, make all your favorites.
My favorites? Even I don t know what my favorites are anymore, although I do remember from short visits and summer weekends at the cabin that my aunt Janie is an amazing cook.
I shake my head. Thanks, but I need some time to myself. To figure shit out, you know?
He nods. I get it. How long are you planning to stay?
A few days. Week at the most.
I ll call you in the morning, kid, Frank says. Come over for supper tomorrow night. Ted will pick you up.
Sounds good.
For long seconds, he looks at me, nodding. You sure you re OK, then? Janie thinks-
I cut him off. I m good. I swear.
Obviously, he s seen the pictures. There might even be video. Fuck. I blow out a heavy breath.
Right. Call if you need anything.
Frank leaves me standing on the porch, the bright light of the LEDs in the sconces a direct contrast to the chipped paint and loose railing. For what feels like endless minutes, I stand there and will myself to go in. What other option do I have? Frank s gone, his taillights long faded into the darkness of the farm. I shiver. It s cold here in northern Minnesota, even though it s only mid-September. Temps were in the high seventies when I left LA this afternoon. I m glad I thought to bring a jacket, although it s buried at the bottom of my duffel and I m sure it won t be warm enough for this level of cold.
I tell myself again: Go inside . Still, I stand at the door, paralyzed by uncertainty and my own disappointment, until I hear a howl in the not-so-far distance. Like in the woods at the edge of the property, maybe a hundred yards away. Wolves? Coyotes? I have no idea, but I d rather not find out.
I unlock the door, not sure what to expect when I step into this other world, this farmhouse I hardly remember. I take my first steps into the hall, barely illuminated from a light that s been turned on in the kitchen at the back of the house. I reach for the banister of the staircase to steady myself and toe off my Vans.
I m not expecting to be hit with a memory so visceral, so absolute; it s like Gran s standing in front of me, wiping her hands on a green plaid dish towel, chiding Chris for being late and holding her arms open to me.
Who is this boy? she cried. That can t be my Gabey. You ve gotten so tall! Come into the kitchen. The cinnamon rolls are ready for the maple icing, and you can help me.
This house, somehow, still smells like it did that day, cinnamon rolls and pecans and maple syrup. I couldn t have been more than six or seven. We were here for Gran s birthday. Late that night, I heard Gran and Chris arguing. You need help, Christopher. Leave Gabe with me. I hardly get to see him. He needs his family. You both do.
I think about Gran s funeral, the last time I was here. The day she died, Chris called from the road to tell me the news. I remember how I handed the phone back t