I envy her serenity. I’m itching in my own skin, restless, a deep pit of shame hollowing me out.
“You gonna scowl at the cherries all morning,” she says lightly, “or are you actually gonna help me?”
I drag a hand over my face. “I’m not scowling.”
She tilts her head, doubtful. “Okay, grumpy pants.”
To keep myself busy, I grab the handwritten price signs from the bed of my truck and prop them up along the table. As I adjust one, I can feel her concerned gaze trained on me. She’s been looking at me like that all week.
I know I’ve been… difficult to work with lately. Ever since that night with Troy, after hours at the brewery. My patience has worn thin, my answers clipped and evasive whenever she presses or asks what’s wrong.
My jaw tightens. I hate how easily she reads me. I feel a prickle of guilt immediately. None of this is her fault. She doesn’t deserve it, but I can’t tell her the truth.
I can’t tell her I kissed Troy Fischer—again. That I got on my knees for him and pleasured him with the feverish desperation ofa horny teenager. That for a few reckless minutes, I forgot about expectations, legacy, and the weight of our last name, and I risked all of it because I couldn’t stop myself from wanting him. That I was selfish and stupid.
I lift the wooden sign from the tailgate and hook it onto the front of the farmers market booth. TREMBLAY ORCHARDS, it reads in bold, hand-painted letters, cherries curling around the edges like a frame. The paint has faded a little over the years, but the brushwork is still beautiful—careful, deliberate, full of personality.
Olivia made it when she was fifteen.
She’s always had that gift. While other kids were doodling in the margins of their notebooks, Liv was painting sweeping landscapes, delicate florals, lake sunsets so real they looked like photographs. Even now, the cherries on the sign seem almost alive, plump and glossy, like you could reach out and pluck one straight from the wood.
I step back, studying it longer than necessary.
Nothing about our farm has changed much since my great-grandfather broke ground nearly eighty years ago. Same stretch of land. Same cherry varieties. Some of the same equipment too, rusted and rattling but still limping along because no one ever dared to replace it. Tradition, preserved to the point of stagnation.
Sometimes, I let myself imagine what it could be like if we didn’t treat change like a threat.
For years, I’ve daydreamed about changing things—expanding into new fruit, opening a u-pick section for tourists in the summer, hosting events, maybe even weddings. Letting the orchard be something more than it’s always been.
My chest tightens.
Dad would never approve.
If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,he’d say. The words are so vivid in my head I can practically hear his voice.
I swallow hard and adjust the sign, nudging it until it hangs perfectly straight.
“Ash?”
Olivia’s voice snaps me back to the present. I look up to find her watching me from behind the table, one eyebrow arched as she stacks crates of cherries. She jerks her chin toward the sidewalk, where customers drift between booths with canvas bags full of artisanal jams, fresh vegetables, and jars of honey.
“It’s showtime,” she says. “Slap on a happy face, dude.”
I roll my eyes, but do as she says, pasting on a polite, practiced smile as a couple approaches the booth. It settles into place easily—a mask I’ve gotten uncomfortably good at wearing.
The morning settles into a familiar rhythm after that.
Customers wander up, one after another, their faces blurring together in the bright heat. I nod, smile, and answer the same questions on repeat. Yes, they’re sweet this year. Yes, they’re perfect for pies. No, my father isn’t here today—he retired.
Some of the faces are so familiar it feels like déjà vu. An elderly woman stops by with her walker and peers at me over her thick wire-framed glasses, lips pursed before softening into a grin.
“Ashton Tremblay,” she says, clucking her tongue. “I’ve known you since you were a baby. Used to sit on your daddy’s shoulders at the Fourth of July parade. Look at you now—all grown up.”
I smile politely, even though I can’t for the life of me remember her. I’ve learned it’s easier not to admit that part.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say with a chuckle. “That’s what everyone keeps telling me.”
She laughs, presses a few bills into my hand, and shuffles away with a basket of cherries.
