Chapter 15 #2
I’m taking my anger out on a pile of innocent cherries, crushing them until they collapse into bloody pulp.
I crank the handle of the fruit smasher the way Troy showed me, sweat sliding down my temples, my muscles burning in a way that feels cathartic.
With every turn of the press, the frustration bleeds out of me.
The juice trickles into the basin below, thick and dark, rising inch by inch.
The cherries split with wet pops, their juice splattering my hands and soaking into the front of my shirt. It smells sharp and sweet, the aroma almost suffocating in the sticky, humid air. I focus on the rhythm: crank, crush, breathe. Crank, crush, breathe.
After that disastrous family dinner, I texted Troy and told him I wanted in on the next batch of cider—that I wanted to get my hands dirty, to learn the process from start to finish.
What I didn’t say is that this feels like rebellion.
Like defiance. Every crushed cherry is a quiet act of disobedience, a sticky, red middle finger aimed straight at my dad.
The handle jerks beneath my grip.
I frown and shove down harder, but it barely budges, the smooth rhythm gone. Resistance shudders up my arm, metal grinding against something thick and stubborn. I let out a frustrated groan and put my weight into it.
“It’s stuck,” I mutter, trying again.
Troy pushes off the wall with a quiet huff of laughter. “You overfilled the pulp basin.”
I pause, chest heaving slightly. “What?”
“You’re going too hard.” His boots scrape against the concrete as he walks over. “It’s clogging the machinery.”
Before I can step back, he’s by my side, invading every inch of my space. He leans over my shoulder to peer into the basin, one arm braced on the counter beside me. The sudden closeness knocks the air from my lungs.
Heat radiates off him, seeping through the thin cotton of my T-shirt.
I catch the scent of his cologne beneath the heavy cherry tang—clean and woodsy and overwhelmingly masculine.
It tangles with the memory of the sun-warmed orchard and our stolen kiss beneath the trees, his lips stained red and sour.
My eyes betray me and drop to his mouth.
I remember those lips curved around a grin as he pushed me against the tree, how they tasted like fruit and risk and something that felt a lot like freedom.
“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, reaching into the machine.
His forearm brushes mine as he scoops out a fistful of crushed cherry flesh. It squelches wetly in his hand before he dumps it into the trash with a dull splat. He does it again, clearing the blockage with efficient movements, completely unfazed.
I’m hyperaware of everything—how close his thigh is to mine, the way his breath ghosts the shell of my ear when he leans in closer.
Suddenly, he reaches for my hand.
I flinch before I can stop myself.
He snickers softly. “Relax.”
His fingers wrap around mine as he guides my hand back to the crank handle. His palm settles over the back of my knuckles.
“You gotta take it slow,” he says quietly, his voice dropping lower now that he’s this close. “You were going too fast before.”
He starts turning the handle slowly, deliberately. I feel the movement before I register it, the steady rotation under our joined hands.
“Like this,” he murmurs, his breath blowing hot against my ear. “Slow and steady.”
My face burns.
His chest presses lightly against my back as he leans in to guide the motion, his other hand braced on my hip. The contact is soft, but I feel it everywhere. My entire body is tuned to him, my nerves buzzing, my brain chanting his name like a prayer.
The machine hums smoothly now, cherries surrendering without protest.
I swallow hard, acutely aware of how this looks. How it feels. Like one of those cheesy romance scenes where a woman spins pottery and a man stands behind her, arms wrapped around her, guiding her hands with absurdly intimate precision. It should feel ridiculous.
Instead, it feels dangerous.
My brain catches up to my body all at once—how close he is, how easily I’m leaning into it, how natural it feels to let him guide me.
I jerk forward and shrug him off, leaning out of his reach. “I’ve got it,” I say quickly. I grab the handle on my own and crank it with stiff, controlled movements.
Troy stills behind me. When I risk a glance over my shoulder, his expression has shifted into something guarded. His fingers flex at his sides, restless, like he doesn’t know what to do with them when they’re not touching me.
He takes a small step back, putting space between us.
“I was being professional,” he says evenly. “Like you asked me to.”
My jaw tightens as I refocus my attention on the cherries, watching the juice cascade into the bucket.
“I wasn’t trying to do anything,” he adds, his voice tight and defensive. “I was just helping.”
My throat feels dry. I swallow hard, but nothing comes out. No apology. No explanation. Just the steady churn of the fruit smasher filling the silence.
Because what am I supposed to say?
Sorry I can’t think straight when you’re that close?
Sorry I can’t trust myself to resist you?
Troy exhales through his nose, the sound quiet but tired. He runs a hand through his hair, leaving faint streaks of cherry juice at his temple.
“Alright,” he grumbles. He walks to the counter and grabs his pack of cigarettes. “Gonna step out for a smoke.”
The back door creaks open, letting in a slash of cool air and the distant scent of rain-soaked earth. For a split second, I think he might say something else, but he doesn’t. The door slams shut behind him with a solid thud, leaving me alone in the quiet.
I keep turning the handle long after the pulp runs dry, trying to drown out the tight, twisting pain in my chest. Pushing him away didn’t make the ache disappear.
It’s still there—sharp and insistent, pulsing beneath my rib cage.
The only time it ever dulled was when his lips were on mine, when the world narrowed to his warmth and the feeling of his body pressed against me.
What would it be like to feel that free all the time?
Maybe that’s what scares me most—not wanting Troy, but how easily he makes me imagine a life that’s mine.
One where I don’t have to carry my family’s dreams like a burden strapped to my back.
One where I get to choose what happiness looks like, even if it strays from the plan that was carved out for me.
But wanting him would mean letting go of the rules I’ve lived by for my entire life. It would mean choosing myself, and truthfully, I don’t know if I’m brave enough for that.
No matter how badly it hurts, I can’t afford to want him.