Page 99 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

Maybe none of them deserve the absolution that would come from denying their agency.

Not my mom. Not his. Not Blake and Liv.

Because they didn’t just make one decision. They made a thousand. A million. And how can we blame the trees for that?

But if that’s true then everything we thought we knew about the curse was wrong.

At the same time, the list of people who left stretches impossibly long, as my uncle discovered, across decades and generations. “It can’t be a coincidence that all those people left the farm, though.”

Logan runs a hand along the steering wheel, for the first time breaking his perfect ten-and-two grip. “I’ve been thinking about that. I think the answer is they aren’t coincidences at all.”

“How so?”

“It would be a bigger coincidence, more unexplainable, if no one who stepped foot on the land ever left. Think about it. If you run out a lifetime long enough, everyone leaves, eventually. In one way or another.”

“I guess if you define ‘leaving’ broadly enough, that’s true.”

“Exactly,” he says. “It’s been true for me and there’s no orchard to blame, at least not for the people who aren’t my mom. My dad left years ago, over and over, before he really, fully did. Andrew enlisted in the navy and he only comes back to Apple Valley every six months or so. Mason went off to college.”

I tilt my head, thinking about how the reverse is also true of my family. “And not everyone who my uncle loved left him. Val, most importantly. Their love wasn’t romantic, but it was undeniable. She stood by him until the end. And everyone else…folks in town, friends and neighbors. Well, maybe Val was right about how he pushed them away, like a self-fulfilling prophecy. When he was convinced he’d die alone.”

Logan flicks on his turn signal and we slip off the highway. Concrete and steel give way to rolling hills lined with apple trees. The road leans into a curve, and we begin the climb along a steep ridgeline toward my land.

“Plus, there’s you,” Logan says. “You left when you didn’t have a choice, but you also came back. You came back to your uncle and the land, even when all you were ever taught was to leave.”

I swallow past a lump in my throat as my uncle’s face fills my memories. The gratitude brimming in his eyes as he held my hand with his cool, papery skin, and I said I’d do it—I’d take over the orchard. It still burns like a hot poker pressed against my chest, no matter how much my view of Martin has shifted.

“My love of this land has never wavered,” I say. “The more time I’ve spent here, the more I’ve wanted to stay.”

Logan hums. “That’s how I knew we were wrong.”

“Because I wanted to stay?”

“Because”—Logan’s grip tightens on the steering wheel—“I’ve wanted to leave Apple Valley for as long as I can remember. I’ve spent years tormented by that dream. But the only thing that’s ever really changed it—that’s ever made me truly reconsider the idea—is being here, on this land, with you. You make me want to stay.”

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“I mean it,” he says.

My rib cage expands until my next breath feels too tight. His words feel good, too good. It’s everything I’ve wanted him to say. At least, before I talked to Mason. Before I understood how important it is for Logan to leave.

The truck rounds a corner and the farmhouse sails into view, canary yellow trim welcoming me home. Trees creep past the window as we scale the driveway. In the branches, crystal pears take languid turns, scattering prisms of blue and yellow across the ground.

Breathtaking.

Gutting.

My temple settles against the truck’s cool window, and a new, complicated conflict gnaws at my thoughts. On the one hand, I’m relieved not to be cursed to solitude. On the other? None of what we learned in Maplehurst or decided on this drive solves my immediate problems. Half of my pears are crystallized. The other half are marked. I don’t know whether I’ll be able to pay my bills this year. I don’t even know how big my bills are.

“I don’t know what to do next,” I say helplessly. “Maybe the land isn’t cursed, but I don’t—”

My throat ratchets around a shaky breath, and with it, words stumble loose. Words that I’ve buried for weeks. Words I haven’t dared say aloud because they’re too big, too terrifying. Too true.

“I think I could lose my farm.”

I could lose it all: the new shoots that remember the old roots, the porch that remembers my weight, the branches that carry the scars of my childhood.

The trees that have marked me, just as I’ve marked them.