The optimistic side of me was having a hard time rationalizing the way Mac had left. I couldn’t find the silver lining or talk myself into a promising outcome. We’d had a good time tonight—a great time—from the asterisk date she didn’t want to the life-altering sex. I knew she couldn’t deny it, but she was stubborn enough to ignore it. Sex hadn’t changed anything for me. I still wanted her. But it might have changed things for Mac. And maybe not in the way I’d hoped.
@JuddsFamilyOrchard: @GrandpappysApples, I can still smell you on my skin, warm and sweet. I know your scent will fade, but I just want to hang on to it—and you—a little longer.
Then, I saved the draft and exited the app before I did something stupid.
eleven
MAC
With the farmers’ market season over, it was easier than I thought it’d be to avoid Brady. I just had to skip weekly trivia at Trailview Brewing, beg off attending Friday night bonfires with Larry, and wait ten minutes before I walked down the drive at Grandpappy’s to latch the gate after closing.
Some things made ignoring him more difficult, though. His text messages, for example.
The first one had come through the morning I’d snuck out of his apartment with my underwear in my pocket and a sinking feeling in my gut.Hey, Mac Attack. Want to grab a drink after trivia on Monday?
The next one arrived Monday night after I’d skipped out on my team.Can we talk?
Finally, five days after the plan to get it out of my system had failed spectacularly, I got the last text. It was sitting on read in my message app, and for some masochistic reason, I kept making myself look at it.
Brady: Mac, please.
All this unexpected freedom from social engagements gave me plenty of time to catch up on all the travel blogs I followed. I’d planned out a hypothetical trip toThailand (two stops), started a new horror novel that was keeping me up at night, and cleaned out the pantry.
Brady had left me alone after that final text. There’d been no swipes on social media, no mentions or replies on Chatter. No impromptu appearances at Grandpappy’s to pick up tools or anything else.
I should have been relieved. I’d made myself scarce, and Brady hadn’t challenged me on it. But instead of relief, I felt unsteady. That same roiling-on-the-bow-of-a-ship feeling. A nagging disquiet that my world was off-kilter, everything shifted over a foot. Not quite sufficient to upend my life, but enough to have me jumping at shadows and stubbing my toes on what used to be there.
Yet, I persisted. I made it through Thanksgiving a month later, even when Larry pulled me aside and asked what the hell was going on. I’d given her the same bullshit excuse, saying I was fine, just busy, and not interested in socializing. I couldn’t very well confess that I was miserable and it was my own doing. Will was being a grumpy asshole, too, since Becca the tourist had gone back to Detroit. My aunt Maggie had threatened to make the two of us eat our turkey and fixings at the kids’ table by ourselves.
But I’d survived the event, and, eventually, Larry had given up on me and joined everyone else for dessert while I sat on the porch and contemplated what a big fucking chicken I was.
As painful as it was to admit, I missed Brady. For years, I’d had his undivided attention. And then briefly, his affection and his sweetness. Everything was all mixed up in my head. I wanted him to tease me and then kiss it better. But I didn’t know how to make myself vulnerable and admit the truth to the one person I’d always had to guard myself against.
Instead, I let my bad mood carry me through. I went to work and I saw my family. I went through the motions, and I resisted the urge to show up somewhere I knew Brady would be, just to see his face.
However, six weeks after I had my first and last date* with Brady Judd, Larry and I were on shift together in the tree lot at Grandpappy’s, and she cornered me. The farm was all decked out for the holidays. We decorated it every December to within an inch of its life, and the tourists ate it up. We transformed the General Store into a giant gingerbread house that had locals and leafers alike stopping by to take photos.
However, I was not particularly in the holiday spirit when my cousin made her way back to the booth after helping Trudy Caswell to her SUV with a six-foot Fraser fir in tow.
I’d just finished running the credit card payment for the customer waiting when Larry cleared her throat at my side.
I glanced over to see her looking pale.
“What’s wrong? Did you hurt your back getting that tree up on the roof of Trudy’s Suburban?”
Larry frowned. “No, I’m fine.”
She was silent for a moment while I rang up another tree purchase, and then when we were finally alone again, she blurted out, “I need a favor.”
My eyes narrowed. “What is it?”
Larry blew out a breath that reeked of reluctance before saying, “I know you’re going through”—she waved her hands vaguely about my person—“something. But I really need you to come to the bonfire with me tonight.”
Immediately, I opened my mouth to protest. The chances of running into Brady there were extremely high, and I was messed up enough.
But my cousin cut me off. “I don’t ask for a lot, Mac. But I’m asking you to come with me. Kayla will be there, and she’s bringing some guy she’s been hooking up with.”
I stared at Larry’s face, trying to discern her meaning. She rarely looked unhappy or frustrated, but she was both of those things right now, visibly. And she was right. She didn’t ask me for much.
