Chapter 10
Theo picks me up in his mom’s old red pickup truck.
“Howdy,” I say. He whistles. I’m wearing a black bodycon minidress with a high-low gauze skirt overtop, oversize sunglasses, gold hoops, and a red lip. City girl.
“You said look cute.”
“Yeah, I wasn’t expecting a smoke show!”
“I’m wearing two skirts,” I say lamely. “In case I got the dress code wrong. I can do a costume change.”
Theo glances at me. “You can always remove the skirt and wear it as a cape . . .” he says in his best Little Edie voice.
I don’t miss a beat. “I think this is the best costume for the day,” I say in the same voice.
Then, in perfect unison, we say, deadpan, “I hate women in skirts.”
We burst out laughing.
“There she is,” he says. We both smile to ourselves. Common ground, at last.
“I think a Grey Gardens sort of situation is the best I can hope for,” I say finally. “The way my life is going.”
“I missed you, Mirabel.”
“Yeah . . . I missed you too,” I say.
He turns to me suddenly, eyes full. “Did I do something? I’m sorry to keep asking, but . . . I just don’t get what happened.”
Yes. I owe him this. “You didn’t do anything, Theo. I’m just an asshole.” I’m surprised by his emotion, touched. “I’m sorry. I . . .” I don’t know what to say or how to say it. “I’m glad to see you. I do want to be friends again.”
“Good,” he says. “Give me your hands, if we be friends.” I had forgotten this little quirk of his: memorizing the whole script of whatever play we’re in, using it at every opportunity.
On me, it would look pretentious. But everything Theo does is sweet.
He grabs my hand and kisses it, and I let him.
After the cast party make-out with Mel Donovan, Theo and I were strictly professional for most of tenth grade. I couldn’t be bothered trying to date anyone else. I knew I just had to finesse my craft; he would be dazzled and come back to me.
I was right.
In twelfth grade, we decided to ditch Mr. T and start our own theater company.
We wrote a proposal and convinced our principal to direct a portion of the theater budget to our show.
We chose a lovely Canadian two-hander, Salt-Water Moon by David French, the playwright’s parents’ origin story set in the 1930s on a key evening of their courtship.
It was simple but complex, romantic, and full of delicious banter.
We directed ourselves. We designed and produced it ourselves.
We rehearsed more than we needed to, probably, every night after school.
We closed the door for privacy, and our parents never seemed to question it.
We brought the kissing back early in the process; it was very important that it be authentic, we decided, and there was no time to waste developing chemistry.
Chemistry was very important. Sometimes the chemistry made me want more than kissing, sometimes much more, but if ever I slid my hand down, or tried to slide his hand up to my chest, he’d flinch and pull back.
“What?” I’d ask.
“Nothing,” he said. “I just don’t want to confuse the work.” The work. The scene. The characters. I guess I had to appreciate his commitment.
Once in eleventh grade, I’d gotten drunk at a spring break party and made out with Jesse Matthews from the soccer team.
He shoved his hand up my shirt, groping at my nipple, twisting it until it hurt, all while unbuttoning his jeans.
I knew what he wanted, and in the moment, I felt suddenly very young, very innocent, very unready for this sort of thing.
I shoved him off and ran out of the room.
What could have earned me a soccer boyfriend instead gave me a chant of “Ice, ice, baby” every time I passed a soccer player in the hall.
After that, I was grateful for sweet, gentle Theo and his boundaries.
I felt safe with him. I felt like he was protecting me.
Salt-Water Moon won every award at the high school drama festival. We were a triumph. I wasn’t sure what else we were. We seemed to hold hands a lot. Backstage at our final performance, Theo kissed me.
“That wasn’t rehearsal,” I said softly. “The show is over.”
“The show is over.” He nodded, leaning his forehead against mine. He had gotten taller again, so he had to dip his head down.
“Was that . . . for real?” I asked, my heart barely beating.
“Yeah. I think it was.”
For the rest of twelfth grade, we were official.
We took a little bit of shit for it—Theo had gotten taller, hotter, more popular.
I still dressed in vaguely Victorian funeral wear and had dyed red hair and pale skin and no boobs.
Theo said I was hauntingly beautiful, that I was brilliant.
That was all that mattered to me. We never said it, but we knew we loved each other.
It was the most simple, obvious thing in the world.
I assumed we were heading to The Vessel, maybe, or a patio downtown, but we are on the highway heading out of town.
“Where are we going?” I ask. “Do I need my cape?”
Theo laughs. He laughs more easily than most people, which I used to think meant he wasn’t discerning, but after watching him with the locals this week, I realize his laughter is an act of generosity. The ultimate “yes, and . . .”
“My buddy has a cider place down the road. Thought I’d show you.”
I am decidedly overdressed for a cider place down the road, or so I think until we pull in.
It’s a dirt driveway through an orchard, but when we turn the corner, I see a large barn lit up with fairy lights, a patio with string lights and individual firepits, people lounging around in oversize Muskoka chairs.
The main building is all glass and wood, and inside I see a bar.
“Oh, wow, this is super chic!” I feel dumb as soon as I say it, but Theo is generous.
“Oui, très chic!” he agrees. He holds the truck door open for me and gives me his hand.
The orchard still has a few trees in flower, late bloomers.
Theo catches me looking at them. “Here we are again, Mirabel, just a couple of kids under the apple trees.” He grins, and for the millionth time in my life, I have a deep flutter of why, oh, why can’t this man be mine?
“Come on!” He leads me inside to the bar. They have a little merch corner with cute custom glasses and T-shirts, a wall of bottled ciders with fun names. It’s incredibly charming. We step up to the bar, where a man in plaid is hunched under the counter. Theo pounds the counter.
“What do I have to do to get some damn service around here?” he bellows. The guy stands up abruptly, a little defensively, but laughs when he clocks Theo. I do a double take: It’s Demetrius, from the show.
“Buddy!” He comes around and bear-hugs Theo. “Who else would come in here acting like such a jackass!”
“I’m a diva, it’s true,” intones Theo. “You remember Mira? Mira, Will?”
“Sure,” he says, half smiling. There’s something so familiar about him, but I can’t quite place it.
“What’s on tap, man? I need a drink!”
Will turns back to Theo, hands us drinks menus, and proceeds to give a long, detailed explanation of each one. It’s his place, it turns out. Twin Orchards, after him and his twin brother. His family has owned the land for decades, I learn, but Will is the mastermind behind the cidery.
Will pours us each a flight of the summer ciders. “Drink them in the right order. Start here. They get more complex as you go.”
The cider is lovely and warms my veins in a pleasant way.
It’s been so long since I’ve been among real people.
I like it. I like Will. He’s not exactly warm and friendly, but there’s a seriousness to him that feels grounding.
His vibe is different here—the rugged farm guy.
He certainly looks it, with the plaid shirt rolled up to his tattooed forearms and his stubble and gruff voice, but there’s also something calming about him.
I flash back to him hovered over me, his mouth so close to mine, and my blood quickens.
In the city, on the rare occasion I am out at a bar or a party, I dial up my Leo rising and flirt aggressively, to make sure men see me, I guess, and so they do.
I then act like an idiot, then they act like assholes, and it ends bitterly, and the cycle restarts. But here, I feel almost like me.
Will pours us each a pint of the new pear cider, then leaves us as the bar gets busier.
Theo and I park ourselves at one of the firepits.
There are big chairs, and I see some people with blankets but can’t find one.
It’s a little chilly, so I inch closer to the fire.
The cider has loosened me up. I’m feeling chatty.
“What is it about forearms?” I murmur, my eyes lingering on Will at the barn.
“You’re staring, Belmont!”
“I’m not.” I am.
“Will’s the best,” Theo says, feigning casualness.
I change the subject. “I ran into Kelsie . . . from high school?”
“Oh my,” says Theo. He takes a long slug of cider.
“She’s as vapid as ever. She calls her children ‘littles.’”
“Huh.”
“She married Mike Bale. Can you believe that?”
Theo looks in his drink. “Yup.”
“He’s gone bald,” I press on. “And he got fat. Well, like, hockey dad fat. And she’s—”
“Jesus, Mira, were you always so mean?” Theo says. I jolt back in my chair, stung.
“Um,” I say. “Sorry. What, are you friends with them?”
“No,” he says. “That’s not the point.”
“Like, sorry, but what exactly is the point, Theo? Can’t two old friends talk shit about people who were assholes in high school?
” And probably still are, I want to add, but it seems like Theo’s threshold for my sass has been breached.
I change the subject. “So, Will,” I say, hoping to make amends.
I rub my shoulders and move even closer to the fire.
“He’s the best.” Theo seems happy to move on. “He’s one of my oldest friends.”
“Then how do I not know him?”
“He went to the other high school.”
“Cool.” I’m not sure what else to say. “Does his brother work here too?”
Something strange passes over his face.
“No,” he says, but before he says more, Will appears with three more pints and a blanket, which he hands to me wordlessly.
“Oh! Thanks!” I’m surprised he noticed. He’s sweet.
“Finally dying down,” he says, settling into the open seat next to Theo.
“Apples!” I say, apropos of absolutely nothing.
“What?” Theo looks at me sideways.
I’m staring at Will. “You smell like apples.” I catch his eye, and we hold it there.
“What are you talking about?”
“I think she means from rehearsal?” Will says. I smile and shrug. “I was processing apples before I came, and I forgot to change. I often smell like apples,” he says, smiling a little at me. “Occupational hazard.”
“Good to know,” I say, my eyes still fixed on his. Theo looks between us, clocking the energy.
“I need to . . . go to the bathroom . . . or something,” he murmurs, chuckling a little. “I’ll be back in five minutes. Don’t get married without me.” He all but bolts, and then it’s just Will and me.
“What an odd man,” I say lightly.
“Absolute lunatic.”
“Did you know he was my first kiss?”
“Actually, I did know that.” Will smirks a little, then: “I won’t lie; I was a little jealous.”
Interesting.
A log splits in the fire, setting off a shower of sparks. Our eyes turn to the fire, then back to each other.
“Would you want to hang out sometime?” Will asks.
“We are hanging out,” I say.
“For real, I mean.” He looks at me, hope on his face. “I mean, no pressure, or whatever.” He takes a drink.
I have been a version of here before. I have been here too recently. I am still shaken from the aftermath of Nick. Will is nothing like him. I can see right away that we could go out, we could probably have a really lovely summer thing. I want to hang out with him. I want to very much.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say. To his credit, his expression doesn’t change. “I’d like to. I-I’d really like to. I just got out of something . . .” It sounds so lame. “I—I just think, maybe, with the show, and it’s my parents’ company . . . I feel like I shouldn’t do anything . . .”
“Hey, it’s cool.” He smiles kindly. “I hope you won’t feel uncomfortable or anything working together, knowing I .
. .” He stops as Theo returns, plopping himself into one of the large chairs.
I smile and shake my head, No, it’s all good, but the truth is, I am realizing in a rush, that it is going to be extremely uncomfortable working with someone whose smile, whose apple scent, makes my insides flip like this.