Chapter 11 Alex
ALEX
Fall Apple Festival Kick-Off: the busiest day of the year.
I stretch my arms overhead, rolling the tension from my shoulders before unloading another heavy crate from the truckbed.
The tent for the bar is in its usual spot, tucked between someone selling handmade soap and the local honey vendor.
The Old Mill doesn’t do ‘small’, and our setup reflects that.
There are barrels repurposed into tables, a full tap system, our signature spiked apple cider stocked and a detailed menu board propped against the side of the tent.
It isn’t a “pop-up stand”, it’s an experience.
“Yo, Alex! You got those extra kegs?”
I glance up to see Frankie adjusting the tap system to make sure everything is working properly.
“In the truck,” I call back, setting the crate on the ground and wiping both hands on my jeans. “Be careful with the cider ones. You know those are like gold this time of year. If you spill them, I’m making you lick it off the pavement.”
Frankie laughs and continues to mutter something under his breath about forced labor before disappearing to the truck. I grab a rag, wiping down one of the barrel tables when a burst of laughter carries over from across the street.
I know that laugh.
I would know it anywhere.
I don’t mean to turn around, at least that's what I tell myself, but my head jerks up like a damn reflex, and there she is.
Emma is standing at the bakery’s tent, holding a stack of white pastry boxes while Sophia directs her and Liv around like a tiny general.
She’s got a concentrated look on her face, biting the corner of her lip as she listens, nods, then immediately trips and drops half the boxes, sending them and their contents tumbling to the ground.
I can’t help but smile. She’s as clumsy as ever.
Liv smacks her arm and Emma throws her head back and laughs again, even louder and unfiltered now.
She couldn’t care less who’s listening. I used to make her laugh like that.
It was, and continues to be, one of my favorite sounds in the whole world, besides the little moan she used to make as she unraveled under my touch.
My grip tightens around the rag in my hand.
Yesterday, I was behind the bar, pouring drinks, when the front door swung open.
For a split second, through the glare of sunlight, I saw her.
She was standing framed by the doorway, looking straight at me.
The sight looked like something straight out of a movie.
It was too perfect to be real. I don’t think she meant for me to see her, but we locked eyes.
I winked at her when I could tell that she finally recognized who she was looking at.
She stumbled over her own feet in her rush to get away.
It satisfied me to know I still have that effect on her.
Seeing her this often is screwing with my head, though.
It’s hard to keep my distance like I know I should.
It’s hard to ignore the way my body reacts when she’s near.
I remember all of it. The way she used to look at me like she trusted me with her entire heart.
The way I used to make her smile in the darkest of times.
The way that still wasn’t enough in the end.
I shake the thought away, gripping the edge of the table as I let out a long exhale.
Emma continues to smile as she crouches down to gather the fallen boxes and pastries. Her hair falls into her face as she mumbles something, probably cursing herself out or thinking out loud. She does that a lot.
I should divert my attention to something more productive, like organizing all the plastic cups and canned drinks.
But I don’t. Instead, I’m frozen in position, continuing to watch as she huffs in frustration, blowing a stray curl out of her eyes while trying to balance the remaining boxes against her hip.
Liv bends down to help, but not without rolling her eyes. “Honestly, Em, how do you function in everyday life?” I hear her say.
Emma shoots her a teasing glare. “Gracefully.”
Sophia giggles while stacking the remaining rescued boxes on the bakery’s table.
Liv responds, “Sure. If by ‘gracefully,’ you mean chaotically.”
Emma stands, dusting off her skirt with one hand before flipping them both off.
The corners of her mouth twitch like she’s trying to keep from laughing again.
She turns while unloading a box of pastries into a small glass case, and for a second, her eyes flicker across the street, to me.
She stills. Not to a full stop, but an obvious hesitation.
I don’t think she expected to see me here at all, let alone to be so clearly watching her.
Neither of us moves. The noise of the festival set up vibrates around us—vendors chatting, the scent of apples and cinnamon thick in the air—but for a second, it’s just us. It’s just like yesterday: Emma looking at me, while I’m too caught up in her to look away.
This time she doesn’t run away.
Instead, she calmly turns back to Liv, saying something I can’t quite make out, and busies herself with unloading more boxes.
There’s something pleasurable about seeing and knowing how hard she’s trying to avoid looking in my direction again.
Running a hand through my hair, I pick up a hat that I set down earlier and put it on backwards.
I turn back to the tent, forcing myself to focus on the last items needing to get done.
But no matter how much I try to fight it, some part of me knows the truth: there is no fiber of my being that has ever stopped being entirely consumed by Emiliana Diaz.