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Still, my stupid heart beat a little faster in my chest as I approached her. I did my best to keep the scowl on my face. And when she saw me coming, that angry look she got did nothing to help the stirring in my stomach. I liked to fight with her. It excited me
“I’m here to carry your pumpkin,” I announced as if I was doing her a favor rather than doing my job.
“Really?” Ginny exclaimed with frustration. Before I could say anything, she let out a frustrated sound, stomped her foot, and whirled on her heels. Childish much? She started across the farm toward the patch. “Are you coming or not, Byrne?”
“I’d rather not,” I muttered but followed anyway. On my way, I grabbed a handful of straw to fidget with. I needed something to occupy my hands and energy if I was going to respect Mr. Waverly’s request to be nice to her. Respect her, not be nice. I don’t think I had it in me to be nice to her.
She sure as heck didn’t have it in her to be nice to me.
I spent hours following Ginny around the pumpkin patch. The girl had a thing for pumpkins. She inspected every single one and named their flaws. I didn’t have a clue why. A pumpkin was a pumpkin. But it wasn’t to Ginny. She was completely enthralled by the whole thing. Dings, dents, scrapes, caked-on dirt… she pointed out it all. Too big, too small, too squished, too narrow.
I just followed her around in silence and let her do her thing. She clearly didn’t need my help. Instead, I weaved together the pieces of straw into a crown. Dad had taught me how to do it after I’d seen him make one for Mom. It was a silly thing, but there was something sweet about how he crowned her his queen—his words, not mine. Ever since he died, I made crowns every fall. When I was younger, I’d give them to Mom just to make her smile. She still had the first one I made her lying on her dresser next to the one Dad had made her.
“What are you even doing?” I demanded after Ginny put back what had to be her thousandth pumpkin. I was exaggerating, but it sure as heck felt like it.
“It has to be the perfect pumpkin,” she said as if I knew what that meant. Newsflash: I didn’t.
“Yeah, but what makes the perfect pumpkin?” I emphasized those last two words with a little too much sarcasm, inciting an eye roll from her.
“You know.” She rocked back on her heels, dropping out of her crouch onto her butt. She drew her legs under her skirt, crossing them, as she stared up at me. “You ever just walk around at Halloween time and look at all the pumpkins?”
“No.”
“Of course you don’t. You’re too good for that.”
“No. I just don’t care about pumpkins,” I replied. “Usually Sam and I swap people’s Halloween decorations. Last year, we put Henry’s decorations on Esther and Vera’s house. Mostly, we put all his zombies staring in their windows.”
“You could’ve killed them, you know? Heart attack and all that?”
“Considering they redressed the zombies and wouldn’t give them back to Henry, I don’t think they cared.” I grinned. Sure, it probably could’ve scared the crap out of them, but Esther and Vera ran with it in the best way possible. Sam had told me they’d put up all the zombies and dressed them in costumes this year. I still had to see it for myself.
“You got lucky,” Ginny said. “But seriously, the perfect pumpkin is a thing! It has to be the right color orange with no dents or dings or anything, you know? And it has to be big enough to carve a good face into and fill with a few fake candles. It can’t be too ripe or it’ll go bad too fast. It won’t make it to Halloween.”
“That’s next week,” I reminded her.
“Pumpkins can rot fast if you’re not careful,” she snapped.
“Why do you care so much?” That seemed like a better question. The way her expression clouded over did things to my heart. A sadness washed over her that I didn’t understand.
“Because the pumpkin is mine,” she whispered. “It’s the one thing Dad lets me have.”
Let her have? That sounded crappy. Surely Pastor Goodwin wasn’t that strict that all she got was a pumpkin.
“It really means a lot to you doesn’t it?” I asked quietly, and she nodded. That look on her face did things to my heart—things I had no hope of explaining. I glanced around the pumpkin patch. None of these pumpkins would do. Mr. Waverly put out the good ones, but he always saved the best for marketing purposes—whatever that meant. Well, he was about to give up one of those pumpkins. I held out my hand to her, saying, “Come on, Goodwin. I know where the best pumpkins are.”
Her face lit up as she grabbed my hand, and I pulled her to her feet. That tingle, that spark, that warmth I felt when her hand touched mine… it messed with my head. I let go quickly, dusting my hand on my thigh in an attempt to get rid of the feeling. Why couldn’t it have been any other girl in Cedar Harbor? Why did it have to be Ginny who made me feel this way?
Hiking her skirt up, she hurried after me as I weaved through row after row of pumpkins. Why Mr. Waverly even had all these pumpkins was beyond me. There weren’t enough people in Cedar Harbor. Sure, some people from Copper Spring, West Bend, and Forest Ridge drove in just to buy pumpkins from him, but that still wasn’t a lot. At least I didn’t think so.
Mr. Waverly picked out the best of the best pumpkins and stored them behind the house. I knew I probably shouldn’t have taken her there—considering it was supposed to be Mr. Waverly’s personal collection. But dang it, I wanted to give her the best pumpkin.
Why was I going so far to do something nice for her? The girl was a witch but still. Something about the way she looked when she said the pumpkin would be the only thing she had for herself, I couldn’t resist. Call me a moron—I probably was. It wouldn’t gain me any favors with her. I’d give her a good day before she started acting like a stupid jerk all over again.
Ginny squealed at the sight of the pumpkins lined up behind the barn. Literally squealed. I’d never heard a person make that sound. Her face lit up like Christmas, and my heart tumbled in my chest.
“These are perfect!” she exclaimed, clapping excitedly. Okay, that was more adorable than it should’ve been. If I got in trouble with Mr. Waverly, it was definitely worth the look on Ginny’s face as she ran her hands over each and every pumpkin. “Oh, but how do I choose?”
“Pick one.” I shrugged. No matter what she said, I still didn’t know a damn thing about picking pumpkins.
