Page 28 of Apple of My Eye
–Open up my own regenerative farming consultancy
*Topic by Nick Russo
One of my teeth drops into my palm. It’s not bloody, instead it’s as white as snow, the roots perfectly molded, like it got plucked from a pair of dentures. But despite its pretty appearance, it makes me panic. I feel with my tongue for the hole in my mouth where it used to be, and in doing so I pop out another tooth.
I’m in my bedroom but it feels vaguely unfamiliar. I realize why as I’m looking for the tooth that fell out of my mouth. The rug I had all throughout middle school is on the floor. It’s a purple shag rug and my tooth has been lost to its tentacle-like depths. What am I going to do if I can’t find my tooth?
‘Lou!’ I hear someone say.
I open my mouth to ask them for help, but no sound comes out.
‘Lou!’ they say again.
I have the moment where I realize I’m dreaming, I can feel myself detaching from my childhood bedroom, and I run towards whatever edge of my brain is pulling away. I don’t want to be in this dream anymore. I want my teeth.
‘LOU!’ Mom yells louder. ‘Wake up! You have a visitor!’
Damnit.
I pull my hair into a messy bun and throw on a T-shirt and jeans as fast as I can, patting color into my cheeks as I brush my teeth. It’s 7.30 on a Sunday. Whoever is here, I’m going to kill them.
Weekends are an odd beast when you live on a farm. There’s always more than enough work to go around, and the operating hours other businesses live by don’t apply. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why farmers stay religious. If they didn’t have a mandated day of rest, they would never take a break. We stopped going to church when I was six because Linden lost control of his bladder and peed during the sermon and Mom never had enough courage to return. Linden blames it on the Red Bull-chugging competition his friends made him do beforehand. Story goes that every single one of those boys was hopping from one foot to the other for the entire sixty minutes. Only after it was over did the other boys notice Linden had stopped hopping.
He still blushes when that story comes up. I don’t remember it; I was too young. But I do remember that we used to get donuts after church as our treat for dressing up and sitting still. There’s a bakery about twenty minutes away, a mom-and-pop shop that’s been open as long as my parents can remember. They make thebestapple fritters come apple season, and every other month of the year they sell out of their sticky cinnamon buns before noon. I make a mental note to drive out there and pick up some goodies soon. I always love seeing the baker, Mr. Bernard. He tells a different joke every time I’m there and never fails to make me laugh.
But seeing as Sundays are the holy grail of rest, I have no idea who is here to wake me up before eight in the morning. It could be Lily’s mom, she usually stops by when she knows I’m home (she has no social awareness, something Lily endlessly makes fun of her for), and we catch up and send a selfie to Lily.
I scamper down the stairs praying someone has made coffee. Sunlight streams into the windows. The kitchen smells faintly like pumpkin, and I wonder if Mom has started making muffins. My mouth waters. Reflexively, I poke my tongue around to make sure I have all my teeth.
‘He’s on the front porch,’ she says with a knowing smile, inclining her head to our wide front door.
‘He?’ I ask, as I turn and squint out the window.
Nick is sitting on the front step staring out onto the horizon, a to-go coffee cup at his side.
I turn back to Mom. ‘What is he doing here? Did you invite him?’ I expect to find her smirking, but she only shrugs.
‘Beats me.’
‘Morning,’ I say softly, as I ease myself out onto the front porch. I immediately wish I had a sweatshirt. There’s a bite of chill in the air signifying fall is only weeks away.
‘Morning.’ Nick smiles at me and hands me the coffee cup that was sitting next to him. He looks so at ease on my front porch that my breath catches in my chest.
‘Lavender latte,’ Nick tells me.
‘You remembered!’ I exclaim.
Nick laughs. ‘I don’t know whether to be insulted or pleased that you’re so happy I remember something you told me twelve hours ago.’
I roll my eyes at him and take a sip. Warmth blooms in my insides despite goosebumps freckling my arms. ‘Wow, that’s good. I had terrible dreams last night.’ I set the coffee down beside me. ‘I needed this.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Nick says, the touch of tenderness in his voice so earnest I feel my insides turn to goo. ‘What about?’
‘Nothing glamorous,’ I demur, not wanting to paint a picture of myself as toothless. Not exactly the sexy vibe I’m going for. Not that I’ve been able to make Nick see me as anything but a sweaty farmhand. Plus, it’s definitely an anxiety dream, and one I’ll most likely have again as I wait for the verdict on the loan. The way this summer plays out will determine my whole life. And it’s becoming a bigger and bigger thing to keep from Nick as we spend more time together.
‘I usually don’t sleep well either,’ he confesses.
‘But?’
