11
I usually don’t work on Sundays, but when I heard Nina needed apples from Snyder’s Orchard for the first batch of apple tarts this season, I jumped at the opportunity to check another item off the list. Especially one that doesn’t involve jumping off a cliff.
Although… this one isn’t exactly going to be easy.
“I never knew why we didn’t come apple picking when I was a kid, but I guess now I know,” I tell Blake as we each grab an empty brown basket before strolling through the grass to the orchard, the afternoon sun beating down on us. “Take it in, Blake. We’re about to get banned.”
I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that Mom had done this.
But it’s there on the list. A check mark sitting right next to it.
Was she as nervous as I am right now? I think about the envelope of certificates, the life she had led before her invincible summer.
She must have been.
“Banned? Over an apple? I mean, there are thousands of them here!”
I can’t help but smile as she stops to stare in awe at the rows and rows of apple trees, her brown eyes wide as she takes it all in. Each pair of rows is a different variety, a wooden placard broadcasting the different kinds. She’d never been apple picking before and was beyond excited when I texted her to see if she wanted to tag along.
I feel bad this will be her first—and last—apple-picking experience here at Snyder’s Orchard. Going every other weekend in the summers and fall had ruined it a bit for me, but I still remember how fun that first time with Kiera and Paul had been.
“It’s not just any apple, Blake,” I say as I lead her over to the Honeycrisp section. Nina likes to use them for her tarts because they have just the right crunchy texture and sweetness. “It’s an apple from the first tree they planted here at Snyder’s Orchard. Half the people employed at this place just stand next to it all day, making sure no one picks an apple from it.”
“They just stand there? Sounds like I picked the wrong summer job,” she says, the two of us laughing as we head deep into the orchard, the trees folding in around us, more and more apples clinging to the branches the farther back we get. Families with kids usually peter out by the halfway point.
The closer we get to the tree, the more my heart hammers in my chest.
I try to keep my cool, glancing back to watch Blake as she carefully inspects each branch, trying to find the perfect apples, the ones with the fewest blemishes, free from worms. I’m way less precious than she’s being about the apples that find their way into my basket. They’ll all taste the same in the tarts.
We’re nearly to the clearing when the sound of laughter filters through the trees from the row next to ours. I peer through the leaves, and my hammering heart stops. Because the first thing I see is Jake’s messy blond hair, flying as he dodges out of the way of an ambush of rotten brown apples that Ryan is launching at him.
Seriously? This can’t be happening right now.
I duck down, trying to remain out of sight as I creep slowly backward, running smack into…
“Matt!” I exclaim, almost dropping the basket I’m holding. I clear my throat and straighten up from my crouch, watching as his face shifts from eyebrows-raised surprise to a pained expression to a look of forced indifference, his jaw locking in the way I knew it would.
I just start talking, the nerves from the upcoming apple theft and now this ripping off any barrier I might’ve attempted to put up.
“Just, uh”—I hold up the basket, giving a weird little shrug—“getting apples for Nina. First batch of apple tarts this season.”
“You don’t work on Sundays,” he says, his voice low, my schedule still memorized.
“Yeah, well, I do today,” I say, the words still tumbling out of my mouth. “But not usually! So, you’re still good to go to Nina’s then, if you want to go but don’t, you know, want to see me. I know how much you like her blueberry scones.” I peer up at him and see his face soften at that, a look that I’ve seen after some of our worst fights.
In that look I know there’s still a chance. Just like Blake said at bingo.
So why can’t I open my mouth? Why does my stomach drop at the thought?
There’s a loud crashing sound, and both of us jump as Jake comes tumbling through the trees from the other aisle, all arms and legs. Ryan comes flying around the aisle, rotten apple raised and ready to be launched, Olivia giggling right behind him. Everyone freezes when they see me.
Slowly, Jake stands up, Ryan drops the squishy apple, and Olivia crosses her arms.
All their eyes are on me as they flank either side of Matt defensively, and still I can’t form words.
“Hey, guys!” Blake says. I turn my head to the side to see her, basket of shiny, perfect apples tucked under her arm, warm smile plastered on her face.
Her appearance instantly deflates the tension. Everyone relaxes, and Jake slaps on a goofy grin with a pair of borderline-nauseating heart eyes.
I don’t think I’ve ever been more grateful to see someone.
The only one still glowering at me is Olivia, her icy blue eyes narrowed.
Jake saunters over, peering at the basket Blake’s holding. “What’ve you got there? Honeycrisps?” He pokes at them. “I’m more of a Gala fan.”
“Yeah, figured I’d pick them instead of wear them.” She points to Jake’s head, where a blob of brown mush clings to his hair.
“Your loss,” he says, reaching up to flick it out. “It’s great for your hair. Right, Olivia?”
Olivia is obsessed with hair and skin care. She takes, like, eighteen vitamins a day and is always trying new routines
