As I approached, I noticed Joan and Candace were already present and accounted for as well as a big cardboard stand-up of a shiny red cartoon apple wearing a cowboy hat. I frowned, wondering what that was all about. It looked like one of those photo ops with a hole cut out for people to stick their faces through. Based on the size of the apple and the height of the face hole, I assumed this was for kids, and judging by the way Joan was eyeing it, I guessed the giant apple was Candace’s idea.
Joan caught my gaze and rolled her eyes before turning back to where Candace lingered, clearly awaiting instructions. “I’ll be back with the dolly. You two put the tablecloths on.” And then she took off to where she’d parked the work truck.
Candace’s wide hazel eyes darted to me. She looked wary, and I fucking hated that I’d put that expression on her face.
“Good morning,” I said, making sure my smile was genuine and not as tight as my chest felt.
“Hey,” she replied, andhersmile was nonexistent.
I pointed to the cardboard apple. “What you got there?”
“Oh, it’s for photos. I thought kids would like it. And it has all our social media handles on it for advertising. The parents can tag us, and I’ll share the photos. Good for content.”
“I like it,” I told her sincerely. “It’s a good idea.”
“Thanks,” she replied tentatively. Then Candace moved to the stacked gingham tablecloths that her sister had indicated.
I quickly stepped forward and grabbed the other end of the one she held, helping her spread the fabric across the surface of a long white table, desperate for some normalcy.
So, we’d almost kissed. It wasn’t the end of the world. And it didn’t even need to be the end of our friendship.
Things didn’t need to get weird.
But the silence stretched like a rubber band pulled taut, just waiting to snap.
I could hear the shuffle of bodies and vendors chatting as they set up. Birds sang in the background and the cool morning breeze made the tablecloth rustle.
What you couldn’t hear were the things I wanted to say. The way I felt twisted up with the need to explain myself. How I wanted to tell Candace I was sorry about last night—taking off that way—and that I’d had a really good time with her. I always had a good time when I was with her.
But I couldn’t admit any of that. It would only lead to more questions and more lies. I couldn’t be honest with her, and that wasn’t fair.
Joan made her way back with the first load of apples, and Candace and I got to work organizing them on the tables to sell in pecks, half pecks, and quarter pecks. Joan was going back for a third load right around the time Brady strolled in with four coffees in a drink tray.
“Good morning,” he called. “I brought caffeine.”
“Thank you,” Candace said. “And there’s mini muffins in a bag beneath the table. A really friendly volunteer brought them by earlier.”
Brady squatted to retrieve them. “Great. I’m starving.”
A few moments of uninterrupted work later, Brady said conversationally, “Hey, Candy Cane. Why does your apple cutout have a cowboy hat?”
Candace turned to face her brother. “Because it’s a small-town apple festival, that’s why.”
“Who do you know who wears a cowboy hat?” Brady challenged.
“Well, I don’t know. People, I’m sure.”
“This ain’t Texas.”
She huffed in annoyance. “Who cares? It looks cute with the hat on top. I like it, okay?”
“I like it too,” I found myself saying suddenly. It worked to quiet the bickering siblings, but now I had both their attention. Candace didn’t look convinced, and Brady looked delighted, which was never a good sign.
“Well, if you like it so much,” Brady began, “I’ll take your picture, and Candace can post it. You can be the first one to pose with the Cowboy Apple.”
Attention and public scrutiny were the last things I wanted.
I glanced to Candace, who suddenly looked amused.
