Here With Me

I pat his shoulder and walk over to where I’ll have a sliver of privacy. Opening my messages, I text quickly, Sorry I’ve been slammed this week. Maybe we can catch up this weekend.

My thumb hovers over the red dot, hesitating before I hit send. If I do this, I’m going down a road I’ve avoided many times… Still, something deep in me drives my thumb forward. Maybe it’s that selfie I took. Maybe it’s looking into Mindy’s eyes in that photograph, so vulnerable. She looks at me like she loves me.

With a quick tap, I send it.

“Let’s go.” Taron slaps me on the shoulder, and I shove my phone in my back pocket.

It’s time to bust our asses all day.

We call it a day at two, and I’m back at the house, heading to the shed to finish sorting what we’ve just brought in from the fields. Sometime across the morning I felt my phone buzz in my pocket, but I didn’t have a chance to stop and look at it.

Now, standing behind my sister at the table, I take a quick peek. Ma’s heading to Hammond to pick up new bees on Friday. Maybe I can cook dinner for you?

Scratching my forehead with my thumb, I think about spending Friday night alone with Mindy. It sounds pretty fucking perfect… If I can get away from this house without facing the Spanish Inquisition.

Plan on it. I’ll figure out how to get away.

“Am I having a heat stroke?” Noel’s voice causes me to put my phone away fast.

I turn, ready to examine her pupils for dilation, her cheeks for pallor. I don’t see any of it. “Are you feeling light headed?”

Her brown eyes narrow. “Were you sending a text? My brother Sawyer who hates cell phones?”

My stomach tightens. “You going to make us some lunch or what?”

Dove turns around on her chair. She’s wearing denim overalls, and Noel tied a red scarf around her head. She looks like a mini Rosie the Riveter.

“I sorted two whole baskets today!” She’s practically shouting.

“That’s my girl.” I swing her up into the air, and she squeals with laughter, grabbing my neck. “Run help your mamma make us some lunch.”

I put her on her feet, and she hops over to grab Noel’s hand. My sister is still giving me the stink-eye. “You can’t distract me with my own child. You’re up to something, Sawyer LaGrange.”

“I’m about to starve to death. I bet Leon is, too. And you probably want to be inside in the A/C.”

She’s about to make another snarky remark when Dove pulls her hand towards the house. “I’ve got my eye on you.” She does her two fingers at her eyes and at mine.

I turn to the table shaking my head. Still, Noel keeping her eyes on me only makes everything more complicated.

Sliding my fingers over the fuzzy, rose-gold fruits, I turn them, looking for splits, feeling for ripeness. The battered ones go in the baskets for us to turn into fudge or ice cream—or for my sister to turn into cosmetics. The whole, ripe, and near-ripe ones go into the crates for shipping to the distribution center.

I’m always surprised we don’t have more bruised peaches. Jay’s people are good at their jobs, but with how fast we move, it’s impressive we don’t damage more.

Sorting is mindless work, which allows me to think about Mindy’s invitation. Alone on a Friday night is kind of the perfect opportunity. Mindy and I need to talk. Talking is not my strong suit, and I’m going to be dead tired by Friday night.

It’s another in my long line of excuses for shoving these feelings down and burying them. If I tell Mindy everything, lay all my cards on the table, she’ll say what I’ve said to myself so many times.

She’ll say it’s not true. I don’t have PTSD. I don’t have scars you can’t see… I don’t believe it either.

Until Taron calls me out for losing my shit because she’s stuck in a field with a flat tire. Another soft, amber fruit touches my fingers, and I turn it over, then the next, checking the fragile produce, sorting them into baskets or crates.

My chest is tight when I remember that day. I almost had a panic attack thinking she might be hurt or worse… But that’s normal. Everyone worries about their friends and loved ones, and I stopped my spiraling thoughts. I controlled it. I’m okay.

The final yellow-pink fruit races toward my hand, and I pick it up. It looks perfect, smooth skin, plump and round. I turn it over, and wince when I see a big, ugly gash hidden on the other side. I drop it in the basket feeling like it’s a bad omen.

Which is something my sister would think. Ridiculous.

I don’t have any hidden gashes. I just nee