Page 56 of Keepsakes and Kismet

The flash of hurt behind her eyes is actually painful to look at, and I’m gutted for her. “Pey…”

“Having a family who would do anything for you isn’t embarrassing, Callum.” She tugs on the cuff of her sleeve. “It’s lucky.”

Her words put everything into perspective. They also make me want to wrap her up in my arms. “Thanks.”

She throws me a soft smile. “Let’s keep going, then.”

We venture deeper into the backyard, out of sight from the wandering eyes I’m sure are stuck to the kitchen window right now. Rows of carrot tops sit neatly in the garden, among winter squash and other late-season vegetables. Her dangly earrings waver in the wind as she walks.

The sun is setting, and the sky is a mixture of deep pinks and burnt orange, bathing her in rich colors. Her hair glimmers against the warm hues. Peyton looks so ethereal, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s hiding wings beneath the glow of her skin.

“Hey. Golden hour looks good on you,” I tell her.

She blushes the same color pink as the sunset before shyly ducking her chin. “Thank you.”

We follow the pathways Ma carved between rows of plants. Peyton reaches out and touches some of the leaves, her fingers grazing a squash blossom.

“This is almost like a small farm,” she comments, an impressed look on her face. “Everything is so perfectly placed. Is that an apple tree?” Her gaze shifts to the small tree to our right.

“Yes. It’s too late for apples off the tree, but Ma usually stores a couple baskets of them in the shed over there. The weather’s typically cold enough to keep them good until fridge space frees up. Do you want to try one?”

Her eyes light up with a childlike sparkle. “Oh my God, yes! My grandparents used to take me apple picking as a child at the very start of the season in August before I’d leave for school, and they’re some of my fondest memories.”

“I’m jealous. There were so many of us, the orchards got too expensive. We had apple trees at home.”

She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “Well, there won’t be any apple picking, but there will be apple cider at the Harvest Festival, and I’m really looking forward to going with you.”

My muscles tense. The Harvest Festival.

I haven’t been to the Harvest Festival since before it happened. Before my PTSD. Before him. And even though the festival date this year isn’t the same day as it once was, I never thought I’d go again. Why risk being triggered?

I said no initially, but Peyton was so disappointed at the idea of me not meeting her friends, I immediately reconsidered. And because I’m not ready to share the details of my past yet, I decided to say yes. I’ll just have to rely on my coping strategies. Peyton already has her own worries, and I won’t let myself be added to her list. Especially not after seeing her genuine excitement over letting me deeper into her world.

If my triggers surrounding the festival weren't enough to make me worry, making a good impression would do it. The most exciting thing about me is that I’ve hugged Peyton, which doesn’t bode well for impressing her inner circle.

When I open the shed door, we spot two small baskets of apples sitting on the large shelf inside. I pluck the best looking one and hand it to her.

“Wait a second… You didn’t even wash this. Or your hands.” She clears her throat, dropping her voice. “Washing procedures must be improved to avoid salmonella.”

I huff. “I don’t sound like that. And it’s extremely unlikely you’d get salmonella from this apple. It’d have to come into contact with a contaminated irrigation system, animal feces, or an airborne pathogen. Plus, even if you did get salmonella, most infections resolve themselves in five to seven days without antibiotics. The most important thing is to prevent dehydration.”

My face heats. Why did I bring up animal feces?

“I guess I can live with that, but do you think the internal temperature is⁠—”

“Eat the damn apple.”

She gives me a playful smile and takes a big bite. Apple juice runs down her chin, and I grab the bottom of my flannel and go to wipe her mouth before catching myself. As I spend more time with Peyton, the reflex of wanting to touch her becomes more and more natural. And not in a lustful way. Sometimes I fantasize about rubbing her back. Tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. Or, in this case, cleaning the apple juice off her lips.

Lifting my flannel caused my undershirt to ride up, and her green eyes snag on the exposed sliver of my abs. I silently thank Carter for every hanging knee raise he’s made me do.

I want to kiss her so fucking bad.

Growing up, I wouldn’t hesitate to talk to girls, but Peyton’s different. I’m not only thinking about what I want. I’m thinking about what she wants. What we have—a friendship teetering on more—feels extremely delicate. I’d do anything to preserve a relationship with her, no matter what it looks like. But she deserves honesty either way.

“Pey?”

“Yeah?”