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“Pretty much the same. What did he say to you, then? Your dad, on the back porch?” He’s a dog with a bone.
I can’t relay that entire conversation; I’ll start crying. I might never stop. My dad, his elbows on knees, the tears making clean lines down his tanned, dusty face. I abbreviate the conversation into a sanitized nutshell.
“That his loss was the world’s gain. And my mom, she couldn’t stop bragging, telling everyone about her daughter going off to college . . . She’s making a new variety of strawberry, and they’re all called Lucies.”
“According to the blog, Lucy Twelve was quite good. Tell me more.”
“I don’t understand your fascination with that blog. Mom was a newspaper writer, but she had to give it all up.”
“For what?”
“For my dad. She was doing a piece on the effects of some heavy rain on agriculture, so she went out to a local orchard. She found my dad in a tree. His dream was to own a strawberry farm, and he couldn’t do it alone.”
“Do you think she made the wrong decision?”
“Dad always says, She picked me. Like an apple, right out of the tree. I love them, but I think it’s a sad story sometimes.”
“You could ask her sometime. She probably doesn’t regret a thing. They’re still together, and it means you’re here.”
“Dad calls you other names starting with J, but never your real name.”
“What?” He looks alarmed. “You’ve told your dad about me?”
“He’s mad at you for being so mean. Julian and Jasper and John. One time, he called you Jebediah and I nearly peed myself. You’d have to grovel to my dad, that’s for sure.”
Josh looks so disturbed I decide to cut him a break and change the subject.
“When I’m homesick I can smell warm strawberries. Which is pretty much all the time.” I watch him scrambling to try to unscramble these nonsensical statements.
“Did you play out there in the fields? When you were a kid?”
“You’ve seen the blog picture. It’s pretty clear I did.” I turn my face away. Me, knees stained pink from berry juice, tangled mane of hair, eyes bluer than the sky. Wild little farm girl.
“Don’t be embarrassed.” He gently puts his fingertips on my jaw and turns me back. “You in your little overall shorts. You look like you’ve been outside for days. All dirty and wild. Your smile hasn’t changed.”
“You never see my smile.”
“I bet you had a tree house.”
“I did, actually. I practically lived up there.”
His eyes are bright with an expression I’ve never seen. I close my eyes for a second to rest them. He checks my temperature and when his hand lifts away from my forehead I complain. He touches my hand.
“I’ve never thought where you come from is inferior.”
“Oh, sure. Ha-ha. Strawberry Shortcake.”
“I think where you came from—Sky Diamond Strawberries—is the best place I can imagine. I’ve always wanted to go there. I’ve Google mapped directions. I’ve even looked up the flight and hire car.”
“Do you like strawberries?” I don’t know what else to say.
“I love strawberries. So much, you have no idea.” He sounds so kind that I feel a wave of emotion. I can’t open my eyes. He’ll see I have tears in them.
“Well, it’s out there, waiting for you. Pay the lady under the umbrella and take a bucket. Mention me for a discount, but you’ll get an interrogation on how I’m doing. How I’m really doing. If I’m lonely, if I’m eating properly. Why I won’t take the time to come home.”
I think of the job applications, side by side in a beige folder. A wave of exhaustion and dizziness hits me. I want to be asleep, that lovely dark place where these anxieties and sadness can’t follow me. I start to feel like I’m slowly spinning.
“What should I tell her?”
