Chapter 12 I Receive a Weapon, Romantically
FINALLY, IT’S WEDNESDAY EVENING—TIME FOR my date. I dare to exchange my daily T-shirt and jeans combo for a matching boxy brown ribbed sweater-and-skirt set. I’m not sure if “sexy tree” is a look, but if so, I’ve nailed it.
Hanry greets me at the cemetery gates with a broad smile and an empty jute coffee sack thrown over his shoulder.
Up close, he also carries, enticingly, the scent of pine wood shavings.
This is an improvement over Old Spice, which is what my high school boyfriend smelled like.
Granted, what isn’t an improvement over a purloined fragrance from CVS?
Said boyfriend, Andrew Tsai, was a closet kleptomaniac.
The fact that he wanted everyone to use his full first and last name should’ve been a red flag.
In my defense, he was a defensive back on our high school varsity football team, so he probably stole those flags right out of midair when I wasn’t looking.
Maybe I should spend some time reflecting on why I keep finding myself attracted to quasi-criminals.
It’s happened more than once. My first college boyfriend, Blake, got caught plagiarizing his English essay and was placed on academic suspension a few days after taking my virginity.
As far as I know, the next, Marcus, never did anything unlawful—if anything, he was too good for me.
Too good at making me feel appreciated and seen, both when we were in bed together and when we weren’t.
But especially in bed. And on rugs. And countertops.
Which once led to missing class, and my one and only late arrival to a catering shift.
When my manager chewed me out, I got defensive.
And had a weird flashback to Mom losing her job after forgetting to call in while on another spontaneous trip with a boyfriend.
I knew after that I’d have to cut Marcus from my life.
Clearly, I couldn’t juggle a boyfriend with work and school.
Maybe I could reconsider once I graduated and got a steady job.
Maybe I’m reconsidering now.
The point of all this is, I’m not into bad boys. No, my type is this: someone who doesn’t mind me taking the relationship slow if I need to. Who’s big and strong and conscientious. Who seems nurturing and stable, like a house.
Not houses like Grandma’s, but, you know, more functional ones.
“Ready to desecrate some graves?” I ask Hanry in greeting.
He seems confused as I approach. “Would you do that?”
“Would you?”
I’m genuinely asking, but Hanry’s expression clears, and he laughs.
I guess he’s taking my weird greeting as a joke instead of a sign of nerves.
Okay, cool. More than cool. The way Hanry smiles into his thick stubble is stomach-melting, and happiness wreaths his face like a goddamn autumn miracle.
I really hope he isn’t a stalker or a colluder with my grandmother.
The vibes he gives me couldn’t be further from that.
But just in case I’m wrong about the former, I’ve packed Grandma’s unwitch hazel spray in my chest-bag, locked and loaded.
“I thought this might be a familiar place to meet,” says Hanry. “Then we can walk. Sound good?”
He draws my attention to the friendly-looking gravel path that runs alongside the cemetery. It’s got red-orange leaves lolling beneath warm lamplight like a happy dog belly-up in front of a fireplace. Artfully fallen acorns ripe for crunching. Not a speck of trash or unseasonable gloom.
Suspicious.
“I’m not going anywhere yet,” I say, rooting in place.
“Uh. Okay?”
“There are a couple things I need to know. Two of them. First, did you set up a job listing for me?”
Surprise shows on Hanry’s well-illumined and high-cheekboned face, but not too much, which makes me want to trust him. Unlike this path, which is trying too hard with its rustly fall charm.
“No,” he says. “Why would you think that?”
“Because you said I needed an assistant.”
“It’s your business,” says Hanry. “You can run it however you like.”
“Exactly.”
“So… someone set up a listing for you? That sounds sketch,” says Hanry, shifting to a concerned tone. “Where was the job advertised?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Hanry’s off the hook, so I’ll shove that concern aside to worry about tomorrow. Or never. I plan to find my way back to New York next week, after all. “Second question. Can this be a casual thing, not a date?”
“Can it be both? I was thinking apple picking.”
“Ripping genitals off plants?”
“A classic,” he agrees.
Sure, for some people. James’s family made an annual tradition of marauding as far as Maine in search of a frankly mediocre doughnut.
Last year I went with them. My key takeaway from the event is that picking fruit at a grocery store and on a farm aren’t so different.
You need to pay attention to what you’re grabbing. Specifically: you need light.
“Any reason we’re picking apples after dark?” I ask.
Hanry laughs instead of taking my grumpy belligerence at face value.
“I’m friends with some guys who own their own orchard. By coming at night, we can hang out without crowds. Or lines. It’s better for talking.”
Huh. “That sounds great, actually.”
It’s also nice to know Hanry has friends who aren’t vampires.
We saunter down the Path of Fall Suspicion for a mile or so, ending up at a wooded plot of land off-limits to the public, if the New Hampshire–inspired NO TRESPASSING signs are anything to go by.
I let Hanry walk slightly ahead of me so his brawny body can take any rogue bullets.
Apparently, it’s unnecessary. When we pass a side window of the colonial home on the property, two farmer-types wave from their dinner table, where they’re getting wasted on some kind of homemade cider.
I relax somewhat as Hanry greets them by name.
“Any chance you have some of that cider on you?” I ask as my date walks us to a small collection of apple trees in the backyard. “I wouldn’t be opposed to drunkenly falling off a ladder and having you catch me.”
“That’s funny,” says Hanry.
I side-eye him. “Who’s joking? I might be into playing the damsel in distress.”
“Then I should warn you,” he says. “I might find it funny to fake out catching you and let you fall.”
“Wow. You’re an asshole,” I say, undeterred.
“I’d regret it afterward,” he laughs. “How about this—I’ll go up the ladder first. That way you won’t have to worry about me pranking you.”
“Nuh-uh,” I say. “You don’t need a ladder. You’re basically the height of a tree already. And if this is too easy, it won’t be any fun. I nominate myself apple acquirer.”
“All right, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Hanry hands me an apple picker and, with his freed left hand, casually lifts a metal ladder.
Just like that, we’re off, and we settle into a rhythm as smooth as the moonlight.
I pluck an apple and toss it to Hanry, who catches it deftly, adding it to his jute bag.
I begin throwing them at more difficult angles.
Nine times out of ten, Hanry manages to catch them anyway.
His bag fills up gradually, to the point where he looks like a lumberjack Santa, only hotter.
“So tell me about yourself,” says Hanry.
I guess the silence was growing awkward. Crap. I hate being asked to talk about myself. I’d prefer a nice, obvious, basic question.
“What do you want to know?” I ask, pushing my hand back into the leaves of the apple tree.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to offend you. I thought… Well, we agreed this is a date,” Hanry says. “That’s like the first thing you say on a date. Isn’t it?”
“If that’s what you think, then you should go first.” Ha, take that. “Do you have family around here?”
“More or less. They’re alive and kicking.”
“They on that healthy-lifestyle train? Or are they on the kicking-their-legs-to-stay-afloat train?”
I toss a new apple to Hanry, who catches it with an easy smile. “More like ‘kicking’ as in strong-willed and aggressive toward… uh, people. They’re unhinged and undisciplined.”
Oh. That I can understand.
“I also have a brother,” he adds. “Kind of.”
I pause before plucking my next apple. Something in his tone makes me pay attention. “Half brother?” I ask.
“Yeah, something like that. He didn’t grow up with me, though I see him sometimes. My parents kind of pretend he isn’t… family. They’ve never treated me that way, so… I don’t know. I guess I feel bad about it? It’s complicated.”
“I get it.” Sensing his discomfort, I yank the fruit off and add, “My family’s complicated too.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Very. I never met my dad, my mom’s been AWOL for years, and my grandma was deranged. You know what’s worse? She’s still trying to make me in her image from beyond the grave.” I stare up at the sky pointedly. If you have anything to say to that, Grandma, now’s your chance.
Nope? Didn’t think so.
“Was she a wedding planner too?” asks Hanry.
“Not exactly.” Well, there goes any chance of him having known her, thankfully.
Palming my apple, I run Hanry through the stories of Mom, Grandma, and the generations of mostly unwed Spüks who came before them.
“Anyway,” I say in closing, “the eccentricity has to max out at some point. It’s my fate to land our family legacy safely on greener pastures. What runs in your family?”
“We like bossy women.” He says it too casually for me to ignore.
“Are you calling me bossy? Hey, don’t stop holding this ladder while I’m on it.”
Hanry raises his eyebrows but doesn’t answer my rhetorical question. Wise move.
“What’s your weak point?” I ask, climbing down a few rungs until we’re at the same level. “Seeing as you’ve picked up on my worst quality without trouble.”
“Have you seen Howl’s Moving Castle?”
I roll my eyes. “Duh.”
“Okay, so the wizard Howl,” Hanry says. “He’s described as a slither-outer-er, right? I think I do that more than I should. Try to get out of things when I feel they’re pinching at me.”