Page 7 of Her Maine Squeeze

Is it because his thirtieth birthday was in July and mine is next week? Is it because of the pact? I want to ask, but I can’t bring myself to say the words. Even if he is here because of the pact, I can’t actuallymarryhim. I haven’t seen him in years. I hardly know him. I’dthoughtI knew him a long time ago, but that day I walked in on him in his dorm room proved otherwise. So, why am I still hung up on that stupid pact we made on the trampoline? Why haven’t I been able to forget it all these years?

We find a spot along the waterfront and Oz spreads out the blanket. Twinkling black and white Halloween lights are strewn around the trees. I sit next to him on the blanket and start unloading the basket.

“What kind of pickles do you like? Classic dill? Sweet bread and butter? Spicy?”

“I’ve heard your pickles are legendary,” he says, smiling. “I think I’d better try them all.”

I nod. “Good choice. Let’s save the spicy ones for last. I don’t want to taint your tastebuds.”

I’d secretly hoped he’d want to taste them all, so I brought along plastic sample cups. I put a few pickle chips into each cup.

He chuckles. “I’ve had beer flights… but I’ve never had a pickle flight.”

“You’re in for a treat,” I promise. Pointing to each container in turn, I tell him what I’ve brought. “Sweet bread and butter, garlic dill, dill-jalapeno, and dill-habanero.”

I watch eagerly as he tries each one. His eyelids flutter closed, and a smile dances on his lips. “These are amazing, Lindy. I love all of them. I think the dill-jalapeno are my favorite. The habanero is a bit too spicy for me, but I bet they’d be amazing on a sandwich.”

“Speaking of sandwiches, would you prefer ham and cheddar or turkey and gouda?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Did you only bring one of both?”

I laugh. “Yes, but I cut them in half. So, we can each have both.”

“Perfect,” he says.

We chat over lunch, and I tell him the sandwich shop is growing too big for me to keep it going in its current form. I’m not sure why I tell him. I haven’t even talked to my brother about it yet. But Oz has always been a good listener and telling him about it makes me feel better.

“I think you already know what you need to do,” he says.

“Name the business, hire staff, increase production…” I tick items off on my fingers, one by one.

Oz grins. “See? I told you. You already know what to do.”

When we finish eating, we lie down on the blanket next to each other. It feels just like the old days and the time we spent side-by-side on the trampoline. We’re quiet for a long time, just watching the clouds drift overhead.

“Lindy?”

“Yeah, Oz?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

I swallow around a rising lump in my throat. This istoomuch like that long-ago conversation on the trampoline. “Sure.”

“How many pickles do you have to squeeze to get a jar of pickle juice?”

I roll over and stare at him, perplexed. “What?”

“For pickle juice,” he says. “How many pickles do you have to squeeze—”

“Are you serious? That’s not how pickle juice is made. That’s—” His lips are twitching at the corners and there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes. I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re teasing me.”

He bursts into laughter.

Laughing, I punch him in the arm. “Jerk.”

His face grows sober at the word. “Speaking of which, I owe you an apology.”

The laughter dies on my lips. “An apology? For what?”

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