Page 32 of Can’t Say No

She starts to gather up the neatly laid outfits, then pauses, a quick sigh escaping her lips. “I know it’s really none of my business,” she says, turning to face me. Her lips are drawn in a hard line. The shift in her demeanor is almost painful, like the last thing she wants is to bring up anything serious. “And I know you’ve known him even longer than I have. But you weren’t here to see how much it hurt him when you left.”

It takes me a second to catch up. “How much it hurt Connor?”

“Why do you think he never went to a show? Why he stopped returning phone calls? Why he pushed you away so much?”

“I, uh, I don’t know?” I knit my eyebrows together, trying to piece together what Caroline is implying. “I figured he just sorta forgot about me.”

Caroline laughs, but it’s coated in sadness. “That’s the problem Delaney. He never forgot about you. Not for a second.”

12

CONNOR

Iused to love everything about this place. The rows of trees that stretch all the way to the horizon line, the smell of well-fertilized dirt that sticks to your clothes for hours, the feeling of pride I get when our harvest comes in juicy and sweet. I loved it. As a kid, as a teen, hell probably a part of me loved it up until Delaney came thundering back into town. But this land feels a lot more like a burden then a blessing these days.

There’s not much to the orchard. Acres and acres of apple trees, mostly standard varieties with a few hybrids my dad calls his other children, and a solitary building that serves as both the office and the storefront.

Everything is well-worn in a way that makes folks from out of town want to take copious amounts of pictures. They say things like quaint, rustic, charming.

All I can see is a money pit that I’ve been tasked to save.

Which is why I’m up before the sun scrambling to finish my to-do list before I leave for the choir trip.

Even though I’ve been in charge for years, I still feel like an intruder in my dad’s office. He was always out here, pouring over the books, analyzing last season’s yield, or ordering new seeds to test out. Now, I do the bare minimum to keep things operating.

The stack of mail mocks me. Newsletters from other orchards that will go straight into the trash because I can’t bring myself to care about maintaining a relationship with them. Flyers from seed distributers advertising the latest and greatest cultivar. Invoices from vendors for our upcoming Fall Fest that we don’t have enough cash to cover.

And then, a big manilla envelope. I don’t have to open it to know what’s inside. I get offers on the land every few months and each time, I read it over and let myself imagine a world in which I sell.

No more early mornings fixing equipment, no more sleepless nights worrying about making payroll. I would be happy, but that happiness would cost my dad everything.

I swipe the unopened envelope into the trash.

“And if you need to pee, please refer to the timetable in your trip packet! All of our stops have been perfectly spaced out, so plan accordingly.” Mrs. Crane, tiny thing that she is, somehow manages a very commanding presence from the front of the bus.

“But what if it’s an emergency?” Simon hollers from somewhere in the back.

Cries of “Pee in a bottle!” echo throughout the bus, and apparently that answer satisfies Simon.

I shoot off a text to Delaney.

Me: Where are you? I have no doubt that Crane will leave your ass if you’re late.

I only saw Delaney briefly this morning, and she looked exhausted. From experience, I know it sucks going into a trip like this already worn out because Ridgecrest choir trips are notoriously fast-paced and a little unhinged.

I’m also learning from experience that it sucks worrying about your fake girlfriend in a very real way.

I’m about to double text when a platinum blonde head comes into view, followed quickly by the tray of coffee she’s balancing.

Mrs. Crane beams over at Delaney as she passes a cup to her, and damn, she might’ve cracked the code to keeping the old lady happy: a steady stream of caffeine.

Delaney plops down in the open seat beside me, huffing out a breath that sends an errant strand of hair floating out of her face.

She hands the third cup to me, “I did a little recon, and it seems like the first rule of chaperoning is to stay hyped up on coffee.”

I quirk an eyebrow at her. “Taking this gig pretty seriously for someone who hates being here so much.”

She shrugs. “Never been a fan of sucking at something, even if I’d rather be tucked away in the studio, working on my new album.”