13. Sweet Cherries, Sour Rules
Sweet Cherries, Sour Rules
I knock lightly on the door before pushing it open, the cries only fully hitting me once I step inside. Logan stands by the old couch, one baby in his arms, the other lying in a car seat. The twins are crying in stereo, their tiny fists waving in the air.
My nose scrunches. Is that smell...baby formula and burnt toast? With how late I stayed up with Charlotte last night, this sound-slash-smell combination is giving me a headache.
“Seriously? I told Prim not to call you,” Logan says, opening the door wider but not even looking at me. “They’re just being fussy—I’ve got it under control until she’s back.”
“Oh, yeah. Looks like it.”
“Don’t you have work?”
“Not on weekends, no.”
Sadie walks in after me, dragging her big shopping bag behind her. “Don’t worry, Uncle Logan, we’re here to help you!”
“Hey, princess.” His shoulders relax just a fraction as he sees her. “Did you go shopping?”
“Yes!” She beams, lifting the bag with pride. “Daddy bought me the most beautiful dress for Mommy’s Day. It’s blue like the sky, and sparkly, and shiny, and?—”
“They’re having some kind of recital for Mother’s Day in little over two weeks,” I explain.
Logan’s gaze lingers on me for a second, his lips pressing into a thin line. I can see his mind racing, thinking about Sadie’s situation, about Josie not being here. “Oh.”
“Do you want to see it, Uncle Logan?” Sadie asks as she holds the bag up higher.
“Duh! Go change in the bedroom.”
“Careful with the zipper,” I call after her, but she’s already bounding down the hallway.
I turn back to Logan, who’s bouncing the baby slightly to calm her down. The other twin’s cries only seem to get louder, so I move closer, taking the baby from his arms gently. “I’ve got her, man. You grab”—I glance down, but they look exactly alike—“the other one.”
Logan’s tired eyes flick between the baby and me before he exhales sharply and walks away.
I sit on the couch, adjusting the baby in my arms, and rock her, her tiny body warm and solid against my chest. Her cries turn into little hiccups, her face scrunching up like she’s trying to decide whether to keep being upset or give in to the comfort.
Across the room, Logan is shaking up a bottle, more exhausted than I’ve ever seen him.
I get it. The farm doesn’t wait for anyone, and Primrose has a whole brand to curate—including events on weekends, like today—which means that the two of them haven’t stopped working through the pregnancy and the birth. And now they’re getting married in three weeks. It’s a lot to handle.
“You know,” I start, keeping my voice low not to disturb the baby.
“This kind of reminds me of when Sadie was a newborn.” I adjust her in my arms, rubbing circles on her back.
“On my first birthday after she was born, she had a blowout so bad I had to cut her onesie off with scissors. It was either that or risk getting it in her hair.”
Logan doesn’t react, still focused on testing the milk on his wrist. But I catch the slight twitch of his mouth, the ghost of a smirk trying to break through.
Encouraged, I keep going. “I was half asleep, covered in baby shit, and I remember thinking, ‘Man, this would be so much easier if she could just hold her own ass up for a second.’”
He chuckles, but just as quickly as he started, he stops. “I remember your first birthday after you and Josie got together.”
Yeah. I know why he’s bringing it up.
Since we were teenagers, Logan and I had this birthday tradition: sneaking out behind the house with a beer, sitting on an overturned crate, talking about dumb shit, big dreams, all of it.
It started when I turned sixteen, my worst birthday ever—ironically, because I’d found out the younger girl I liked, Josie, had kissed a classmate of mine.
I snuck out a beer and Logan, back then an eleven-year-old clingy brother, followed me.
I still remember running from Mom in tears when he vomited the two sips of beer I’d let him drink.
And then, it became our thing.
But the year Logan’s talking about—the first one after Josie found out she was pregnant with Sadie—was the first time we missed it. And we’ve missed every single one since.
Logan shifts, giving the baby her bottle. “Mom made me come over that day. Said she needed help with painting the garage and it had to be done that day.” He exhales sharply. “By the time I was done, I was wiped.”
He doesn’t say anything else. But from the way his jaw tightens, from the flicker of something in his eyes, I can tell—he still remembered it was my birthday. He still hurt.
He looks at me then away as his fingers tap absently against the baby’s back.
“Josie wasn’t there,” I mutter.
I don’t know why I’m telling him this. Maybe because I want him to know that I wasn’t happy either. That I didn’t just walk away from our history into some perfect life. Or maybe my desperation to connect is making me fish for pity points.
“She got me a cake from the supermarket and we had lunch together, but that night, she said she needed to go see her mom, help her with some church event. I didn’t mind too much because I had Sadie but.
..” I clear my throat, adjusting my hold on the baby.
“The morning after, I ran into her mom on my way to work. She mentioned she hadn’t seen Josie in a week.
That she hoped she would finally make the time for the parish’s charity event. ”
Logan twists his neck, looking at me. “She lied?”
I nod. “I eventually found out she’d gone out with a friend—probably just wanting to avoid me. I never confronted her about it, but I remember that was the moment I knew. Somewhere down the road, we were heading for divorce.”
Logan studies me, like he’s processing. Like maybe—for a second—he sees something in me that isn’t just the guy who married his ex. The brother who betrayed him. Then his voice turns flat as he says, “I sat with a beer in the backyard.”
What? I meet his gaze, heart twisting.
Does he mean that? I...I didn’t know that was an option—hell, at that point, we hadn’t talked in months.
With a tender gaze on his daughter that doesn’t match his clipped voice, he continues. “Sat there for a while. When you didn’t show up, I poured it out and went to bed.”
I watch him, lips parted, not a clue what to say. After a long moment, he slips away down the hall without another word.
And just like that, the door I thought had cracked open slams shut again.
“Please, Daddy, one more time.”
Throwing a glance at the pink clock on Sadie’s nightstand, I snap the book closed. I’ll shoot myself in the right temple if I have to read Rapunzel a third time, but that’s beside the point. “No, baby. It’s late. Try to sleep, okay?”
“But I don’t want to sleep.”
I stand and set the book on the small bookshelf. “But if you sleep, it’ll be tomorrow in a second. You’ll see.”
She fits her head against the pillow. “Okay. Good night, Daddy.”
“Good night, love.”
I leave a sliver of the door open and walk downstairs.
The kitchen is still a mess from dinner, and all it takes is one look at the pile of plates to make me feel exhausted.
At least, Sadie seems to be doing better.
I’m sure the counselor at school is helping, but Josie calling regularly has been a real game changer. Sadie looks forward to it every day.
I slump on the couch, then take out my phone, the slightly paler skin around my ring finger catching my attention. I’ve kept my wedding band in one of the kitchen drawers since Charlotte sucked it off my finger four days ago.
Sucked it off.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying not to relive that moment for the millionth time. I’m pretty sure I owe her royalties for the amount of time I’ve spent thinking about it.
Fuck me, I miss her. I saw her twenty-four hours ago. I don’t even know her, not really, or have had enough time to get used to her presence, and still I miss her.
I’m obsessed, and I don’t know how to snap out of it.
I unlock my phone and open the browser. My fingers hesitate over the keys, a final moment of restraint, but it shatters the second I type TOP into the search bar.
I’m not going to actually contact her. I just want to see if she’s online, check her profile—nothing more.
Just one look.
Just a taste to put all my buzzing worries to sleep. To make sure she’s okay, that there were no hiccups with her show, that she’s doing well at home alone. Then I’ll go to sleep.
Once the page loads I see she’s uploaded a new picture, and the small preview alone has me sucking in a deep breath, my grip tightening around the phone.
Fuuuuuck.
She’s draped over satin black sheets, her body barely covered by a loose robe that’s parted just enough to reveal a strip of bare skin leading down her stomach.
The lighting is low, warm, her lips slightly open.
Her hair tumbles over one shoulder, framing her face in a way that makes her eyes seem sultrier.
There’s a glossy sheen to her lower lip like she’s just licked it, and the thought of her doing exactly that, thinking of me, sends heat coursing through my body.
I swallow hard and swipe to the next image, then the next, hating myself with every move.
Hating every man on this site who does the exact same thing.
Hating that I miss her presence more with each shot, that she’s here but not really here.
She’s pixels on a screen, a performance, a fantasy that isn’t mine to claim.
Then a ping makes my stomach lurch.
I freeze. Did I accidentally click something on her profile? My heart kicks into a sprint as I scan the screen, but the notification isn’t from an accidental like or a misplaced tip.
It’s a message.
My pulse pounds in my ears. Could it be her? Could another creator have messaged me, even though I haven’t interacted with anyone else on here?
I tap the message icon, my breath knocking from my lungs when I see the name.
Cherry.
Cherry texted me.