Chapter Eight
Ashton
Olivia’s finally home from college for the summer, which means I’ve got an extra set of hands in the orchard.
I ease the forklift forward, the engine rumbling beneath me as a metal bin packed full of bright-red tart cherries rattles against its brackets. First harvest of the season. The cherries look almost unreal in the early afternoon light—plump, shiny, still beaded with dew.
Tremblay Orchards grows two kinds of cherries: sweet and tart.
Sweet cherries are easy enough. They get shaken straight into wooden boxes, loaded onto trucks, and sent out the same day.
Tart cherries, though? They’re high-maintenance.
They have to hit the cooling pad after they’re picked, where they spend some quality time submerged in icy water before their long journey across the state to a processor factory.
From there, they’ll be transformed into pies, jams, and juice concentrates.
I line the forklift up with the edge of the cooling pad, a wide concrete slab slick with water. Olivia waits beside it, boots planted in a puddle of mud, ponytail swinging as she motions me forward.
“Little more… little more—stop!” she calls, slapping the side of the bin.
I lower the lift, releasing the box with a teeth-rattling thud. Reversing until the forks slide free, I kill the engine and hop down. Olivia rises onto her tiptoes to hook up the piping, twisting the valve until a surge of icy water rushes through.
“God, that smell,” she laughs, scrunching her nose as the air fills with the sharp scent of cold fruit and metal. “I didn’t realize how much I missed it.”
I arch a brow at her, skeptical. “You missed this?”
She grins. “Kinda. City folks are a different breed, Ash.”
I smile to myself, shaking my head. I know exactly what she means.
The five of us Tremblay kids share a bond most people wouldn’t understand.
We were the ones waking up at the ass crack of dawn every summer while other kids our age slept in, went to camp, or played video games.
Instead, we spent our days under Dad’s sharp tongue, doing our best to keep the orchard running smoothly and obeying every order he threw our way.
As the cherries settle beneath the water, bobbing under the ripples, Olivia nudges me with her elbow. “Remember when we used to dunk each other in the tanks?” Her eyes gleam with mischief.
I shudder. “God, the water was freezing!”
“Felt nice on a hot day, though.”
I bark out a laugh. She’s not wrong. Summers back then were just a blur of sunburned shoulders, sticky fingers, and roughhousing behind Dad’s back.
She taps the side of the bin. “Hey, wanna take a lunch break while this fills up? It’ll be awhile.”
I glance at my watch. “Sure.”
Despite the fact that we’re both fully grown adults, Mom still insists on packing our lunches. I know it makes her feel useful, so I let her. And honestly, I won’t complain—Mom’s cooking is one of the few comforts that make the long, grueling days in the orchard bearable.
Olivia and I settle beneath a cherry tree, brown paper bags in hand, each labeled with our names in Sharpie like when we were kids.
Inside, I find a chicken salad sandwich on a croissant, a small bag of potato chips, and a shiny red apple.
Mom’s chicken salad is the best, complete with dried cranberries and chopped walnuts.
We eat in comfortable silence for a moment, the leaves whispering overhead, a breeze cooling our sweat-damp skin. The salt from the chips makes me thirsty, so I reach for the metal bottle in my backpack, flip the cap, and take a long pull of ice-cold water.
I swallow, then bite into my apple. “You know, you didn’t have to jump straight back into work on your first day home,” I say around the crunch. “Are you sure you want to endure another cherry season?”
She scoffs. “Please. You’re a hell of a lot nicer to work for than Dad ever was.” She takes another bite of her croissant, flakes scattering across her shirt. “And college isn’t cheap. I could use the extra money.”
“Fair enough.” I swirl my water bottle absently, listening to the ice rattle. “Did you get your final grades yet?”
Her face lights up. “Yeah. Three A’s and a B.”
Pride blooms warm and sudden in my chest. She’s the first in our family to go to college. I know how hard that must’ve been, figuring out financial aid, student loans, and endless paperwork all on her own.
“That’s awesome,” I say, grinning. “I’m proud of you.”
She shakes her head, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Stop. It’s just graphic design—not pre-med.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Liv.”
She waves a hand dismissively. “I’m only a sophomore. There’s still time for me to flunk out,” she jokes, a playful glint in her eyes. “Anyway, enough about me. Are you still seeing Phoebe?”
I nearly choke on my water. “Wow,” I say, coughing. “Straight to the point, huh?”
“I’ve already told you about my chaotic college love life. It’s only fair you tell me what’s going on with yours,” she argues, arms crossed over her chest. “You’re always so secretive about that stuff.”
Heat creeps up the back of my neck. “I’m not.”
“You are,” she insists, tilting her head with a knowing look. “Phoebe’s a nice girl. You know I adore her. I don’t understand why you don’t lock her down.”
I stare down at my apple, mindlessly picking at the skin. “Actually, we, uh… we decided we’re better off as friends.”
Olivia’s jaw drops. “Seriously?” she asks, eyes wide. “She was way out of your league, Ash. That was a huge mistake.”
I swallow hard. “We’re just… better off as friends.”
She leans back against the tree, tapping her fingers against her thigh, her expression shifting into something curious. “Okay, fine. But that still leaves a big question unanswered. What’s your ideal girl, then? You know, if I wanted to set you up with someone?”
A scowl spreads across my face. “I don’t need my little sister to set me up on dates.”
She rolls her eyes. “Hypothetically, then.”
I freeze for a beat, staring at the grass. “Uh… I don’t know,” I mutter. “I guess I want to date someone nice… hardworking… smart. Funny. Someone who can make me laugh even when I’m at my lowest.”
Her eyebrows rise in interest, and she leans closer. “Mm-hmm, keep going.”
I take a deep breath. “Someone who understands how much the orchard means to me. Someone who gets why I dedicate myself to it… who respects that. Someone who… makes me feel sparks.”
Olivia’s grin widens. “Hmm. Sparks, huh? Well, I might know a few girls you could meet—”
“No,” I interrupt. “Seriously. I don’t need a matchmaker. Besides, I’m too busy right now to date anyone.”
Her eyes narrow. “But—”
“I’ll let you know when I’m ready to start dating, alright?”
That answer seems to satisfy her, for now.
Quiet chewing fills the silence between us, but as I munch on my apple, my mind drifts.
Do I even know what I want in a partner, truly?
I think about everything I’ve been avoiding all my life—these desires buried deep inside, smothered by years of shame and denial.
I’ve kept myself busy, hiding in my work so I don’t have to face the truth staring me down every time I’m alone with my thoughts.
Do I really like men that way? Or was me coming so hard I nearly blacked out while watching gay porn just some weird one-off?
Maybe it’s something I like in theory but not in practice.
Maybe the only way I’ll ever know is by actually letting myself explore it—even if the thought scares the hell out of me.
“You alright?” Olivia asks, concern etched in her voice.
I blink back to reality, realizing I’ve been completely zoned out, squeezing an apple core in my fist. Huffing a laugh, I toss it onto the ground beside us.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Just thinking.”
She snickers. “Careful, Ash. Don’t hurt yourself.”
When I flip her off, she shoves my shoulder with a grin. I wipe my hands on my jeans and nod toward her half-eaten sandwich. “Hurry up and eat. We’ve gotta get back to work.”
She straightens and gives an exaggerated salute. “Yes, boss.”
A groan escapes me. “Don’t call me that.”
“What? It’s true.” She laughs. “Don’t give me that look. I know you missed me while I was away at college.”
I’m ready with a snarky comeback, but the words stall in my throat. Instead, something softer pushes through.
“Yeah,” I admit quietly. “I did.”
Her grin shifts into something warm and fond. For a moment, it feels like we’re kids again, enjoying Mom’s cooking together after a long day spent sweating in the orchard.
Then she picks up her sandwich and takes an enormous bite. “Good,” she mumbles through her food. “’Cause I missed you too.”