CONNOR
Simple my ass. Nothing with Delaney is simple.
After the phone call from her dad the other night, we ate our Lucky Charms in tense silence. She had to rush to pack and catch a few hours of sleep before an early flight, and I shouldn’t have been over there in the first place.
The fall harvest at the orchard is coming in fast, and we are woefully understaffed. I’ve been putting in a few hours every morning before school, then working in the orchard until well after sundown. But with our crew dwindling, it’s not enough.
I know I can’t keep this pace up, but any way I look at it, there doesn’t seem to be another way through. Pull back from the orchard and stomp all over my dad’s legacy, or quit teaching at Ridgecrest and forfeit the future I’ve worked so hard for.
The bell for second period rings in time with a series of notifications lighting up my phone.
Dad: Come by my place after work.
Dad: We need to talk.
Dad: Thanks.
I rub my temple, a nagging headache beginning to bloom behind my eyes. I know what he wants to talk about: the future of the orchard.
The orchard is supposed to be a retirement plan of sorts for all of us. But it has been floundering for years, and much to my dad’s disappointment, I don’t really care to try to save it.
I love the land, the house, the memories. Growing up on an orchard, wild and free, is every little kid's dream. But running it, the business side of things… that’s not for me. My siblings have all managed to leave Ridgecrest and escape the pressure of running the family farm, but I had to stay.
I don’t regret it… but some days, I wonder if the building resentment in my chest is worth it, if the sacrifices will one day turn the town I love into a place I hate.
The dull headache intensifies as the day wears on, and by lunchtime, I’m holed up in my office with the lights off, searching for a moment of reprieve. I can’t quell the pit in my stomach, the familiar prelude to conversations with my father.
Shadows dance across the dark wood panels. My office feels like it’s stuck in the 1950’s in the best possible way. A big window, crown molding, tiled floor, another reason I love this place. Sure it’s a little rough around the edges, but the imperfections make me love it more.
My office window overlooks the main courtyard, buzzing with lunchtime activity. Students eating, studying, laughing. A game of hacky sack, apparently making a comeback, and a vicious round of Uno.
This is what I love. Bringing literature and language to life for my students, exploring new worlds with them through books, seeing the look on their faces when they get acceptance letters after I’ve helped them edit their essays.
Hell, I even love that stupid choir trip every year.
I don’t want to split my focus between teaching and something that doesn’t bring me fulfillment or joy. As much as I hate to admit it, I don’t want to save the orchard.
And with that admission comes a realization that settles heavy in my chest: If I don’t save it, no one will.
By the time I pull into my dad’s driveway, the sun has nearly set, my head is throbbing, and the pit in my stomach has morphed into a black hole threatening to swallow me whole.
“Hey, dad,” I holler out as I push through the front door of his townhome.
The lights are low, the glow from a floor lamp casting a strange shadow around him in his recliner. It’s probably just the lights playing tricks on me, but he looks gaunt in a way that sends my stomach flipping.
The urgency of his text combined with the frail figure before me sends me spiraling into a familiar state of panic.
“Are you okay? Did you have a scan today? What did the doctor say?”
Before he can reply, I’m by his side, flipping on the overhead light so I can better assess the situation. Pulse is steady. Breathing, not labored. Temperature appears normal to the touch. I check through the vitals automatically because it’s muscle memory at this point.
For years, this was my everyday life. Watching for signs of life after seeing my dad too close to death too many times.
He swats my hands away, “Relax, I’m fine. No scans until next month. I’m just tired.”
I sink back onto my heels, a shaky breath escaping me.
Relax.
What a small, impossible word.
I’ve been on high alert since the day I found him passed out between rows of Pink Ladies and Jonnagolds. I don’t think I’ve relaxed since.
I ease into the overstuffed chair beside him. “What’d you need to talk about then?”
My dad leans forward, slim shoulders rounding, and suddenly it’s hard to see the strong, sharp-edged man who raised me. As widowed, single father to three little kids, he ran a tight ship. Loving, but firm. We all knew better than to step too far out of line.
But the man sitting in front of me looks soft. Fragile, almost.
“I know you don’t care about the orchard.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he raises a hand to silence me.
“I know you don’t. But son, you need to get your head out of your ass and do what’s right.”
And there he is.
There’s no missing the harsh bite in his voice. The subtle lift of his chin. He’s laid down the law and left no room for disagreement.
“I…” I turn the same argument over in my mind, searching for a different angle. “It’s not that I don’t care,” I say carefully. “But I don’t have the same passion for it like you do. Maybe it’s time we consider selling it?”
Those last two words come out strained, and I brace for impact.
My dad straightens in his chair, hurt flashing across his aging features. “That’s not an option, and you know it.” He sighs, disappointment and anger filling the space between us.
I throw my hands in the air, unable to contain my frustration.
“And why not? I get offers all the time, good offers. Enough money to set you up for life, with some leftover. We’re barely breaking even. It’s day by day, dad, if we’re actually gonna turn a profit or not.”
He scowls at me, unimpressed. “I don’t care about the money.”
“Well what do you care about? Because it sure as hell isn’t me and my happiness!” I shout, startling my dad.
I know I should take a breath, calm down before I say something I’ll regret. But now that the lid has been blown off, there’s no stuffing it back down.
“If you cared about what I want, you’d see that the orchard is running me into the ground. I’m so fucking tired. Tired of the physical work, tired of trying to save a sinking ship. Why can’t you see that?”
My dad points do the door and the slight shake of his hand sends a pang of guilt ricocheting through me.
“Go Connor. If you’re going to take that tone with me, leave. I’m not doing this with you today.”
I open my mouth to protest, but there’s nothing I can say in this moment that will make a difference.
I trudge back to my car, each step heavy.
Get your head out of your ass and do what’s right.
His words echo in my head as I drive back to our land, the land my dad gave so much to, the land that took so much from him in return.
An overpowering desperation eats at me. He has lived through so much heartache, and the last thing I want to do is add losing the orchard to his list of tragedies.
The right thing is to fold myself, my wants, my needs, my hopes, into something small and quiet, and commit to saving the family land, no matter the personal cost.
Delaney’s name flashes on my phone screen.
The personal cost.
I answer the call.