Page 4 of Patch Perfect

“It's all new for me too.”

He rests his forehead against mine. “We can figure it out together.”

We kiss again as the moon moves in and out of the branches. When the driver calls that we're almost at the gate, we pull apart so quickly that the wagon bench squeaks. “Hope my passengers enjoyed the scenery.”

“The pumpkins were excellent,” I say, a little too loudly, causing Roan to cough into his fist.

At the gate, Roan helps me down and then holds my hand as we walk toward the lanterns. The night could end here, but neither of us heads for the parking lot.

“The Iron Saints will arrive early Saturday,” he says. “The club covered the buses, food, and supplies. We want the kids to have the whole place to themselves.”

“I know. I've been working on the maps for their activity stations.” I glance toward the barn. “You'll get to see just how bad I am at drawing motorcycles.”

“I'd be here early even without the volunteer shift,” he says. “I want to see you.”

“I want to see you too.”

“Can I call you when I get home?”

“You'd better.” I take out my phone and hand it to him. He adds his number to my contacts as Wagon Ride Partner, then hands it back to me. I laugh so hard I nearly drop it.

As he walks me back to the booth, I realize I’m looking forward to Saturday for reasons that have nothing to do with pumpkins. I glance back at the field. I still love it here—maybe wanting more doesn’t mean I love it any less.

four

Roan

At seven the next morning, I take a picture of the ticket stub from my jacket and send it to Kate. I smile at my screen until Beck, our club president, comes into the garage and stops next to my workbench.

“Kate Bell?” Beck asks as he grabs a socket wrench and returns it to its place.

I nod, surprised that my face already gives away her name. Beck heads to the office with a knowing smile. I turn back to the motorcycle on my bench, but for a moment I forget which bolt I took out. Yesterday I worried she might not want to see me. Today I have proof she does, and I’m trying to let myself enjoy it instead of finding reasons it might not last.

For ten years, I’ve guarded the things people could take from me. I grew up moving between relatives who always planned to keep me longer than they did. No one was unkind. They were busy, overwhelmed, and relieved when someone else offered me a place. I learned to pack up without being told. The Iron Saints gave me work and a place in their club, but I still go home alone because it feels safer that way. Last night, Kate took my hand like trusting me was easy. I don’t want my old habits to get in the way.

At lunch, I step outside and call her, surprised when she answers on the second ring.

“Wagon ride partner,” she says. Hearing her voice makes me lean back against the warm brick wall. For a few seconds, we just listen to each other breathe. Yesterday I needed a ticket to be near her—now she answers just because she sees my name.

“The driver asked about the scenery,” she says. “I told him the view was better in the middle.”

I laugh, loud enough that a mechanic looks over. I can picture her smiling and pretending not to notice what she’s done to me.

“I was hoping for another ride,” she says. “On your motorcycle Saturday evening?”

“I’d like that.” A dozen practical worries pop into my head: helmets, the weather, if she’ll be comfortable, and if I can handle having her arms around me. “I have a spare helmet. We can keep it short, and I’ll explain everything before we go.”

“I trust you, Roan.”

I look down at the pavement. She’s only asking for a short ride, but the trust in her voice touches a part of me that always expected to be alone. I tell her when I’ll bring the spare helmet. After we hang up, I stay outside for a minute, letting myself picture her arms around my waist.

At three, Beck comes back from a supply run with a sack of tiny pumpkins. He drops them on my workbench between a carburetor and a rag.

“Kate said we need samples,” Beck says, setting paint next to the pumpkins. He sits on the other stool and paints two huge eyes on his pumpkin. “You like her.”

“Yes,” I answer right away. I expect Beck to tease me, but he just lets it be. That small kindness gives me a moment to think about it myself. I’ve only known Kate in person for a few hours. What I like isn’t a fantasy. It’s the way she listens, the way she laughs, and how she cares for a place full of strangers.

I paint a crooked smile on the pumpkin. Beck has been my closest friend for seven years. He knows the habits I hide from everyone else: the spare clothes in my locker, how I keep my plans vague, and that I used to look at houses without believing I could ever buy one and stay. He’s right about Kate. Still, wanting her feels heavy, and I’m afraid I’ll mess it up.