Page 91 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

A ping from the windowsill hijacks our attention. I flop over, groping for my phone that’s plugged into one of Mason’s spare chargers.

It’s Val. Progress?

She must be desperate enough for news to set aside her skepticism. I tell her: I’m not sure yet. How are things looking on the farm?

I watch as the message goes from unread to read. Then her dots bounce. Everything is the same here.

My grip tightens on the scuffed case before I sigh. Click off the phone.

Logan smooths a hand up and down my bare arm.

“Only one lead left,” he says. When my frown deepens, he purses his lips. “Maybe I want to talk to her.”

“You literally just said you were feeling torn.”

“Right, but if it helps you…”

I shake my head firmly. I had a feeling Logan would do something like this—try to set aside his own needs for mine. “Absolutely not. You’re not going to talk to your estranged mother for the first time in more than a decade because of my pears. If you decide to talk to her, that’s one thing, but it will be because of what you want, not what I need.”

Logan uses a fist to push higher in his seat, gaining altitude on me. “Look, Ali—”

“No, you look,” I say, meeting his chest with my hand.

It’s true I would like to talk to Lydia. I want to know how the curse works, how it forces people to leave. I want to know if it has any loopholes. I want to know if we can break it. And a twisted part of me wants to know exactly what happened between her and my uncle—and how much it mirrored what Blake and Liv did to me.

Despite all that, this has to be Logan’s decision. My brief conversation with Mason about us only solidified that.

“You spent your whole life subjected to choices and life changes because of what other people needed or thought they wanted,” I tell him. “Your mom. Your dad. Even your brothers. Trust me, I know what that looks like when I see it. My entire childhood revolved around the whims of my mom’s vague vexations. But I got agency over my life after I left her. You still haven’t.”

My hand flexes on his sternum. “I think it’s important that this one is your decision. Not what I need. What you do.”

A long silence descends as Logan’s gaze tracks over my face, looking a bit like he’s memorizing the exact angle of my jaw, the contours of my cheeks. “What?” I ask. He swallows, then clears his throat. “I’m just not used to hearing that.”

My chest warms in a confusing mix of pride and sadness. “Well, frankly, you deserve nothing less.”

Logan draws me closer, nestling me into his arms, his lips on my hair. I settle into the warmth of his embrace, his comforting smell, relishing it even as I wonder how many times I’ll get to enjoy this feeling.

A loud knock startles us both.

“T-minus five minutes, you little shits!” Mason yells from the hall.

Logan groans and throws a pillow at the closed door.

“No violence before noon!” Mason protests.

“Since when,” Logan mutters.

“Five minutes until what?” I yell back.

“Breakfast burritos,” Mason says, like this should be obvious. He could be remembering some conversation that I’m not, but only one of us drank more than half a beer last night, and it wasn’t me or Logan.

“Sorry?” I call.

Mason beats against the door like he’s open-palm drumming. “I have an exam in three hours and I need the brain food. Plus, they’re delicious. Can’t miss. But we have to get there while the beans are freshest.”

Logan groans again. “He’s not stopping until we cede to his demands.”

“Terrorist,” I mutter as I hoist myself onto the ladder.