Page 86 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

“He’s also sacrificed a lot in his life,” I continue. “And I want him to be happy. Even more than that, I think he deserves to be happy. Probably more than anyone I know.”

Mason raises an eyebrow. “But?”

“Why do you think there’s a ‘but’?”

He scoffs into his next sip of beer. “Ali. I’ve known you for, what, forty-eight hours? And please don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve gotten a pretty good idea of just how messy your life is. You’re full of nothing but ‘buts.’ ” He grins. “You know what I mean.”

I swallow. Despite the attempt at humor, I’m uncomfortable with just how accurately that particular missile has landed. “All right, fine. But I don’t think I can be serious about him. I don’t know what kind of future we have. The last he told me, he’s leaving. And I would never want to stand in the way of that dream. But also, I’m always going to want to stay.”

To my surprise, Mason’s frown eases. Like, somehow, this is just what he wanted to hear. From across the pool table, Logan catches my eye. Maybe he clocks our serious expressions because his half smile fades and he strides toward us.

“My ringer!” Mason shouts as Logan lands beside us and nudges me with a shoulder.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say, and let myself settle against his wide frame. “Your brother loves you a lot.”

Mason elbows me. “You weren’t supposed to go spilling my secrets, Ali.”

“Oh, so I shouldn’t tell him about your finsta?”

Mason snorts. “I like her.”

Logan’s lips hitch. “I do, too.”

Eventually, Mason abandons us to team up with a raven-haired girl for a fresh round of cornhole and Logan and I flop onto one of the couches. I sag against the worn bolster, shoes off and legs crossed underneath me, and Logan positions himself on the center. He hasn’t had a single sip of alcohol, but he lies back with his head against the upper cushion, looking considerably more relaxed than he was when we were in that library.

As I watch Logan, Mason’s words echo in my ears, but so do my own. What I said was true—I don’t know if we have any kind of future. But, also, what I want most is for Logan to look like he does right now: easy smile, shoulders loosened. I want him to be happy. And I can’t help but wonder if it’s not a coincidence that he looks this way after getting some distance from Apple Valley.

“This has been quite a day,” I say.

He laughs through his nose. “That’s been true every day since I moved onto your farm.”

“That sounds suspiciously like an insult.”

“It’s not.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Really,” he says. “Living in Apple Valley is like playing the same Hank Williams album on repeat. These days, I get to listen to Lady Gaga.”

My fingertips tingle as music thumps under our seats. “I think this is actually Doja Cat.”

Logan snorts. “We’re still too old for this shit.”

I lean a temple against the worn bolster, thinking about the millions of ways our lives have fragmented in the last forty-eight hours. The curse. The fundraiser. The hail. Logan’s mom. “You still want to be distracted?” I ask. “Or is it time to stew?”

He tips his head, aligning our faces. “How about if I listen to how you’re feeling?”

My sigh is a bit like a snort as hail pricks my memories. “I’m…I don’t know exactly. What’s the opposite of optimistic? Not pessimistic. Like, deeper than that.”

“Discouraged?”

The word clangs with the jarring weight of truth. “Yeah. I think I’m discouraged.”

Logan sits up and grabs my ankle, runs his hand up and down my calf in a soothing motion. It sends a frisson of electricity along my skin. “Ali. We’re not going to let your farm fail.”

And even though his confidence—and the word we—ignites a spark under my ribs, I can’t help but feel frustrated for erasing the ease from Logan’s posture. And I can’t help but think Mason is right. These weeks on my farm have taken a toll on him.