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Before I can reply, my phone rings, startling some birds who fly off into the blue skies. My pulse quickens, hope surging—could it be Isla reaching out? But as I fish the device from my pocket and glance at the screen, it's Vice's name that shows up. With a sigh, I swipe to answer.
“Talk to me,” I say, my tone guarded while Hershel goes back to picking apples.
“Hey,” Vice's voice comes through, level and calm, “just wanted to let you know I approved some time off for Isla. Her mom's sick, and she had to head home.”
“Thanks for letting me know.” There’s no gratitude in my voice, but it's there, warming my insides despite the cold twist of concern for Isla's mother. Vice and I, we understand each other—our fists do the talking when words fail, and somehow, it's enough.
“Take care, man,” he says before the line goes dead.
“Was that about Isla?” Hershel's question pulls me back, and I nod, not trusting my voice. He's watching me, his eyes looking like he’s seen it all. Past him, I see Ethal, my grandmother, making her way toward us, the Brittany Spaniels weaving between her legs, their tails wagging in excited arcs.
“Looks like trouble,” I say, forcing a smile as I pocket my phone, trying to shake off the sudden heaviness settling in my chest.
“Trouble's middle name might as well be Ethal.” He’s made the joke a million times, yet somehow, I never get tired of it.
As the dogs bound up to greet me, vying for attention, I scratch behind their ears, grateful for the distraction. But even as I play the part, the image of Isla, vulnerable and worried about her sick mom, haunts me. As concern twists something inside me, and I know, despite everything, that this isn't just some passing desire.
This is real. And it's terrifying.
Placing another apple on the growing mound in the back of the truck, I can't help but feel the weight of everything that's unsettled in my chest. And grandpa's gaze reads me far too easily.
“He's pining over a woman,” he says, his voice a little too loud as he talks to my grandmother.
Ethal rolls her eyes at him, a playful reprimand dancing on her lips. “Now, you leave him alone,” she says. Her hands find their familiar place on her hips, a stance that warns an apple is about to fly at grandpa’s head if he doesn’t listen. “I’ve been waiting for the day he brings some nice girl home.”
I chuckle, putting another apple into the truck bed. She'll be waiting a long time, because I've built walls no woman has ever scaled. Isla, though—she's different. She slips through the cracks, somehow.
“We need great grandbabies,” Ethal sounds excited, and I blink at that leap, a tightness seizing my throat.
“Easy there, Ethal,” I joke. She’s getting too carried away.
“Your face is all worried, honey. What’s going on?” Her voice pulls me from my thoughts.
“Her mom is sick, so she took some time off and went home.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, and I internally curse myself out. They exchange a look, an entire conversation taking place in the span of a single glance.
“Why are you here, then?” Hershel asks, his voice low and serious.
“Go help her,” Ethal says. “And take some apples.”
Grandpa laughs, a rich sound that echoes around the orchard. “There’s enough apples here to start our own country,” he says, shaking his head.
“We had a good season,” Ethal says, sounding grateful. I’m glad they’re living their dream, and I want to do everything I can to support them every step of the way. I guess they’re looking to do the same for me.
But I’m rooted to the spot, wrestling with the idea. Go to her? It's not my place to hunt her down and show up on her doorstep... or is it? I shake my head, refusing to take that step.
“Well, why not?” Ethal's question is a challenge I'm not ready to accept.
The warmth of the sun does nothing to ease the cold knot of uncertainty inside me. My hands continue to reach for fruit and place them in the truck, the movements quick. Apples, red and ripe like the flush on Isla's cheeks when I tease her, pile up in the back of the truck.
I think I actually care about this woman. And that changes everything.
I hoist myself up onto the tailgate, my boots slipping slightly on the crushed apples that didn't make the cut. They’ve been quiet since Ethal’s last question went unanswered.
“She's the darling with the food channel, isn't she?” Grandma's voice is sweet and hopeful as I settle among the crates.
“Yep, that's her.” I’m trying to keep any hint of emotion from my words. But inside, the image of Isla, apron tied around her waist, flour dusting her nose, and laughter on her lips, stirs a warmth in my chest I've been fighting to ignore.
“Ah, she'd be right at home here with us.” Ethal's excitement is obvious, and against my will, the fantasy of Isla blending seamlessly into this simple life carves a space in my thoughts. I shake the image away and focus on arranging the apples instead.
