Page 107 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

He studies me with penetrating eyes, and I know deep in my bones that if I shared even a shred of hesitancy about this, he would give up his entire future for us both. Which is why I say, “And I’m not going to ask you that.”

He exhales and squeezes my fingers. “I should at least stay until the pears are ripe.”

“I don’t know when that will be.” When I checked the marked pears this morning, they were still the same as yesterday and the day before. The same as the day we left for Maplehurst. “Plus, it’s only half the crop. Val and I can handle it.”

When Logan doesn’t look convinced, I add, “This is all just stolen time. The longer you stay, the harder it’s going to be to say goodbye. It’s already going to hurt enough, but I think if I get any closer to you, if I come to depend on you more, it’s going to be unbearable. It’s going to be a pain I may never heal from.”

The earth is dark where the sprinklers have finished their run. The puddles hold the fading light for longer than they should, stealing colors they have no right to keep.

Logan closes his eyes, and when they open, I know. His emotion is plain.

Acceptance, at last.

“I was afraid you would say something like that,” he says.

“Not because you think I’m wrong?” I ask.

“Because it’s the only thing you could say to get me to leave.”

Tears sting the back of my nose. I sag against his chest—from both relief and grief—because even though I’ll soon need to stand up alone, right now I’m desperate for him to hold me. He catches me around the waist and burrows his nose in my hair.

“I’m losing my orchard,” I say. “I’m losing you for a second time, before we’ve even had a real chance. It’s not okay. Maybe it’s never going to be okay. All we can do is accept it.”

Logan smooths back my hair. “Nothing about this feels right.”

“I think, maybe,” I whisper, “that’s how grief feels.”

He kisses the top of my head. A flicker of moisture seeps between my eyelids.

We stare into my ruined orchard and I let myself feel.

Everything. All at once.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

When I was a kid, I got really good at goodbyes. Not because they grew less tender with repetition. In some ways, the opposite was true. I learned that a goodbye isn’t only about the pain of now, the pain of leaving, but also the pain of later. The disorientation in the face of an unfamiliar layout of a new school. The ache of loneliness as I waded through a cafeteria filled with strangers. The tug of homesickness at any thought of the orchard.

“Gainesville gets two-hundred-and-twenty-four days of sun each year,” Mom once assured me, eyes fixed on the road as we charged past the Seattle city limits. “Much better for your mood.”

As though the rain were the reason I had been miserable.

She broke her focus from the road to glance at me, monitoring my reaction.

I nodded stiffly, fighting back tears and keeping my eyes fixed forward like hers. Mom rolled her driving gloves against the steering wheel as she refocused on the road.

As Logan packs the next morning, my body aches to fall back into the familiar, well-worn grooves of muscle memory. But I don’t let it. Tears leak down my cheeks as I dig through the cabinet for an old travel mug and a water bottle. My hands tremble as I fill one with coffee and the other with filtered water. A sob moves through me as I slice cheese and pears and pack them into an old takeout container.

“Ali.”

I feel Logan’s hand on my elbow, steering me around. When I blink, another tear slips down my cheek. Logan’s grip tightens, and there’s so much concern in his eyes that I have to fight, again, not to dry my face and paint on a smile.

He smooths back one of my curls, tucks it behind my ear, then catches my next tear with his thumb.

“Ali, I—”

“Listen,” I say. My voice is thinner than I want it to be, but I need to head him off before he says something I might beg him to take back. “I’m going to cry for this. That doesn’t mean you should stay. It doesn’t mean you’re doing anything wrong. I’m sad, but that’s okay. Sadness is just—part of it. It just is.”

Logan closes his eyes and tugs me into the hard planes of his chest. He holds me like he’s trying to memorize the shape we make when our bodies fit together. I cling right back, not because I want him to stay, but because I love him enough to let him go. His jacket is cold against my cheek, but he still smells the same—like wood and earth and home. I take a shaky inhale and let my salty tears wet his collar, marking him one more time.