Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Ashton
Olivia lines up the baskets of cherries with meticulous care, rotating each one until the fruit looks impossibly perfect.
Deep red, glossy skins glimmer in the early morning light.
She wears oversized sunglasses and a faded university hoodie, her hair twisted into a messy bun.
As a nearby street performer strums a guitar, she bobs her head along to the rhythm, her smile easy and relaxed.
I envy her serenity. I’m itching in my own skin, restless, a deep pit of shame hollowing me out.
“You gonna scowl at the cherries all morning,” she says lightly, “or are you actually gonna help me?”
I drag a hand over my face. “I’m not scowling.”
She tilts her head, doubtful. “Okay, grumpy pants.”
To keep myself busy, I grab the handwritten price signs from the bed of my truck and prop them up along the table. As I adjust one, I can feel her concerned gaze trained on me. She’s been looking at me like that all week.
I know I’ve been… difficult to work with lately. Ever since that night with Troy, after hours at the brewery. My patience has worn thin, my answers clipped and evasive whenever she presses or asks what’s wrong.
My jaw tightens. I hate how easily she reads me. I feel a prickle of guilt immediately. None of this is her fault. She doesn’t deserve it, but I can’t tell her the truth.
I can’t tell her I kissed Troy Fischer—again.
That I got on my knees for him and pleasured him with the feverish desperation of a horny teenager.
That for a few reckless minutes, I forgot about expectations, legacy, and the weight of our last name, and I risked all of it because I couldn’t stop myself from wanting him. That I was selfish and stupid.
I lift the wooden sign from the tailgate and hook it onto the front of the farmers market booth.
TREMBLAY ORCHARDS, it reads in bold, hand-painted letters, cherries curling around the edges like a frame.
The paint has faded a little over the years, but the brushwork is still beautiful—careful, deliberate, full of personality.
Olivia made it when she was fifteen.
She’s always had that gift. While other kids were doodling in the margins of their notebooks, Liv was painting sweeping landscapes, delicate florals, lake sunsets so real they looked like photographs.
Even now, the cherries on the sign seem almost alive, plump and glossy, like you could reach out and pluck one straight from the wood.
I step back, studying it longer than necessary.
Nothing about our farm has changed much since my great-grandfather broke ground nearly eighty years ago.
Same stretch of land. Same cherry varieties.
Some of the same equipment too, rusted and rattling but still limping along because no one ever dared to replace it.
Tradition, preserved to the point of stagnation.
Sometimes, I let myself imagine what it could be like if we didn’t treat change like a threat.
For years, I’ve daydreamed about changing things—expanding into new fruit, opening a u-pick section for tourists in the summer, hosting events, maybe even weddings. Letting the orchard be something more than it’s always been.
My chest tightens.
Dad would never approve.
If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, he’d say. The words are so vivid in my head I can practically hear his voice.
I swallow hard and adjust the sign, nudging it until it hangs perfectly straight.
“Ash?”
Olivia’s voice snaps me back to the present.
I look up to find her watching me from behind the table, one eyebrow arched as she stacks crates of cherries.
She jerks her chin toward the sidewalk, where customers drift between booths with canvas bags full of artisanal jams, fresh vegetables, and jars of honey.
“It’s showtime,” she says. “Slap on a happy face, dude.”
I roll my eyes, but do as she says, pasting on a polite, practiced smile as a couple approaches the booth. It settles into place easily—a mask I’ve gotten uncomfortably good at wearing.
The morning settles into a familiar rhythm after that.
Customers wander up, one after another, their faces blurring together in the bright heat. I nod, smile, and answer the same questions on repeat. Yes, they’re sweet this year. Yes, they’re perfect for pies. No, my father isn’t here today—he retired.
Some of the faces are so familiar it feels like déjà vu. An elderly woman stops by with her walker and peers at me over her thick wire-framed glasses, lips pursed before softening into a grin.
“Ashton Tremblay,” she says, clucking her tongue. “I’ve known you since you were a baby. Used to sit on your daddy’s shoulders at the Fourth of July parade. Look at you now—all grown up.”
I smile politely, even though I can’t for the life of me remember her. I’ve learned it’s easier not to admit that part.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say with a chuckle. “That’s what everyone keeps telling me.”
She laughs, presses a few bills into my hand, and shuffles away with a basket of cherries.
All grown up, she said. I wish my father believed it.
The thought sticks in my chest longer than I want it to.
No matter how many invoices I sign or decisions I make, no matter that the orchard is technically mine now, he still talks to me like I’m a kid playing pretend.
Like I’ll mess it all up if he’s not constantly peering over my shoulder, critiquing my every move.
The line never really dies down. Tourists roll in thick by midmorning—sunburned already, smelling like sunscreen and lake water, talking excitedly about beach plans and boat rentals.
They buy cherries in bulk, asking for recommendations on where to swim, where to eat, where to get ice cream afterward.
The market buzzes with laughter and live music.
The sun is relentless today, beating down on the back of my neck.
Heat radiates off the asphalt, shimmering in the distance.
Just beyond the stalls, Lake Michigan sits calm and inviting, its cool blue surface a sharp contrast to the sweltering air.
I catch glimpses of it between buildings when I shift my weight, and for a moment, I wish I were out there instead—floating, weightless, quiet.
But the work keeps coming, steady and familiar, carrying me through the morning before I realize how much time has passed.
Then, I see him.
Across the street, near the burst of color from the flower stand, Troy is leaning close to a beautiful woman surrounded by cut flowers.
He’s smiling—that easy, crooked smirk I know too well now—one hand braced casually on the edge of the table.
She’s blushing hard, twirling a strand of auburn hair around her finger, laughing at something he’s just said like it’s the most charming thing she’s ever heard.
My jaw tightens.
A sour, ugly feeling curls in my gut, sharp and unwelcome. I tell myself it’s nothing. That it doesn’t matter. That Troy can flirt with whoever he wants—he always does. I have no claim on him. No right to feel anything at all.
But the feeling doesn’t loosen. It festers.
It’s not jealousy, I decide, grinding my teeth. It’s irritation. Anger. Something hot and restless that makes my hands itch at my sides. Rage, maybe—at him, at myself, at the way my chest feels too tight all of a sudden.
I tear my gaze away and turn to Olivia. “I, um… need to go take care of something. I’ll be right back,” I mutter.
She doesn’t even lift her gaze, dismissing me with a flick of her wrist as she restocks the display.
I step out from behind the booth and head down the sidewalk, my pace brisk as I weave through the crowd, my eyes narrowed at Troy.
He laughs at something the florist says, his attention fully on her.
When he finally looks up and notices me standing there, arms folded tight across my chest, his expression shifts.
That smirk appears.
It infuriates me.
“Hey, Ashton,” he says easily. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“You knew I’d be here,” I bite back.
He lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Did I?” He nods toward the flower stand. “I didn’t come to see you. I came to buy some flowers from this beautiful woman, Stephanie.”
Stephanie blushes even harder, clearly delighted by the attention. She opens her mouth to say something, but I cut in before she can.
“Troy. I need to talk to you. In private. About business.”
His brow creases, skepticism written across his face as his gaze flicks between me and Stephanie. “Business?” he echoes.
“Yes,” I say sharply. “Now.”
There’s a beat of hesitation. Then Troy sighs, apologetic, and flashes Stephanie one last charming smile. “I’ll text you later, alright?”
She nods, still glowing, and I don’t wait another second. I turn and start walking, carving a path through the crowd without looking back. I can hear his boots behind me, unhurried, like he’s enjoying this far more than he should be.
Beyond the market, I veer onto a narrow footpath that cuts toward the sand dunes, flanked by swaying beach grass.
The noise fades quickly—the chatter, the music, the clatter of footsteps—replaced by the steady hush of waves and the distant cry of gulls overhead.
The air feels heavier out here, charged with everything we haven’t said.
I pace toward a tall dune tucked away from the public beach—a pocket of privacy, shielded on all sides by trees and towering drifts of sand.
At the base of the rise, I dig my boots into the ground and whirl around, folding my arms across my chest. Troy stops a few feet away, studying me with that infuriating smirk.
His tongue nudges the silver ring in his bottom lip, brows tipped up with amusement.
“What did you want to discuss, Ashton?” he asks, his voice poised and practiced, professionalism laid on a little too thick.
My shoulders lock tight. “What the fuck was that back there?” I snap. “Were you trying to get a rise out of me?”
He tilts his head. “What are you talking about?”