5 Lattes
WHEN I WALKED INTO THE Little Acorn after school, I pretended to be fixing one of the dried maple leaf decorations on the wall.
Otherwise, I would just be staring at James, flustered behind the counter.
At his messy hair, like he’d just gotten out of bed, and at the intensity in his brown eyes as they darted around the coffee shop.
Eyes that fell on me, making everything stop.
I was by the door and he was behind the counter in his white T-shirt, muscular arms tensing under the tray he was holding. We just stared at each other for the first time since our—incredible—make-out session. I could feel the heat rise in my face, so I took off my scarf and my coat quickly.
“Good day at school, Red?” he asked as I joined him near the coffee machine, my heart fluttering at being this close to him again.
“Distracting. I kept thinking about our fundraising and then totally lost my way in algebra.”
“Think of it this way, Red, the more math you do, the more accounts you can do here, so I don’t have to,” James said playfully.
I glanced over at the table where we’d kissed, now occupied by a couple of tourists.
I replayed it in my head—not for the first time today.
It hadn’t just been Harvest Festival plans filling up my brain.
The feeling of his soft lips, the surge of desire, the firmness of his hands on me.
I bit my lip, then looked up to see James’s eyes drop to my mouth, just for a second.
Then he looked away and reached over the counter to pick up a donut.
“Accounts are not my fave,” I said. “But I do think we should make a ton of the maple pecan donuts for the event. They keep selling out, so people clearly like them.”
He lifted the donut to his mouth and took a huge bite.
“James!” I scolded. “Those aren’t for us.”
“What?” he said, with a full mouth and a smile. “They’re really good.”
“Well, I know they’re good. That’s why they keep selling out. Unless you’re just eating them all.” I put my hands on my hips and tapped my foot.
“You look cute when you’re mad,” he said.
Now he was out-and-out flirting. I tried and failed not to smile, and started to gather things for the festival as those waves of desire rolled in my stomach.
Movie night at Lennie’s was transformed into art school, where Lennie was the teacher, and the pupil (me) … was just watching. Yeah, I could write a HAPPY FALL Y‘ALL sign for the coffee shop, but when we needed an intricate backdrop with major fall spirit, Lennie was the obvious choice.
Lennie’s house was a shoes-off house, and her mom kept a little basket of slippers beside the door.
I loved it here, because it always smelled of something delicious cooking.
It was usually some kind of rice or noodle dish, because if your grandma (or poh poh, as Lennie called her) was from actual China and lived in your house, then why on earth would you want to eat boring American food?
Although Lennie did tell me once that hot dogs with ketchup and mustard were her poh poh’s guilty pleasure.
The rice cooker was a permanent feature on the kitchen counter, and more often than not, Lennie’s poh poh would be speaking Mandarin on the phone to someone.
Tonight, it was just me and Lennie. For now, anyway.
Her whole family was out at her sister’s piano recital.
Lennie sat on her bedroom floor, legs crossed. “So, tell me about the kissing!” she said.
“It was really hot …” I said, and I could feel it again. The butterflies. “Like it felt really desperate or something, and then when it ended, it definitely felt unfinished.”
Lennie looked up with a cocked eyebrow. “So what now? Are you guys going to work together, sleep together …”
“Lennie!” I said, and ran my hand along the spines of her overflowing bookshelves. She had a whole row dedicated to banned books and displayed them facing out. “Out and proud like me,” she always said.
“I’m not going to sleep with him …” I said, as if the thought absolutely hadn’t crossed my mind.
But it had, a lot. Every day. And there was that time the other night, when we were locking up the coffee shop and he leaned around me to lock the door.
His whole body covered mine, like some kind of protection.
I closed my eyes and replayed the scene before turning around to face my best friend.
“Well, why not?” She added another dried leaf to her masterpiece.
“Hold on. What about you and Sara? Are you going to sleep together?” I asked.
“How dare you suggest something so intimate. Quite frankly, Willa, that is none of your business,” Lennie said, and kept on decorating. I laughed and threw a cushion at her head.
“We might have kissed last week, though …” Lennie said quietly.
“What? And you didn’t tell me?” I dropped down on the floor beside her, and she deliberately avoided my stare.
“It’s kind of a secret. I mean, not between us, and I’ll tell Krista and Avery, but Sara’s parents aren’t really like mine. They don’t know she’s gay and I don’t think she’s ready for them to find out yet, so we have to keep it on the QT.” Lennie put a finger to her lips.
“I will not tell a soul. I promise.” I was finding it really hard to contain my excitement.
I was so happy for Lennie. And I guess I’d never thought about how Sara’s family would be.
I was so used to Lennie’s parents being so chill with everything—even her poh poh tried to set her up with “nice girls.” I forgot that not everyone was the same.
“Is she coming to Harvest Festival?”
“She is,” Lennie sang, with the biggest smile on her face.
And then all smiles disappeared. Mine anyway, when Lennie made me watch Nosferatu. I spent most of the movie hiding under a blanket and researching the backstory on my phone. Set in a fictional German town, but actually filmed in Prague.
And of course, right then, the email from the attorney’s office flashed in my head. I emerged from the blanket just as some dude was screaming in a tomb, surrounded by rats. Lennie was enthralled.
I wanted to tell her. I really did. I still had to call the attorney, like I’d promised Pop. But part of me still didn’t believe it was real, so why would I tell Lennie?
Or was the problem that, if I told her, she’d be so adamant that I had to travel, I’d be too scared to tell her I wasn’t ready?
The next morning, I got up at six for my run.
I put on my Oak High sweatpants and hoodie and slipped out the door, taking my usual route down Maple Street and through town.
Main Street looked different in the predawn light.
The pumpkins that lined the streets were round shadows that I had to be careful to avoid, and the hay bales reminded me of sleeping animals.
The skeletons of stalls were already there, and people were already setting up for the festival.
James and I had done so much planning so quickly that I couldn’t believe the day was actually here.
But instead of running right through town, I turned left toward the apple orchards.
The temperature dropped as I jogged away from Main Street, where the buildings disappeared and the orchard came into view. Beyond the fruit trees, I could just about make out its silhouette, tall and proud against the brightening sky. The Kissing Tree.
When I reached the huge copper beech, I ran my hand across the rough bark, and tried to make out all the names in the darkness. It was impossible to distinguish one from the other, but there were so many. So many stories, so many generations.
They couldn’t cut it down. They just couldn’t.
Back home, I was sitting at the table catching my breath and hugging my coffee when I noticed the pile of mail.
Pop must have gone through it last night before he went to bed, getting rid of the flyers for local businesses and the handwritten notes from teenage girls offering babysitting.
I knew all the names, and together they were like a comfort blanket.
These flyers would sit there for months before one of us would finally crack and throw them out.
Pop had clearly left one particular envelope on top purposely. It was addressed to me, with the return address Ray & Black Associates.
I held my breath, looked around for Pop, then slid the letter under my hoodie before going into my bedroom and closing the door to read it alone.
Was this the letter? Maybe it was an acknowledgment that an email had been sent in error and it was all a misunderstanding. I opened the envelope with shaking hands. And then I realized there were two letters inside, not one.
RAY & BLACK ASSOCIATES
Attorneys at Law
529 Madison Avenue, New York,
NY 10022
Dear Ms. Taylor,
Further to my previous correspondence regarding the estate of Ms. Lisa May Vaughn:
his letter serves as formal notification that you must indicate your acceptance or declination of the bequest by November 26, 2026 (Thanksgiving Day).
To accept the inheritance and its conditions, you must:
1. Complete and return the enclosed documentation.
2. Provide proof of documented travel plans that satisfy the condition of “seeing the world beyond Oak Falls.”
Should you decline the bequest, or fail to respond by the stated deadline, the funds will be distributed to the American Association of Travel Writers, as specified in Ms. Vaughn’s will.
We have not yet received a response to our initial correspondence, dated October 1, 2026, a copy of which I have enclosed here.
Please contact my office at your earliest convenience to discuss next steps.
Sincerely,
Fred Ray, Esq.
Ray & Black Associates
By Thanksgiving? It was too soon. I couldn’t just decide to change my entire life by Thanksgiving. My hands were still shaking when I read the second letter … The letter from Aunt Lisa …
My emotions raced as I read it, her voice—even the little I truly knew of it—ringing from the pages. I shoved the letter back into its envelope. Sat on my bed, got up again. Glanced at the framed photo of me and Mom. “Mom, what do I do?” I whispered.