Page 26 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

“That why you didn’t leave?”

I don’t quite know how to answer that. I’ve kept the door shut on this particular room for a long time. “I stayed because it was easy. And it was sunny all the time. Consistent. Predictable. That makes people happier, I think. Plus, I got a job offer at the firm where I interned, and…”

I let myself trail off. The truth is I stayed in Florida partly because I wanted to stick with Blake.

Unlike Liv, who steamrolled into my life in a single afternoon, Blake found his place in my heart slowly, bit by bit and day by day. A game of inches and perseverance. I probably wouldn’t have let him in any other way.

We met at orientation in college. With the last names Reid and Reilly, we ended up in the same academic advising group, and we were down the hall from each other in our freshman dorm. After I nearly failed a particularly hard midterm in my Introduction to Microeconomics course, Blake started giving me copies of his pristinely organized notes and extensive deck of flashcards. The year we graduated, we both got internships in the same building: me at the consulting firm on the tenth floor, Blake at a law office on the sixth. Four years after we met, he was still there—a continued, unflagging presence in my life.

We went on our first date after that, when I was finally convinced he had the potential to stick around for the long haul. When we got engaged, I thought the matter was sealed.

How wrong I was.

Instead of finishing my thought, I focus on sliding open a lid on the box of serving dishes with at least four different patterns and, underneath, a a small stack of yellowing envelopes, each addressed to my uncle.

“Anyway.” I force a smile, although it instantly makes me self-conscious. I wonder if Logan will call me out on it again.

But, no, he’s watching me evenly, one of those broad shoulders braced against a antique rolltop desk.

“So, you stayed there,” he says, finishing my thought. “But you belong here.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Exactly.”

I’m tempted to ask whether, at some point, he started feeling like he belonged in Apple Valley. I can’t, though. It’s far too intimate of a question—a stolen scrap of this stranger that I shouldn’t have.

Instead, I ask, “Do you still draw?”

Without answering, Logan slips open the lid to an old Bankers Box in faux wood grain. His face snaps up.

“Hey,” he says. “I found those journals.”

Chapter Six

With a heavy thud, I let the box drop to the dining room table. Val startles from her seat by the windowsill, where I see she has not been idle. She’s got a pocketknife in one hand and a pile of brown leaves accumulating beside six of my house plants. My monstera appears to have been repotted.

“Good work,” she says as she dusts soil off her hands and yanks the weathered box across the table. She flings open the lid before stilling, and letting it slowly drop in place again. Then she frowns at me. “I could use a drink.”

“Something stronger than water?”

“Black tea, if you’ve got it.”

With a nod, I forge to the kitchen. Logan, perhaps taking the hint that Val wants to be alone with Martin’s words, goes to retrieve his bags from the truck.

While I wait for the kettle to boil, I listen to my mountain of unopened voicemails, which is something I should have done days ago when my phone alerted me that my voicemail box was full. I have a couple from my rep at the packing house who, apparently, has been trying to touch base with me for the last few days. I wasn’t ready to talk to him until I had better news to share about the crop, and I don’t yet know whether Logan is staying, so for now I decide to leave that call unreturned.

I also have a voicemail from Mom, which I received at exactly one o’clock Pacific time. Mom’s phone calls arrive with mechanical precision—probably because “Call Ali” is one of her recurring calendar events, sandwiched between oil changes and dental cleanings.

Truthfully, I haven’t picked up one of her calls since the breakup. I waited two weeks to tell her what happened, when I could be sure I’d get through the call without crying. Even still, she was silent and wary afterward, as though bracing for the tears I hadn’t shed yet. When I didn’t disappoint her, she let out a breath and said, “I’m sorry to hear that. When do you think you’ll move back to Florida?”

My shoulders hitched. “Why would I move back to Florida?”

Her long silence suggested the answer was obvious. “Or wherever you’d want to be instead.”

I squeezed my fingers to the bridge of my nose, flushing with annoyance. She might have hated it on this orchard and hightailed it out of Apple Valley as soon as she was legally allowed, but I’m not like her. I don’t abandon a place at every minor inconvenience and displeasure. I don’t have such impossibly high standards that I can never be content no matter where I am.

I wanted to tell her: I choose to be happy.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said.