Chapter 23
The drive winds farther inland than I expect, the ocean slowly giving way to rolling green hills. We turn onto a gravel road, and the scenery opens to rows of green stretching toward the foothills, mountains sitting soft and blue in the distance.
Aiden parks near a small row of vehicles lined up along the gravel, the field stretching out just beyond them.
When I step out of the truck, the air feels different here, crisp enough that my lungs stretch a little deeper.
Rows of blueberry bushes spread out in neat lines across the field, thick with fruit in shades of deep purple and dusty blue.
Makeshift tents sit near the entrance, attendants moving between tables stacked with buckets and empty crates.
People laugh somewhere farther down the rows, voices carried lightly by the breeze.
It feels alive without being loud.
As we walk toward the tents, an older woman looks up and immediately lights up.
“Aiden boy!” she calls, stepping out from behind the table and wrapping him in a hug. “It’s so good to see you.”
He laughs softly, hugging her back. “Good to see you too, Mrs. Gibson.”
He steps aside, motioning toward me. “This is May, my neighbor. Mrs. Gibson owns the farm,” he adds quietly to me.
I reach out my hand politely, but Mrs. Gibson waves it away and pulls me into a hug instead.
“Well, it’s about time you came with a pretty lady,” she says loudly enough that I feel my face heat.
Aiden laughs it off, shaking his head.
I smile because the whole thing feels so genuine that I can’t help it.
There are two teenage girls working at the table, watching the interaction with wide eyes. When Aiden says hello to them, both blush immediately, giggling under their breath.
I can’t really blame them.
He’s wearing jeans that fit like they were made for him, work boots, a blue T-shirt stretched comfortably across his shoulders, and a backwards hat pushing his hair up just enough to look effortless—the definition of the boy next door.
Mrs. Gibson and Aiden start talking about orders and crates, and I step slightly to the side, watching.
There’s an ease between them that makes it obvious he’s been coming here for a long time.
As she turns to grab a crate, Aiden reaches for it first, lifting it with ease and setting it beside her while the conversation keeps flowing. He doesn’t pause, doesn’t make it a gesture. He just anticipates what’s needed and keeps moving.
The same quiet instinct he’s had with me since the day I got here.
“Take your time,” he tells her. “Just come get me when everything’s ready. We’re gonna pick some while we wait.”
Mrs. Gibson nods and turns to the girls. “Get them buckets.”
One of the girls looks at me. “Do you want a picking bucket?”
“A… maybe?”
She smiles and shows me a small bucket with a strap attached. “You wear it around your neck so you can pick hands-free. Then you dump it into a big bucket when it’s full.”
“Oh,” I’m immediately interested. “Okay, yeah. That sounds smart.”
She helps me adjust the strap while another girl waves us forward.
“I’ll show you where to go.”
We follow her down one of the rows, large blueberry bushes rising on either side.
“Here you go. This row’s Berkleys, and that one’s Jerseys.”
She gestures to two bushes right next to each other before heading back toward the tents.
Aiden thanks her, and suddenly it’s just us again.
The field quiets around us—soft rustling leaves, distant laughter, the occasional bird cutting through the air. The sun is warm, but the breeze keeps everything comfortable.
It’s the perfect day to be outside.
“So…” I glance around. “How much are we getting?”
“As much or as little as we want.”
I look at him, confused.
“Mrs. Gibson will have her sons load the truck with crates while we’re here,” he explains. “I just figured we’d pick some ourselves. Enjoy the experience a little.”
I smile at that. At the thought that he planned this part intentionally.
“Is there anything specific I should look for? I’ve never done this before.”
A grin spreads across his face.
He steps closer, reaching for a low branch and pulling it gently between us. Clusters of berries hang heavy, deep blues mixed with lighter ones not quite ready.
“The juicier the better.” His finger hovers over the darkest cluster. “You want this color right here.”
His fingers roll one berry lightly, showing me the texture.
“Not too soft,” he adds. “Just enough give.”
I watch the way his hands move —careful and practiced—sunlight catching on his forearms, and the quiet confidence of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.
Before I can linger too long in the thought, he takes the picking bucket from my hands and lifts the strap gently over my head, pulling my ponytail free, so it rests comfortably behind it.
Heat lingers where his fingers brush my neck.
“Where should I start?” I ask, my voice sounding just a little thinner than usual.
“Here’s good.” He steps back, nodding toward the bush in front of me. “You’ll do the Berkleys. I’ll start on the Jerseys, right here, next to you.”
We settle into a rhythm of picking, dropping berries into our buckets, moving slowly down the bushes side by side.
The quiet feels easy, but eventually, I glance over at him.
“So… how old are you?”
“Twenty-eight.” He tosses another handful into his bucket. “You?”
“Twenty-five.”
He nods, tucking the information away.
“Did you always want to be a firefighter?” I ask.
“Not really.” He shrugs. “I just wanted to do something that helped people. The fire academy happened to be open when I needed a job.”
He glances at me. “How about you? Always wanted to be a marine biologist?”
“Basically.” I smile. “By the way, you can’t just use my question as your question. You have to come up with your own.”
“Trust me,” Amusement flickers across his face. “I’ve got plenty of questions.”
“Okay,” I reach for another cluster of berries. “Shoot.”
He studies me for a moment, thoughtful.
“Why do you have tattoos on one arm and not the other?”
My hand pauses.
I look down at my inked arm, tracing the familiar lines with my eyes before lifting my gaze toward the sky.
“All of these, I got while my mom was still alive.”
I glance at my bare arm.
“This side… is my life without her.”
The words hang between us.
He stops picking.
When I look back at him, something shifts in his expression—understanding settling in, heavy and quiet.
“Empty.”
I nod.
For a moment, we just look at each other, the breeze moving gently through the leaves around us.
“Will you ever get tattoos on your left arm?” he asks after a beat.
“Probably. When I feel ready to start over.”
He doesn’t rush to respond. Just gives me the space to breathe, staying close without crowding me.
We start picking again, the soft plink of berries hitting the bucket filling the silence.
“Do you have any tattoos?” I ask eventually.
“Just one.”
He lifts the hem of his shirt, turning enough for me to see the side of his ribs.
There, in small cursive letters, is a single name.
Elena.
I blink, surprised, and maybe a little too aware of the quick glimpse of muscle before he drops his shirt back down.
“Is that your mom’s name?” I ask.
“Yeah”
For a second, I stare at him. Then, without really thinking about it, I tug up my own shirt enough to show my side.
Right along my ribs, in simple typewriter font, is the name Helen.
He looks at it. Then back at me.
“There’s no way,” he says.
I laugh first, a short, disbelieving burst, and then he laughs too, loud enough that it startles a bird out of the bushes nearby.
“What are the odds?”
“What are the fucking odds?” I answer, grinning as I drop another handful of berries into my bucket.
It isn’t long before Mrs. Gibson finds us between the rows.
“Truck is packed and ready to go,” she calls, smiling as she approaches.
Aiden looks over at me. “You ready to head out?”
“Yeah.”
I lift the strap of my picking bucket over my head and pour the berries into the larger bucket we’ve been filling together. Aiden grabs both buckets and starts walking back toward the tents.
“You did really good,” Mrs. Gibson says as we follow. “Hope you had a good time.”
“I did. It’s beautiful here. Peaceful. I can’t wait to come back.”
“Well, you'd better come to the next farmers' market,” she says, pointing down the road. “Next month. All the neighboring farms bring their goods.”
“I’ll definitely come.”
When we reach the tent, Aiden sets the buckets onto the scale. Mrs. Gibson glances at the number and waves a hand.
“These are on us.”
“No, let me pay you. There’s about fifteen pounds there.”
She shakes her head. “No, no. You’ve purchased plenty already, and this is for a good cause.”
She grabs a small crate and pours the berries inside.
“I had a couple of peach trees bloom early this year,” she adds. “Had the boys pack you a few crates.”
“How much do I owe you for those?”
“On me, boy,” she smiles, already knowing she’s won the argument.
Aiden laughs softly, walking around the table to hug her. “Thank you, Mrs. Gibson.”
“How about the blueberry honey?” he asks. “They finish it?”
“Oh yes! Packed those too. Thank you for taking it for us.”
“You got it.”
He steps back. “Alright, Mrs. Gibson, we should get going. We’ve got a long day ahead. We’re starting the jam and breads today.”
“It’s too good to see you, Aiden,” she says, looking at him with obvious affection before turning to me. “May, it was lovely meeting you. Please take care of my boy.”
I smile. “I will, Mrs. Gibson.”
Aiden grabs the crate, and after saying our goodbyes, we head toward the truck parked just across the road.
As we get closer, I notice a brown horse standing quietly along the fence line, watching us.
“Hi, beautiful.”
The horse doesn’t move as it studies me with calm, curious eyes.
I step closer, careful and slow, giving him space.
Behind me, I hear Aiden set the crate into the truck bed. A moment later, he’s beside me.
“You wanna pet him?” he asks.
I glance at him. “Do you know this horse?”
“I know its owner. We’ve never met, but we can introduce ourselves.”
He steps forward first, offering his closed hand. “Hey, boy.”
The horse lowers his head, nostrils flaring as he sniffs Aiden’s hand. It doesn’t take long for his posture to soften. Aiden runs a hand along his neck, slow and sure, and the horse leans into it already trusting him.
Aiden looks back at me. “Your turn.”
I step closer, holding my hand out the way he did. The horse sniffs, warm breath brushing over my skin, and when he doesn’t pull away, I slide my hand along his side.
His coat is warm from the sun.
For a while, neither of us says anything.
Just the soft sound of breathing. The rustle of leaves. The quiet presence beside me.
I realize I’m not searching for something to say. The silence doesn’t feel heavy or awkward. It just feels… easy.
The feeling that settles in my chest is simple and calm. Peace.