“Ah,” he countered, “I didn’t hear you say you hated her back.”
Abby had been harping on this since middle school. Typically, I let it roll off my back because the idea was so ludicrous, but then he did shit like trying to force-proximity us.
My mind drifted to the bonfire the other night when he’d seen Mac approaching and basically shoved me into her like an immature preteen.
Being close to her was like touching a hot stove. The heat, the awareness, the high likelihood of personal injury.
Much to Abby’s dismay, his latest attempt had ended with me annoying the hell out of Mac on the drive to my apartment, and not with declarations oflove. But I’d had fun torturing her, so I hadn’t scolded him about it like I should have.
I examined the three remaining chicken wings on my plate and grabbed the cherry jalapeno one. “I don’t hate anyone.”
And that was the truth. Neighbors, acquaintances, tourists at the orchard. I could—and did—get along with nearly everyone I met. There were a couple of notable exceptions, but for the most part, I was an affable, lovable goofball.
While I didn’t hate Mac, I did love to get a rise out of her. It was part of our game. Hell, it was part of our existence at this point. But where I resorted to friendly teasing and humorous antics, she tended toward outright violence and deliberate attacks.
In middle school, she’d snuck self-tanner into my body lotion in my gym bag. There had been the time she’d let the air out of my tires senior year as well as the Elmer’s glue incident—don’t ask. Then a few years back, she’d drawn a penis on my face when I passed out at Jolly Adams’s divorce party. In permanent marker.
If I thought back to when we were kids, I could—maybe—see Abby’s perspective. There had probably been a time when I had a crush on the dark-haired spitfire who lived across the street. But I’d done what any prepubescent boy would have. I’d sought her attention in the most effective way possible. I’d teased and tormented and made myself memorable. Growing up, I didn’t know how to manage my complicated feelings any more than I knew how to handle my hyperactivity or focus on classwork.
And then later—when Mac and I had been in high school—I’d had a moment of wishful thinking, a desire to change things between us. Mentally, I waved that thought away. None of it mattered now.
I wasn’t going to admit any of that to Abby anyway.
“But to damage your family’s property seems a bit extreme, even in this unhinged game of one-upmanship y’all have going on.” Abby’s words brought my wavering attention back to the conversation and my righteous indignation.
“Well, who else could it be?” I demanded.
He shoved a rosemary French fry in his mouth and shrugged. “I don’t know, Brady. Maybe that’s why you should let the sheriff’s office do their job.”
“Pfft. They don’t know what the hell they’re doing.”
Inwardly—and outwardly—I’d vowed to handle this myself. Mac had gone too far this time. I’d had to help my sister Candace paint the Apple House to cover up the damage.
I turned my neck, noting the stiffness there and in my shoulders from working the paint roller all afternoon.
Abby opened his mouth to respond, but I cut him off. “And I expected you to be on my side. Mercer and Joan and Candace aren’t taking me seriously,” I complained, noting how none of my siblings or co-workers thought Mac was to blame either.
My friend winced. “Just keep an open mind is all I’m saying. You’ve never been very ... rational where Mac is concerned.” I made a rough sound of indignation, and Abby raised his hands in surrender. “It could very well be a dumb teenager with nothing better to do.”
“I’m going to get to the bottom of this, and you’re all going to eat your words. Also, why does everyone want to blame hypothetical teenagers when there is a violent offender with motive right across the highway?”
“Well,” Abby speculated, “we were teenagers once, and we did stupid shit.”
I thought about it for half a second and then nodded. “Alright. Fine. You got me there.”
“Just don’t go off half-cocked and throw around a bunch of accusations.”
I shifted in my seat, thinking about the portrait I’d commissioned just this afternoon.
Abby’s gaze narrowed. “What did you do?”
“Nothing!” I said, sounding more defensive than I liked. I lowered my voice. “I didn’t do anything.”Yetwent carefully left unsaid.
Because one thing was for sure: I wasn’t letting this go. And when I proved Mac was behind this diabolical deed, I was fully prepared to retaliate.
Early October at the orchard meant things were hectic. We were busy with tourists Thursday through Sunday, and then busy in the fields the rest of the time trying to get as much ripe fruit off the trees as we could before the first frost hit. I pitched in where I was needed. Sometimes, that meant throwing on a picking bag and joining my elder sister, Joan, and the orchard’s only non-relative co-worker, Mark Mercer. Other times, I worked in the Apple House, selling to customers or washing, grading, and pressing apples. Today, I was manning the sales counter with Candace.
She was back in Kirby Falls for the first time in years. Candy said she was just taking some time off before changing jobs and wanted to help Mom and Dad with the orchard, but I could tell something else was going on with her. My little sister was being squirrely, but I’d let her tell me in her own time.
