Chapter 22 #2
By the time we dock at the marina, the air has turned sharp enough to bite.
Goose bumps pebble my bare arms as the boat bumps gently against the slip.
Ashton moves with easy confidence, looping the rope and knotting it off in a few swift motions.
Overhead, the sky is a black scatter of stars, a thin haze of firework smoke still drifting across the water.
I step forward to help Olivia and Chloe onto the dock, offering my hand.
They take it with grateful smiles and soft thank-yous, their palms cool against mine.
All things considered, I think I made good impressions on Ashton’s siblings and friends.
I laughed at the right moments. I didn’t drink too much. I kept my mouth shut when I needed to.
Everyone seemed charmed.
Well, almost everyone.
Phoebe probably noticed the way I kept glaring at her.
It’s stupid and petty. I know that. But I couldn’t seem to stop the ugly heat that rose in my chest when she curled into Ashton’s side, when they tilted their heads together to watch the fireworks burst over the lake.
Meanwhile, I sat there holding on to my beer like it was my date, spending the whole night pressing it to my lips.
It’s not fair.
The dock sways faintly beneath our steps as we make our way toward the marina parking lot, metal groaning under our weight. The streetlamps are dim and yellow, casting long shadows across the asphalt. One by one, we peel off and say our goodbyes, splitting toward our separate cars.
I keep a healthy distance between us as Ashton and I pace toward his truck. I shove my hands in my pockets, the night suddenly feeling much colder than it did out on the water.
He unlocks the doors with a sharp click. We climb in without looking at each other, the cab filling with the smell of lake water and gasoline. The doors shut with heavy thuds, sealing us into a small, suffocating quiet.
Ashton grips the steering wheel and stares straight ahead. His jaw is tight enough to crack a tooth.
He twists the key in the ignition, the engine roaring to life.
I watch him instead of buckling my seat belt. “What’s wrong?”
He doesn’t answer at first. His fingers flex against the wheel. Then he closes his eyes and exhales, long and weary, like he’s been holding it in for hours.
“You were being an asshole to Phoebe all night.”
Guilt spreads through my bones, slow and sick. “Ash…”
He finally looks at me, and there’s frustration there—but worse, there’s hurt.
“It was hard enough trying to keep my cool. Trying to blend my secret new boyfriend into my social life without anyone realizing he’s my boyfriend.
” His mouth twists. “I didn’t need you sneering at my best friend every time she touched me. ”
I sink back into my seat.
“I wasn’t—” I stop myself, shoulders slumping with defeat. “I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head, more tired than angry. “Do you know how miserable I was tonight?” His voice cracks just slightly. “All I wanted to do was crawl into your lap and kiss you. Instead, I had to sit there and pretend you were just… some new friendly acquaintance of mine.”
I stare down at my hands. “I didn’t realize you were miserable too.”
He lets out a humorless laugh and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Of course I was miserable. This whole thing sucks.”
The truck idles between us, engine rumbling low. Outside, the parking lot is nearly empty now, the marina quiet except for the faint clink of halyards against masts in the distance.
“I don’t hate Phoebe,” I say quietly. “I was just… jealous.”
His eyes flick to me, like he’s waiting for me to elaborate.
“I hate watching her touch you,” I admit, the words scraping on the way out. “Knowing you two used to sleep together.”
Ashton exhales, not irritated—just tired. He reaches across the center console and laces his fingers through mine, tugging my hand into his lap. His thumb strokes slow, steady lines over my knuckles. The simple contact eases the frantic panic in my chest.
“Listen to me,” he says, voice firm but not unkind. “Phoebe was my friend long before we ever started hooking up. And now that we’ve stopped, she’s not going to stop being my friend. She had her arm around me—that’s it.”
I swallow, giving a short, understanding nod.
“She’s the one who made me face the truth I’d been dodging for years,” he continues. “She called me out. She told me I was hiding. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t have had the guts to chase this thing with you.”
His thumb presses a little more deliberately into my skin, grounding.
“She’s important to me,” he says. “But not like that. Not anymore. That part is done.”
I stare at our joined hands resting in his lap, anchoring myself to the quiet certainty in his voice.
“And you,” he adds softly, “are not some temporary experiment. I’m trying to build something real here. That means figuring out how to blend you into my life, with the people I care about, even if it’s messy.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again, meaning it. “I did have fun tonight. Even if it was hard pretending we’re just friends.” I squeeze his hand. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat, though. Because I know how much this matters to you.”
He gives a soft, timid smile. “Of course it means a lot to me, Troy. I want the people I love to get to know my boyfriend—even if they don’t know he’s my boyfriend yet.”
My head snaps up, startled by that tiny, encouraging word.
Yet.
“Do you think you’d want to tell them we’re boyfriends someday?” I ask carefully, searching his face for any hint of hesitation.
He bites the inside of his cheek, thinking. “Maybe someday, yeah.” He shrugs faintly. “I’m not going to, like, make some big announcement or anything. But… I think we could tell a few people I trust. Phoebe. Maybe Olivia. And whoever else you’d want to tell.”
I swallow hard. “You don’t want to tell Luke?” I ask quietly, knowing how close they are. “Or your parents?”
In the glow of the dashboard lights, I catch the faint shine in his emerald eyes. “I don’t think they’d understand,” he says, his voice flat and defeated.
I lift my free hand and brush my thumb gently along his cheek, cradling his face. “Luke loves you. Your parents love you—”
“My dad’s never told me he loves me,” he cuts in, hoarse. A single tear slips free before he can stop it. “Not once. He’s not… he’s not that kind of father.”
The confession hits me like a blow.
My own father might be a selfish asshole at times, but even he’s muttered those three words before—usually around the holidays, whispered under his breath like it physically pained him—but he said them. I always knew, on some level, that I mattered to him.
“I was born to be an heir to the orchard,” he says, voice raw. “Not to be his son.”
The words hang between us, fragile and devastating.
I slide my hand from his cheek to the back of his neck and pull him gently toward me. He comes without resistance, forehead pressing to mine, breath warm and uneven against my lips.
“You deserve to be both,” I whisper.
He gives me a sad smile, the curve faint and fleeting.
“I’m okay, Troy. I’ve dealt with his coldness my entire life.
I’m used to it.” His head tilts into my palm, leaning into my touch like he’s starved for it.
“But this warmth—how safe I feel with you…” His voice softens.
“It’s new. It’s scary. But I like it. I like it so, so much. ”
Emotion swells thick in my throat.
“I like it too.”
His hand tightens at my waist, fingers bunching in the fabric of my shirt. For a moment we just breathe the same air, noses brushing, the world outside the truck nonexistent.
Then I close the distance.
The kiss starts slowly. His lips are soft and warm, moving carefully against mine like he’s refamiliarizing himself with the shape of me.
The tension that’s been coiled tight in my chest all night loosens in one steady exhale.
I cup his jaw, deepening it just slightly, tasting beer and something uniquely Ashton.
When we finally part, it’s only because breathing becomes necessary. Our foreheads stay pressed together, both of us smiling now—real smiles this time.
Ashton exhales, a shaky little laugh slipping free. “We should go back to my place.”
“Yeah?” I murmur, thumb brushing along his jaw.
“Yeah.” His eyes darken, something heated and promising flickering there. “I’d really like to be able to touch my boyfriend without pretending he’s just my business partner.”
I laugh, the sound light and relieved, the heaviness from earlier dissolving into something sweeter. “That does sound appealing.”
He steals one more quick kiss before pulling back fully. He shifts the truck into gear and pulls out of the marina parking lot, headlights cutting through the dark.
The town falls away behind us. Fireflies blink through the tall grass bordering the road, flashing brightly.
When we turn down the long stretch toward the orchard, the tires bump over the uneven dirt.
Cherry trees rise along both sides of the road, their branches arching overhead like a tunnel.
Moonlight filters through the leaves, casting a pale silver glow over the plump red fruit.
I rest my temple against the cool window glass and watch the rows blur past, staring at the orchard with a tangle of anger and admiration.
Ashton loves this place. He lives and breathes for it. The orchard is sewn into him, part of his flesh and blood, but it’s stitched tight.
When I look at these trees, I don’t see blossoms or fruit—I see the weight on Ashton’s shoulders. The unspoken rule that his life must bend around others’ expectations. Around a father who values harvests more than heart.
I just hope that one day I can make him see what I already do—that he’s wonderful even without the orchard, without his family’s last name, without the cherries.
He’s sweet enough, all on his own.