Page 59 of Cherry Picked
“What?” Drew exclaimed. “Hawk, honey, that might be a little too—”
“Don’t worry,” I soothed. “I’ll tell him I have my uncles’ blessings for him to consummate our relationship. I’m sure he’ll be very moved.” I patted Drew on the shoulder and gave Marco a wink before putting my plate in the sink and heading for the back door. “And I won’t say a word to anyone about your genital shrinkage, Uncle Drew.”
I left them both staring at my back, slack-jawed.
Nosy, meddling fuckers.
I couldn’t possibly love them more.
* * *
If I’d been looking forward to flirting with Jack at work, it was only because I’d forgotten just how slammed the restaurant was this time of year. From the minute I arrived until the moment I left again a few hours later, I was run off my feet. How Jack had even been able to take time off the day before to come see me on the mountain was beyond comprehension.
There were a few times during the rush when I caught Jack’s smile turned in my direction, and those moments were enough to make my heart bang against my chest like a prisoner whacking his tin cup against the cell bars, demanding to be let free. To say I was excited for tonight was to understate the truthmassively.
But first, we had to get through the Pye Day festivities.
Crys looped her arm through mine as we walked to the green in the middle of town. “You know most people celebrate Pi Day in March, right? Like, 3-14, the first few numbers of pi?”
“Uh-huh. But most people aren’t from the Hollow. And around here, Pye Day isn’t about celebrating the number or the dessert food. It’s about celebrating the bush.”
Her eyes flared wide. “Celebrating the… pardon?”
“The bush. The Joe-Pye weed bush that saved Celeste Dupont from falling into a well in 1909? It’s a whole thing.”
Crys was silent for a long moment, processing this. Eventually, she admitted, “I’ve never heard of that bush before, and I’ve sure as fuck never heard of Celeste Dupont, and yet somehow, this seems entirely appropriate. Why is that, Hawkins? Make it make sense.”
“Because we have our own brand of logic here in the Hollow, and you’re one of us now.” I patted her shoulder comfortingly. “Don’t worry. Real-world logic is overrated, and you’ll hardly miss it.”
Crys whimpered.
“Anyway, the bush no longer exists, nor does the well, and no one really remembers the details of the story. Now it’s more like the obscure reason behind one of the town’s most beloved potluck events. It’s a chance to one-up your neighbor by bringing the latest TikTok-trendy dish. Think cinnamon rolls in multiple ‘original’ variations, nacho tables, and so many feta pasta incarnations you’ll be able to pinpoint the day you became lactose intolerant. Before this day is done, you will be forced to decide whether you are a hopelessly conventional charcuterie board purist or one of those free-thinking butter-board revolutionaries, like O’Henry Brush, who’s destroying America. And I haven’t even mentioned the kombucha that comes out of the woodwork for this thing. Do not consume anything made by the Derwent family, and that includes their cousin Delaney Powers, unless you’re ready to embark on the Hollow’s version of an ayahuasca retreat.”
“What are we bringing?”
I shook my head. “We don’t bring anything because Drew makes enough plum ginger tarts to sink a ship, and this year, Knox is bringing barbecue corn ribs. Gage showed him one TikTok video, and the man fell down a rabbit hole.”
“I didn’t even know cornshadribs,” she muttered.
“Did you say corn ribs?” Samir Moreland boomed from behind us. “Hell yeah! I love a corn rib.”
I turned and smiled. “Knox has been perfecting his sauce for so long that Gage’s body composition is more chili oil than water at this point. Definitely stop by his table before they’re all gone.” I didn’t mention Knox probably had so many corn ribs I was fairly sure we’d be eating the leftovers until we died.
“What’s Jack bringing?” Crys asked.
“Nothing. The potluck is for amateurs, not professionals. But his mom always brings a metric ton of flavor-infused lemonades she makes at home. The rosemary and mint one will change your life.”
We approached the crowd of locals as everyone shuffled around to find the best spots for their offerings. Over the years, an unspoken hierarchy had instituted itself, and the most popular offerings were at the prime table locations to allow for easier traffic.
“Tourists are welcome to come, and lots of ’em bring their own stuff to share, but the organizing committee had to institute rules to keep out promotional displays and for-profit stuff,” I explained. “One year, Big Johnson Brats came through in their Brat-Mobile and threw wieners at everyone. Naked buns and sausages all over the place. Norma Hart got so excited she had to be hospitalized.”
Crys covered her mouth with her hand in horror.
“Exactly,” I agreed. “The jokes write themselves.Oooh! You need to try Swathi Romano’s Christmas in July gingerbread snowflake cookies. They’re a fan favorite.”
As we meandered through the maze of tables, picking up things to try here and there, my eyes scanned the crowd for Jack’s tall form.
“Looking for someone?” Crys asked archly.
