Page 19 of Apple of My Eye
‘“Got apples” and “how do you like them apples” are completely different,’ I say, but I feel the blush creeping up my cheeks all the same. I am wearing a shirt that reads ‘Got Apples’ in a clear riff on the ‘Got Milk’ slogan.
‘What were you doing when he asked you?’
‘Shopping for apples!’ I throw my hands up, exasperated. ‘Like you asked me to!’
‘Figures.’ Mom guffaws and the sound tinkles throughout the kitchen. ‘Or maybe he was quoting that movie .?.?. HAL?’ She yells towards the office, where Dad’s footsteps had receded. ‘WHAT’S THAT MOVIE WITH THE BOSTON KIDS?’
Dad mumble-yells something back that I can’t decipher.
‘That’s it!’ Mom says happily. ‘Good Will Hunting. That’s the movie. I’m pretty sure it’s a line from that.’
I roll my eyes. ‘I think I know a line when I hear one.’
‘Eloise, you know a lot about a lot of things, but you are hopeless when it comes to romance.’
‘Whatever. It’s not like I’m going to see him again.’ I head towards the stairs. ‘I’m going to shower,’ I call over my shoulder, at the same times she asks me, ‘What makes you say that?’
I freeze. ‘Mom .?.?. what did you do?’
She laughs again, chortling this time. ‘You better shower fast!’ she calls. ‘They’ll be here in twenty!’
My hair is dripping, actually more like creating its own weather system, as I make my way downstairs. I wasn’t able to blast it with a blow-dryer for more than two minutes before I heard a knock on the door. I catch a faint exchange of hellos, and I clock Dad’s introductory grunt. I hurry to pull on jeans and a white T-shirt before I scamper down the stairs, rounding the corner too fast and crashing straight into a man who smells like cinnamon gum and laundry detergent, whose chest is a lot more solid than I was expecting, and who is taller than I thought, seeing as my forehead meets his body a solid two inches below his chin.
‘Oof!’ he exclaims, stepping back and rubbing his sternum.
Thankfully everyone else has headed down the hallway to the kitchen, so no one has witnessed me bulldozing the visitor.
‘I’m so sorry.’ I can feel the blush rising in my cheeks.
‘You must be Eloise,’ he says.
He’s just as cute, —no, cuter—than I remember him. He stands straight and confidently. Something about him makes my mouth feel dry.
I shake the feeling off and find my voice enough to say, ‘And you’re Nick.’
He looks at me curiously, like he’s trying to work out how the person who was so stand-offish in the store was somehow spawned by the sweet people who invited him over for dinner.
‘Did I offend you today?’ he asks me, but I don’t realize he’s about to speak until it’s too late. I’ve already started, so I end up asking, ‘So how long have you been in town?’ at the same time he talks.
‘No,’ I answer. Avoiding the situation is infinitely easier than admitting I could have misinterpreted what he said.
‘A few days.’ He nods towards the kitchen. ‘They’ve been great.’ He smiles.
‘I’m sure,’ I murmur, my thoughts racing through my head. He’s tall, strong, but I tell myself that by the looks of his slim-fit jeans and pressed button down, he’s nothing I can’t handle. Besides the fact that being in such close proximity to him makes my knees feel like they’re turning into jelly.
‘Does Nick need a drink?’ Mom calls loudly from the kitchen, not so subtly telling me to stop lingering in the hallway.
‘Come on.’ I wave him after me, wondering under my breath what the hell I’m doing cavorting with Mrs. Parker’s ‘secret weapon’ and how I can extricate myself from this situation as soon as possible.
Chapter Ten
Nick
Cal and Hazel are like younger versions of Joe and Betsy. Instead of granola grandparents, they’re more like backwoods boomers .?.?. no, that’s not right. Maybe they’re more like barnyard boomers .?.?. but that doesn’t feel right either. I’m trying to stay focused on my task at hand, focused on mining anything I come across for socials, but the apple girl, who now I know is Eloise, is very distracting.
I squeeze through a narrow doorway, following her into the kitchen, and as the room opens up around me, I wonder if that’s something I can do a bit on—the ‘character’ of all the houses around here. The doorways of their farmhouse are arched, the furniture is wooden and cozy, and there’s richly colored paintings dotting the walls. I walk past a multicolored cow and a still life of apples.
We pop out of the hallway into a large living and dining room, and I’m instantly hit with a familiar smell.Mmmmm,I think. Betsy’s cooking is good, but it isn’tthisgood. Cal or Hazel, whoever cooked, is on my mother’s level.
