Page 27 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

Another long pause. “I see.”

After a few more minutes of stilted small talk, we hung up.

Standing in the kitchen now, I erase her voicemail without listening beyond the words “Hello, Ali.” I already know how the rest would go. This is your mother. I had a moment free and thought it would be appropriate to try to talk. Please return the call when convenient.

The phone rolls into the next message, this one from an unknown number.

“Hi, Ali, I miss—”

Adrenaline shoots through my limbs. I panic-drop the phone and it clangs to the bottom of the sink.

“Everything okay?”

I wheel to find Logan in the doorway, a line etched between his brows like he can hear my heart thundering against my rib cage.

I shouldn’t be having this violent reaction to someone’s voice. Proportional responses are the key to preventing minor issues from escalating into major distractions.

“Yes, I’m…” I fish my phone out of the sink, and force on a smile as I use a sleeve to wipe off the screen. “I’m okay.”

Clearly this is not convincing because Logan takes two swift steps into the kitchen. “What’s going on?”

I grip the counter to keep from flagging. This is not a proportional response. “It’s just Liv. She’s been texting me a bunch. Calling. I blocked her number and I deleted all my social media accounts because she kept messaging me from new ones. But I guess she used someone else’s phone and…” I shake my head. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll just delete it.”

Logan’s expression darkens, as if a fast-moving storm cloud has rolled over it. “Why would she do that?”

I lift a shoulder, unsure of how best to explain Liv.

I’ve never been quick to warm up to new people. In college, my closest friends were the ones I’d had the longest—my roommate from freshman year and the one girl I knew from high school, even though we’d barely been more than acquaintances before. It took me years to go through the stages of friendship that most people breezed past in a few months.

Liv steamrolled over all of those stages in an afternoon.

The day we met there was a power outage at my office, and I was sending emails at a coffee shop. She asked to borrow the chair across from me. We started talking and that was it. In the weeks after, she began showing up at my apartment in the evenings, carting plastic bags stacked with squeaking takeout boxes. She’d plop herself down on my secondhand couch, flick on the TV, and start prying open lids. On the weekends, she’d schedule appointments for wine tasting or manicures without asking if I was free. My clothes showed up in her closet. She started introducing herself as my best friend.

“This is just how she is,” I manage.

Logan’s jaw tightens, something oddly protective in his expression. “That doesn’t make it okay.”

The teakettle whistles. Unsure whether I’m grateful or not, I turn away.

Back in the dining room, the vintage table is now blanketed in leather-bound journals, each flipped open to a seemingly random page of garbled handwriting. Val is hunched over one, biting at her cuticle.

I peer over her shoulder.

April 12, 2011

07:10—Weather’s in a mood and the trees seem to agree. Branches tossed, mulch everywhere. Val showed up with her coat zipped to her chin. Said it felt like the wind had teeth.

10:45—Aphids in the Rummel block again (of course). Not spreading.

13:20—No sign of mildew or rot. Bark looks good. Buds opening like they’ve decided.

18:05—Spotted a beetle near the old gate. Bright green, faint glow along the back. Unusual. Will check again tomorrow.

Visitors—Val, of course. And Bobbie stopped by for tea.

“The beetle was glowing?” I ask.

Val startles, one hand flying to her throat. “Jesus, Ali,” she mutters, then twists to side-eye me. “I won’t be able to pick fruit if you’ve put me six feet under.”