Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Ezra
My toes feel as though they are being pressed into that old nutcracker in Mav’s junk drawer. I was wrong. Size ten is not okay.
I’ve been digging holes for the last two hours. I haven’t seen Autumn once. And if I’m bravely admitting my truth, I volunteered to help the Linus’s partly to have an excuse to see Autumn.
If I’m ever going to find out this secret truth everyone keeps hinting at, I need to talk to the girl. I won’t be able to do that as long as she’s avoiding me like second-grade cooties.
The roar of a motor fills the air and I peer up, blocking the sun with my hand. Two four-wheelers drive up. Dessie’s on one and Don is on the other.
“Hey,” Don calls, a baseball cap over his thinning hair, making his big ears poke out a little like Dumbos—just like they did a decade ago. “We’ve got this. Can you go help Autumn with the bare roots?”
I run my dirty hands along the thigh of my denim pants and tip the brim of my Giants hat upward. “Uh, sure. Where is she? ”
“The south side of the farm. Around six hundred acres”—Dessie points—“that way.”
I swallow, nerves rising. But this is what I want. Right?
“Take my four-wheeler,” Dessie says, hopping off the machine.
“But won’t you—”
“I’ll ride with Don. We like snuggling up like that. Like when we were kids. Don is the spice of my life.”
I force a smile. I’d rather not think about Don being Dessie’s spice. “Great. That’s great, Dess.”
Don winks at his wife, then suggestively raises his bushy brows. Which is my cue to exit.
“Okay, I’ll go find Autumn.”
“You go get that girl,” Dessie sings. She knows we’re just working, right?
It’s a fast, bumpy drive, but I find Autumn easy enough. The old green Ford is a dead giveaway.
Her brows lower the second she sees me. I drive up, stopping right where she plants a tiny tree. She crouches but peers up at me, scowling as if I just ran over her row of saplings. “What are you wearing?”
I glance down at my dirty T-shirt and jeans, all the way down to Don’s boots that I’ll regret more tomorrow than I already do today.
“Uhh—” I look back up at her. I don’t know what she means.
“Why are you in work clothes?” She stands, hands on hips now, death glare in place. Autumn may only be five foot four, tiny, and curved in all the right places, but the girl could scare a bear. She always could. Once a kid in middle school stole her sister’s diary, the notebook Summer carried everywhere she went, and Autumn scolded the kid so harshly that he peed his pants.
But I don’t let her mother hen tone and deadly glare faze me. She may not want to talk about it—but I know her, in and out.
“Because I’ve been working,” I droll out. I’m pretty sure this bit of information is going to tick her off—and I’m okay with that. A pissed Autumn always had something to say.
“No, you have not.”
I snicker, loving the pitch in her voice. “I have .” I hold out my dirty hands to prove it to her.
“Well, stop it.”
“I can’t stop it. Don hired me on.”
“What?” she yelps, her voice so high-pitched that I literally have to put one finger in my ringing ear. “He did not!”
“We can pretend he didn’t. Just like we pretended Dessie didn’t hire me to design your bistro, but—”
The confidence in her face wavers. “It’s not my bistro, it’s the Linus’s. I’m just running it for them.”
“You always wanted your own place.”
She called it hers before—what’s changed? A lot, apparently. She never wanted to manage a small-town Christmas tree farm restaurant before.
“Dreams change.”
“That, I know.” I watch her, wondering what I’m missing. What’s gone on all these years.
“Fine,” she says, turning back to her saplings. “Go dig a hole or something.”
“I was digging holes when Don sent me over here to help you.”
She sighs like I am a big inconvenience. “Fine. Start the second row. There are boxes of bare roots in the back of the truck. One is opened with a few saplings left inside. Do you remember how?”
“Of course I remember.” I scan over the boxes. There must be a hundred little trees here—it’s going to take us a week to get them all planted. Little sprouts that will be ready to decorate a home in twenty years. The Christmas tree game is a long haul. How old will Dessie and Don be when these trees are ready? Ninety or more. Who will be running the farm then?
Last I heard—and that was a long time ago—none of their children were interested. Maybe they’ll sell. Maybe Autumn will do it.
We’ve worked an hour before we’re anywhere near one another. She purposely placed me far away from her.
With my knees on the ground and Autumn just across from me, I open my mouth. “What happened to your dad, Autumn?”
She pauses for a second, her hands in the dirt, and her eyes on the tree she just planted. “I thought you’d come back for the funeral.” She sounds so small—not accusing, only sad.
I swallow and my throat tightens. She thought I’d come back? Did she want me to? Then why send me away? “I—I didn’t know. I don’t do social media. I never heard.” Mostly true. I don’t do social media anymore —because of her. I never wanted to risk seeing her wedding photo or a picture of her engagement. Or Autumn with a baby. I couldn’t see that. So, I cut myself off from Love and all things that might bring me back here.
“Meg said you didn’t know,” she says, not bothering to look my way.
I grind my teeth—something Autumn would normally do. “People keep asking if I’m going to visit my dad,” I say without thought. I never handled Autumn hurting very well. Maybe my subconscious is trying to transfer her pain to me.
Her head pops up and she’s staring at me now. “Who? What people?”
I clear my throat at her strong tone—so much more forceful than before. Autumn was always easy to talk to and she always stated her mind. That’s another reason this close-lipped Autumn is making me crazy. Still, I hadn’t meant to tell her that.
“My friend, Phil.”
“He sounds like an idiot.” She scoffs like she’s met Phil and she knows .
I snort out a laugh. “And Dessie.” I press my lips in on one another and raise my brows once. She’d never call Dessie a name. She loves her like a mother.
Her jaw clenches. “Well, Dessie’s kind and forgiving. And possibly forgetful. You shouldn’t go, Ez,” she says, calling me by my nickname, the same one she used all those years ago, and making my stomach bubble with life.
“So, he’s no better than before, eh?” I say, a tinge of embarrassment lacing my words. But then I remember that I don’t need to be embarrassed by his choices, his weaknesses. I let them affect me for far too long. Somehow, I turned out pretty decent. Even with Mav Bennett as a father. Shouldn’t that make me proud? Dr. Appleby says it should. For years, I wanted to apologize for him. I wanted to hide in embarrassment for actions I have no control over.Not anymore.
She shrugs. “I haven’t seen him in years.”
“That makes two of us.” I wait for her to say more, pausing my work.
Autumn stands, her long chestnut hair pulled back at her neck raining over down the back of her plaid shirt. She walks to the truck and I scramble to my feet, following after her.
“Autumn,” I say, standing next to her and feeling the tension roll off of her. “You seem sad. Do you want to talk about it?”
“Sad?” she says, eyes darting up to my face. “My best friend just moved away. We lost my dad five years ago. I’m not exactly thrilled. But there’s nothing I can do about either.” She shrugs and looks away from me. “I’m fine.”
“You are sad.”
She groans, and all at once she presses both of her hands to my chest. She shoves me back, pushing me into the truck bed. “Yes,” she says. “I’m sad. Are you happy now?”
I grunt, more surprised than hurt by the force of her actions.
She huffs out a tired breath and grabs the box of the opened saplings. “Just go, Ezra. ”
“What did I do?” I bark. She wants confrontation, I’ll give it. I charge after her, but I’ve been in these boots too long. I’ve taken a hundred too many steps, and with my last step, both my feet choose this minute to cramp up. Another cramp hits as I attempt another step, sending me to the ground. I groan—not unlike a dog who just had his tail stepped on.
Autumn stands over top of me. “What are you doing?”
“Cramp,” I manage to get out.
“You have a cramp?” Her head tilts, her brown ponytail flopping over her shoulder.
But instead of worrying over Autumn’s judgments and lack of compassion, I squirm until I get my hands around the heel of the boots Don loaned me and tug. I toss off the left and stretch my toes. Then I reach for the right. I fling it too—not on purpose, but right at Autumn.
I mean… she kind of deserves it.
“Hey!” she yells, dodging the black work boot. “What is wrong with you?”
“Don’s boots,” I say, head falling back and looking up at the clear fall sky.
“Why are you wearing Don’s boots? They’re way too small for you.” She huffs, drops the box beside her, and crosses her arms. She’s calling me an idiot without saying a word.
But somehow I’m just impressed that she remembers my shoe size. She knows right off the bat that wearing Don’s boots is a terrible idea. Her look says it and so do her words. And while her words aren’t exactly kind—I think there is compassion in them. It’s hidden behind pain, but it’s still there.