Page 29 of Apple of My Eye
‘I’ve been sleeping better since I got out here. It’s the air, I think .?.?.’
‘Maybe it’s the hard work too,’ I suggest, knowing from experience how much better I sleep when I’m bone-tired after a day in the field than the days I’ve spent sitting behind a desk. I excuse myself to grab a blanket, stealing one off the couch and wrapping it around my shoulders before coming back outside.
‘Much better,’ Nick says, registering my outfit addition with approval. ‘It’s cold out here in the mornings now.’
‘Now?’ I tease. ‘You’ve only been here, like, two weeks!’
‘Almost three,’ he reminds me.
I can’t believe Nick’s only been here three weeks. His presence has started to feel sonormalthat I hardly register it anymore, the last thing I thought would happen after our disastrous first meeting. At first I was so annoyed by him, didn’t understand how he had any right to be here. But his curiosity, the way he works all day without asking for a break, how every morning he’shappy—its growing on me.Andhe’s handsome. I was doomed from the start, a fact that definitely hasn’t escaped Mom, who thinks it’s hilarious that Mrs. Parker’s secret weapon is spending more time with me than he is doing anything useful. She’s even started to make comments about how I must be sabotaging him somehow.
Every day Nick and I have done slow laps around the farm as we work. While we navigate the dusty tracks of roads that are littered with potholes, Nick asks about everything that has to do with regenerative agriculture, he even tries to follow the really science-y stuff, but he asks about trivial stuff too, like how often I get stung by bees (roughly once a year) and what my favorite thing is to make with apples (pie). He asks Mom about recipes for apple cider. He asks Dad how often he needs to repair the tractors. We pop our heads into Central and West Barns.
He usually leaves when I head in for lunch. I’m not sure what he’s doing in the afternoon, working on his marketing plan, I guess. I haven’t told him how crazy I think his TikTok idea is. Social media won’t repair the Parkers’ soil, but at the end of the day, that’s what I want—the Parkers’ farm needs to fail. But Nick seems so eager and earnest I can’t bear to tell him how much I think his plan sucks. Plus, if I did that then he wouldn’t be sharing useful tidbits with me like how to use hashtags and what times to post. Instead, I talk him through what apple blossoms smell like and what it feels like when the bees arrive to pollenate the trees.
He clears his throat, bringing me back to the present moment—the two of us on the front porch, the swallows waking up the rolling hills with their cheerful songs.
‘Did I wake you?’ he asks, breaking the silence. ‘Everyone who lives here is up so early all the time. I feel like I’m always the last one awake.’
‘No.’ The lie rolls off my tongue. I register the new impulse—the need for me to protect Nick’s feelings—with mild surprise. ‘We’re always awake. We’re farmers.’ A bird chirps happily in the distance.
‘That’s what Betsy said!’ he exclaims happily. ‘Anyway, I was hoping we could talk about the start of the season again. I’m just trying to conceptualize the story from the beginning.’
‘Hmm,’ I say. I know I shouldn’t help him at all, especially when the last thing I want is for him to succeed. But I can’t help myself when it comes to him. I can see him grinning in my peripheral vision. He has a great smile. At least that’s what Mom keeps saying. I haven’t figured out if she keeps bringing him up to distract me from wanting to talk about the potential sale of the farm or what, but either way I replace every nice thing she says about him in my head withNick is moving back to San FranciscoorNick is helping the PARKERS,just so I don’t lose my focus over something so fleeting.
I keep my gaze focused on the driveway, letting my eyes dance over the curve of the road. ‘March is when trees are planted.’
Nick starts to scribble in his notepad.
‘But technically we start prepping before March .?.?.’
Nick strikes through what he just wrote down.
‘Let’s call it November.’
‘November it is.’ Nick grins.
I have a crick in my neck by the time I stand up. It’s past ten in the morning, and Nick and I have been talking for hours.
He glances at his notepad, which is full of scribbled notes.
‘So next week,’ he confirms with me one more time, ‘the farms will be in full swing?’
‘Yep,’ I sigh, ‘our seasonal workers are about to arrive, and that’s when things get really crazy.’
‘Thanks, Eloise.’ Nick wipes his palms across the front of his jeans. ‘This was really helpful.’
‘Hey, the coffee was thanks enough,’ I tell him.
There’s a tiny piece of dust caught on one of his impossibly long lashes and my gaze lingers on it. Seconds pass before we both realize, at the same time, that we’ve just been staring at each other. I wonder if there’s dust on my eyelashes too.
‘Well.’ Nick glances towards the driveway. ‘I better get going.’
My heart tugs. Sunday suddenly stretches ahead of me—empty. I don’t want him to go. ‘Actually,’ I say, before I lose my nerve, ‘I was just about to head to let JJ out. Do you want to come?’
‘You mean I get to meet Joe Jonas?’ Nick asks, incredulous.
I swat his arm. ‘We do not use his full name. JJ only .?.?. You also don’t have to come if you have—’ I gesture at his notepad ‘—you know, like, things to do.’
