Page 94 of Touch the Sky
“No, no, I’m not upset,” I tell her. “This is great. You picked a good spot. I just, uh, think I could really use one of those ciders.”
I nod over at the nearest group of drinkers.
“Of course,” she says, still looking doubtful. “I will get them. You find us a table.”
I head straight for the barrel farthest from all of the occupied tables and settle myself on one of the stools. I can smell the smoke from the chimney in the air. My thoughts drift back to Thanksgiving night and the way Jacinthe’s dark eyes looked catching the flicker of the bonfire.
That must be when this all started, but the more tangled the threads between us become, the more I’m starting to wonder if maybe I was already long past the point of no return.
If I’d known what was coming for me from the start, maybe I could have stopped it. Maybe I could have put my walls up and blocked her out, but how was I supposed to know the woman covered in horse shit and running screaming after a donkey was going to end up being the best kisser I’ve ever met?
By the time Jacinthe marches over with our pints balanced in her hands, I’m still sifting through the past couple months, searching for the moment when I could have turned back.
She sets the drinks down on top of the barrel before hopping up into her stool. She’s short enough that it’s a bit of a leap, and her struggle to wiggle into the seat is so adorable it steals my breath for a second.
“These look great,” I tell her once I can speak. “Thanks.”
“It’s the Tremblay special,” she says, taking hold of her glass. “They make it themselves, from the apples here. It’s not on the menu because, you know, laws and stuff, but I know them well enough to score.”
She winks again, and I wonder if I’m going to have to ask her to stop doing that.
There’s no way to think straight when she’s winking at me, and we’re supposed to be here to talk things out like calm and rational adults.
I take a sip and immediately pull the glass away from my mouth to squint at the golden liquid.
“Damn!” I say. “That’s good. They really make this?”
Jacinthe gives me a satisfied smirk. “One of the best ciders in the province. You are lucky.”
The smirking is as dangerous as the winking. Despite being spectacular enough to warrant savoring, I begin gulping thecider down like it’s water, just to give myself something to do besides gawk at Jacinthe.
“We should talk,” I say, a little breathless when I finally slam the half-empty glass down.
Jacinthe gives the pint a wide-eyed look.
“We should,” she agrees.
I open and close my mouth a few times. The cider can’t bethatpowerful, but I already feel like I’m losing my motor skills.
Maybe that’s just because I haven’t let myself be this close to her since Saturday, at the barn. Even when doing chores together, I’ve kept us several meters apart. I couldn’t risk a repeat encounter with her knee until we’d had a chance to talk, but now the talking is feeling a lot less necessary than dragging her down to the pumpkin patch and giving her a taste of what she gave me.
I tighten my grip on my glass and order myself to calm the hell down, but before I get the chance, a trill of laughter steals my attention.
I look over my shoulder and see two women are coming up the path that must lead to the pumpkin picking area. Their arms are laden with a few small and squashed-looking pumpkins, and they keep giggling and bumping into each other’s shoulders like they’re on a first date.
My heart warms at the sight of queer love in the wild and then immediately freezes over when I realize I recognize them.
“Esti de chriss de tabarnak,” Jacinthe hisses, followed by a second string of curse words too quick for me to catch.
“I thought you said there’s no way anyone from La Cloche would be here?” I demand.
Jacinthe groans. “I said no one from La Cloche would be stupid enough to be here, but maybe my best friend is an idiot.”
We don’t move from our seats, and for a moment, I think we’re going to get lucky enough to escape Natalie and Brooke’s notice.
Natalie’s fluffy mane of brown hair is as voluminous as ever. She’s wearing the typical La Cloche lesbian uniform of boots, blue jeans, and a flannel sticking out under her jacket. Brooke is her usual sophisticated self in a pair of sleek black leggings and a pea coat.
“Stay very still,” Jacinthe mutters, her lips barely moving. “Ah, shit. They’re getting a drink.”
