“How about next week? Same time, same place?” Logan asked, and I nodded in agreement.
“Blackberries just came in, and by next week we’ll have raspberries too,” Leo said.
Mmm. I did love raspberry jam.
“Do you know how to make apple butter?” Chad asked as he cleaned up his station. “My nana used to make it every October, and I ate half a loaf of bread every day after school just for that apple butter. Can we make that?”
“No can do—sorry.”
“Why in the world not?” Then his eyes lit up with a wicked gleam. “What if I put on my old letterman jacket?”
Logan’s head popped around the fridge. “Let him wear the jacket, Rox. It’s hot as hell.”
“Oh, I remember. But apple butter making is in the fall.”
“So?” Chad asked, and Logan gave me an inquiring look.
“I won’t be here in the fall,” I said quietly, feeling Leo’s stare on the back of my head. It’s funny how a gaze can be physically felt from across the room. “I’m leaving once my mom gets back from her Amazing Race, remember?”
A silence fell on the kitchen, all the good humor of the evening seeming to fall away.
“Besides, the Jam Lady is going to kill me as it is, teaching you guys how to make jam. I can’t take away her apple butter clients too—she’d never let me hear the end of it.”
“You won’t be here to hear her. That’s kind of the end of it,” Logan muttered.
I rolled my eyes. “Okay, zombies, class is over. Next time jam, same time, same place,” I said, forcing my voice to stay light and bright.
Chad nodded, pulling me against him in a quick hug. “Tonight was fun—thanks for the pickles.” He dropped a quick kiss on my forehead before ushering Logan and their jars out the door.
Leaving me with Leo, who dropped his gaze when I turned around. “I’ll get a broom, help you get this place cleaned up,” he said, moving toward the utility closet.
There was nothing I could say to ease the sudden tension, because I was leaving. This . . . thing . . . was just for the summer. So he got the broom and I wiped the counters, and within a few minutes we began to chat about what other fruits might be ready soon for jam. Light and bright.
Light and bright means no expectations. No demands on time, no hard feelings, and certainly no tears. Which is why when he left with just a quick kiss on my forehead, I didn’t feel a suspicious prickle inside my eyelids, or notice that my chin wobbled at all.
I locked up, drove home, and didn’t sleep. Because officially, it was just a fling. And a fling made no demands on where he spent his nights.
Light and bright.
Chapter 15
I couldn’t believe the Fourth of July was almost here. It seemed like I’d barely arrived, but the bunting going up around town said the summer was half gone.
I swear to God this town kept the bunting business in business more than any other small town in the country. If it was a holiday, you can bet your sweet apple pie that Bailey Falls was dragging out the red, white, and blue and lashing it to anything that would stand still. Quaint. Homey. Pretty great, actually.
Finished at the diner for the day, I drove my big old American car down the middle of good old American Main Street, and thought about fucking my good old American farmer while holding two sparklers. Now that’s how I’d like to celebrate our country’s founding.
I pondered this while waving to familiar faces along the main drag. People I used to know and had come to know again, new people I’d met since coming home. With some I knew names; mostly I knew orders. Hey look, Scrambled with Rye Toast is coming out of the hardware store with cable ties. Wonder if he’s planning on using those on Miss Steel-Cut Oats with Nonfat Milk and Hold the Raisins. I just bet she liked her raisins held . . .
The thermometer on the bank said it was near ninety degrees, and I was glad of the breeze coming through my window. Turning on the radio, I head the strains of “Mysterious Ways” and snickered at the thought that Achtung Baby was being played on an oldies station. My mother would flip out if she knew that. Where was she right now? Brazil? Italy? Minnesota? Wherever she was, I hope she was enjoying herself.
As I drove home I saw a few teenage girls walking into the woods behind the high school, carrying towels and a beach ball. And I suddenly knew exactly where I wanted to spend my afternoon. And whom I wanted to spend it with.
I sped back to the house, stopping only to send a text to Leo.
Can you play hooky today?
He texted back right away, and I snorted out loud.
Will you be naked? I can only consider naked hooky requests.
It’s very possible. Come on, come and play with me.
Isn’t that a line from The Shining?
You should take me pretty seriously then, right? Also, don’t pay attention to that ax behind my back.
You’re lucky I like dangerous women. When?
Now. Drop your hoe and grab your swim trunks. I’ll be there in fifteen.
Swim trunks? Now I’m intrigued.
Intrigued enough to play hooky?
Make it twenty and bring snacks and you’ve got me.
Done.
Also naked. Remember the naked.
I’ll do my best.
I threw on a bikini, making sure to double knot the strings. Because, Leo. I grabbed a cooler, threw in ice, beer, the sandwiches I’d made at the diner that were originally going to be my dinner, and then grabbed my mom’s old CD boom box. It was big, square, covered in knobs and switches and dials, and exactly the kind of thing you want for playing hooky at the old swimming hole.