Chapter Seventeen
Walker
The scent of apples fills my nose as my grandfather’s hand lands with a firm thud on my back, his laughter a comforting sound amidst the rustling leaves as the wind picks up.
We're surrounded by rows of apple trees, their branches bowing under the weight of ripe, red fruit. Sunlight filters through the leaves, casting dappled patterns on the ground. I pluck an apple from its stem, its skin smooth and cool in my palm—the scent is crisp, and the floral notes on the wind remind me of her perfume.
“I never thought I’d see you hung up about a woman,” Hershel observes, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth.
I stiffen, the apple in my hand momentarily forgotten. How did he know? I hadn’t said anything. “What makes you think it’s about a woman?” I meet his gaze, but his eyes are too wise, too experienced to not see right through me.
“Boy,” he says, his voice rich with years and wisdom, “you've got that look. The one that says your mind's miles away with someone who's got your heart beatin' funny.”
His expression lightens. “The fact that she got it beatin’ at all is pretty extraordinary.”
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.
“Let's head on back,” Grandpa calls out, cranking the engine to life. Beside him, Grandma settles in, her hands folding neatly in her lap. The truck lurches forward, and I brace myself against the wheel wells, the afternoon sun casting long shadows through the orchard.
The rush of air makes talking impossible, but that’s fine with me. I don’t want to give away anything else. Once the house comes into view, Grandpa parks the truck, and we all climb out. Ethal lingers as I begin to unload crates, her eyes soft and knowing.
I stack the crates in silence. The only sounds are the crunch of gravel under my feet and the rustle of leaves in the wind.
“Need help packing?” she asks, but I shake my head.
Am I packing? “Thanks, but I'll manage,” I say, even though part of me yearns for the comfort her presence brings.
She doesn't move, just watches me with that same gentle gaze. “You're worthy of love regardless of your past mistakes,” she says, her voice so tender it slips past my battered defenses and hits me right in the heart.
I stiffen, the weight of her words pinning me in place. My jaw clenches. “You don't know everything,” I murmur, almost too low to hear. They only know parts of my past, the small parts. Not the really big mistakes I’ve made.
“Maybe not,” she says with a small smile. “But I do know that much.” Her belief in me is both undeserved and unwavering and lodges itself deep within, a seed of hope I'm terrified to let take root.
“Thank you.” I turn away before she sees the emotions I’m struggling to keep off my face. I retreat into the beautiful farmhouse and to my room. The vaulted ceilings and multitude of skylights let in the sunshine and the beauty of this place calms me.
With every folded shirt, every zipped bag, Isla invades my thoughts. Her smile, her passion for her craft, the way my name sounds when it crosses her lips—each memory pushes me closer to a decision I never thought I'd consider.
Go help her. The words echo in my mind, a challenge I’m not sure I should take. And as I snap the suitcase shut, I realize that maybe, just maybe, I want to.
I stride across the dew-kissed grass, suitcase in hand, my goodbyes heavy on my tongue. Grandpa’s perched on the old wooden bench, his gaze following the swoop and dives of the sparrows above. His silver hair seems bright in the sunlight. I sit beside him, the wood creaking.
“Is everything okay?” I’m worried. I know I don’t visit often enough. Life always seems to get in the way.
He nods without looking away from the birds, those bright eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yeah, everything's fine.” I sense there’s more and I stay put. “I'm not one to tell you how to live,” he says, his tone casual like we’re discussing the weather, “but this life you're living… it’ll get old.”
The words hit me harder than any physical blow could. But he’s not done. “One day you’ll wake up, alone, no matter who's in your bed. If no one knows you, really knows the real you, then they can't love you.”
I blink, the raw honesty of his words jarring me. “I don’t need to be loved,” I say, meaning the words. But the thought of Isla loving me…
“Sure.” He chuckles. “But you do want someone, don't you? Someone to enrich your life, make it better?”
My mind summons Isla's face—her vibrant eyes, her infectious laugh that fills rooms and steals hearts. “She's just a passing obsession,” I argue more with myself than him.
“Ha!” Grandpa's laugh scares the birds and they scatter. “Finally fallen for a woman, have you? She must be blind if she's falling for you.”
I can't help but join in his laughter, the shared joke somehow bridging the gap between my guarded heart and the possibility of something more.
“Go on, chase after her.” Grandpa nudges my arm with his elbow and a wink, pushing past my defenses like only family can.
“Maybe I will.” And as we sit there, two men bound by blood and unspoken understanding, I let myself believe—for a fleeting second—that maybe, just maybe, I'm ready to be caught.