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On Tuesday night I cried.
I’ve seriously got to stop.
Deacon is texting, asking if I’m ready to follow-up on my Dallas plan. I can’t tell him I want to put it on hold again after his pep talk. But if I start planning for Dallas in this frame of mind, I’ll leave Harristown for good. Of course, five seconds later I take it all back thinking of all the reasons to stay.
I have to stay and see this through. Sawyer and I have come so far, we’re so close, I can’t move to Dallas, even temporarily, when I feel like every moment matters.
The festival kicks off Thursday. The Peach Ball is coming, and I’m his date. As far as I know that hasn’t changed. In the meantime, I’ve got to finish the poster. Andre texts me every day asking for it, but I ditched all my starter ideas.
When I look at the photo I took of Sawyer in the orchard, I want to cry. He’s so beautiful, and I can still feel his arms around me. I can still hear his deep voice telling me I’m beautiful or he wants to kiss me.
Ugh, I want to throw it all out and do another still life, Vase with Peaches. Andre would kill me. Based on my preliminary ideas, he has planned the entire festival around a “Falling in love in the orchard” theme. He keeps asking why we didn’t think of this sooner…
Possibly because it’s the first year I’ve had a real chance at owning my love? It’s the first year we got so close to coming out and sharing it with everyone?
The senior beauty pageant is in full planning mode, swimsuit competition included. I have no idea how this is going to play out or what the families are going to say. The elderly residents say they don’t care—they’re tired of being treated like children who have no free will, and these old ladies will walk out in their swimsuits if they choose.
Clearly a geriatric revolution is brewing, and I can only presume it’s fueled by Viagra and lube. I don’t know why they think I object. I think it’s a fun idea, and it’s bound to sell tickets.
So far, it’s shaping up to be the craziest harvest on record.
“I’d give anything to see Debbie Turner in a swimsuit at her age.” Mrs. Irene laughs as I help her get ready for bed.
All around her room are pictures of her family and paintings of flowers and angels. She wants it this way, even if she can’t see them.
“Everyone’s saying it’s a contest between Ms. Wilson and Ms. Turner.” I hold her hand as she climbs into her adjustable twin bed. “Mr. Hebert isn’t even a judge.”
She leans her head toward me, narrowing her eyes. “It’s like he had this scenario in mind the whole time.”
“So he can say he’s banging Ms. Silver Peach!” I start to giggle as much at the name as the conspiracy.
Mrs. Irene puts her hand over her laugh, shaking her head. “Just because we’re old doesn’t mean we can’t manipulate the system.”
“If only we could leak the story to the public. We might sell more tickets.”
Mr. Grady agreed to give the nursing home seventy percent of the profits, since he’s slappi
ng Grady’s Used Cars on everything for free.
Mrs. Irene holds her clasped hands in front of her nose as she laughs. “It’s like The Silver and the Restless!”
“Days of our Silver Lives?”
“The Bold and the Silver!”
“Yes!” I cry, and she closes her eyes as we both laugh.
It feels good to laugh away the heaviness in my chest. A few tears are in my eyes, but they’re good tears. They’re not worrying about Sawyer nonstop tears.
“Come and hold my hands.” Mrs. Irene holds hers out, palms up.
I climb onto the side of her bed and place both my palms on top of hers. “It’s been a few days since we’ve had any time alone.”
“I’ve been dying to ask about Sawyer LaGrange. Why did you keep it a secret? He’s a wonderful man.”
“He is…” My throat tightens, but I swallow my sadness. “He’s really, really wonderful. He’s also guarded and closed and a complete loner. He ghosts me for days, and then he’ll show up like nothing happened.”
Her slim brows furrow. “What’s this about ghosts?”
