“I knew you were at the bonfire,” she rushed to explain. “And, honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking. I was so far gone.”
“Any particular reason you felt the need to get shit-faced?” I asked, proud of the gentleness in my tone when my instinct was to be accusatory.
Larry just shook her head.
I watched my cousin for a moment, the expertly applied makeup that gave her confidence and the vulnerable hunch of her shoulders suddenly at odds. I felt an ache in my chest at her obvious hurt and discomfort. “You know you can talk to me, right? About anything. I know we give each other a hard time and joke around a lot. But you’re my family and my best friend. I love you.”
She didn’t look at me as she replied, just kept staring at the ground as she picked at the decorative rip in her black jeans. “I know that.”
Larry was often so carefree and joyful that I rarely saw this side of her. It was stark and unsettling, and I didn’t like feeling powerless in the face of it. How did you help someone who was reluctant for it? Could you wrap them up in your love and protect them from the world if you didn’t know what you were protecting them from?
Finally, her head rose, and she gave me a smile—a fraction of the one I was used to seeing from her, but a smile nonetheless. “I love you too, you maniac. And you better check your phone. I saw a notification pop up a minute ago.”
I took the distraction for what it was and didn’t call her on it.
Reaching for my phone on the tabletop, I scrolled through and swiped away various notifications. There were a few emails. A new article had been posted for this travel e-magazine I liked. Finally, my eyes caught on a particular social media notification, and I felt that hornet’s nest buzz to life. I’d changed my alerts the other day to let me know anytime Judd’s Orchard posted on Chatter. For ... reconnaissance purposes. And it was a good thing I had.
@JuddsFamilyOrchard: With all due respect, imagine going to work every day and polishing your apple cannon.
Larry leaned into me to look at the screen. “Yikes. Shots fired.”
I glared at her for the pun and then started typing.
“Maybe you should take five before you reply. Just, like, a brief cooldown period. For safety,” she advised.
“Whose safety?” I asked. “His or mine?”
“Why not both?” she answered with a cheesy grin.
“Yeah, I’m not going to do that.”
I reread my reply before hitting post. Didn’t want any typos for Brady to draw attention to. Lesson learned. That had been a bleak day a few months back.
But, nope. This looked all good. I grinned wickedly.
@GrandpappysApples: @JuddsFamilyOrchard, With all due respect, aka none ... that’s it. That’s the post.
four
BRADY
I was running late.
Ihatedrunning late.
Sticking to a schedule helped me focus. It kept me on track and prevented distractions. I knew that Abby—or anyone else, for that matter—wouldn’t notice or care that I was late for a Friday night bonfire. It had always been a casual event. But I could feel the shift and upset to my own inner timetable.
Candace had recently started adding local bands and food truck events to the calendar at Judd’s Orchard. They’d been popular so far, and tonight especially. She’d asked me to stay a little late to help wrangle the crowds. Since I was an accommodating and benevolent brother/co-worker, I’d said yes. Plus, I didn’t want her closing up alone.
But staying over at the orchard meant I was getting to Abby’s property at nearly ten o’clock. There were only a handful of vehicles left in the field beside the barn. I figured the early-October weather was scaring people off. This was the first really cold night we’d had this fall. But it was clear and beautiful. I spied an ocean of tiny stars scattered across the sky when I hopped out of my truck.
I breathed in the familiar scent of woodsmoke and made my way toward the bonfire to warm up, but before I turned the corner of the barn, I spotted MacKenzie Clark leaning against the side of the building. Her head was tippedback, resting on the rough wooden planks, and she was breathing deliberately—in through her nose and out through her mouth. Her breath created a plume of white with every exaggerated exhale. This looked very much like the exercise of a person trying very hard not to puke. I recognized it well from my years in undergrad.
“You okay over there, Macaroni Salad?” I asked as I slowly approached her.
Her eyes shot open, but she didn’t move away from the wall. “Please don’t talk about macaroni salad,” she slurred.
I grinned. “Did you overindulge? Are you regretting your life choices?”
