Page 110 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

If the orchard is reflecting my emotions, then what, exactly, are the crystal pears? Although they started turning after Blake and Liv left, I’m not convinced they are only about grief or heartbreak. After all, that deep, hollow ache from the days and weeks following their departure has subsided. And, after the gala, my feelings toward them evolved.

As the sun starts to set, the air thickens, prickling my skin, and I sling myself upright. Pressure builds at my temples and in the pads of my fingers as the wind carries me into the rows. I think about my cluttered mental attic. The first day he was on the orchard, Logan observed that, at some point in the last fourteen years, I started smiling over the pain. At the time, I told him it helped.

That wasn’t true, of course. But what if it’s worse than that? What if I wasn’t protecting my heart from the acute pain of grief, but sharpening it? What if, by denying my emotions, I only honed their edges?

A crow calls out, falls silent.

I tug off my gloves with my teeth and run bare fingertips along the smooth, cold surface of a pear. If I’m right, then these crystals aren’t grief itself, but the denial of that emotion. A protective instinct gone terribly wrong. But now that I’ve stopped turning away from my feelings, shouldn’t the crystals have cracked?

Goose bumps pebble my arms as I hear Logan again in my memory—his voice steady, his hand warm around mine.

Sometimes the only way to get over something is to go through it. To face it.

Evolution.

The word buzzes through me, as I yank that pear loose, trying to peer through its crystal exterior, wondering about the fruit inside. Maybe if the pears crystallized because I turned away from my emotions, then the only way to undo it is to face them fully. In some ways, I already have. I’ve gone through those ledgers. I talked to Blake and Liv at the gala. I unearthed my family’s secrets, learned my uncle’s uncomfortable truths.

But have I truly faced what hurts most? I’ve accepted things, yes, but passively—like standing limply in the rain.

Maybe it’s time to steer into the storm.

The next day, I visit my uncle’s grave.

He’s buried, like the Reids before him, on the southern side of the property, just below a gnarled old fruit tree with unusual surface roots. As family legend has it, it’s the oldest on the property and the first one planted by my great-great-grandfather, although that would make it preternaturally ancient. Still, in the eerie silence of its canopy—accompanied only by the skitter of windfallen leaves across a handful of stone plaques—I have no trouble believing the legend is true.

A tight handful of forget-me-nots trembles in one of my fists, a folded note in the other. The air is cold enough that my exhales fog my vision. The ancient fruit tree creaks as it sways, like the low keen of a dirge singer. At my feet, Martin’s marker is simple: his name and dates of his birth and death divided by a dash.

Underneath, the words Val selected for him:

Loved. Always.

My hands tremble as I unfold the paper I’m clenching. I planned to tell him that I’m angry, betrayed. He should have warned me about the orchard and the magic. He should have trusted me to make the right choice while knowing the truth. I resent the role he played in Lydia’s disappearance. His betrayal cuts deeper because I loved him and I’ll never get to hear his side of it.

But now all I can think about is his wheezy laugh echoing down the rows.

Cruising around the orchard in a Gator, banking hard around curves, our twin screams of joy as I tossed up my hands like I was riding a roller coaster. Watching the trees from the porch swing while he wailed on his reedy harmonica.

His floppy hat bobbling as he gesticulated. Honeydew- and zucchini-blossom greens and yellows. The way he used to listen so intently that even the wind would hold its breath.

The way he always let me cry.

I drop to my knees. The grass is cold and damp, even through my fleece leggings, and my knit dress gathers in a caramel pool. I trace the carved letters of Martin’s name, lingering on the year of his death.

“I loved you,” I whisper. “I still do. You might not have been perfect, but you were a remarkable, wonderful man.”

Then, I set the pale blue flowers against the plaque. And I stand, brush the dirt from my knees, and turn.

On Saturday, I pick my way through jars of apple butter, clusters of pumpkins in cream and orange, and past the Harts’ cider wagon. Liv is beaming behind the flower stand’s register, framed by neat rows of fresh-cut sunflowers and planters filled with marigolds in mahogany and tangerine. She’s all easy smiles and effortless charm, her hair catching the light like honey.

My feet pause when I spot Blake. He’s weaving between tents, a breakfast sandwich gripped in each hand and a bottle of hot sauce trapped under an armpit. When he reaches her, he holds her sandwich back until she kisses him.

I wait for the nausea—the quick familiar pulse of panic, the sharp edge of sadness. Any second now, it’ll rise.

Oddly, though, it doesn’t.

I feel…not happy for them, certainly. But, separate, I guess. Like I’m standing behind glass, watching them move through a world that no longer needs to include me.

Deep down, I know this is enough. Not that it’ll fix my problems, but that there isn’t more I need to do.