After we park, he grabs the picnic basket from the back before reaching for my hand.
We wander deep into the orchard, the mid-morning sun filtering through leaves that are starting to turn gold. When I look over at him, I capture the moment in my memory. I want to remember how he smiles at me and how our fingers brush together as we walk. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way about a man before.The thought should scare me, but when he looks at me like this, I’m like a moth to a flame. At least the end will be beautiful.
Row fifteen is completely secluded, surrounded by tall grass and wildflowers.
He lays out the checkered blanket and places the picnic basket on top to keep it from blowing away in the cool breeze.
We take our time picking apples, filling our wicker baskets while stealing glances and touches. The tension between us builds with every accidental brush of fingers, every moment our eyes meet.
“Have you ever done this before?” I ask as he lifts me up to reach one.
“Nope,” he admits. “It’s a first.”
I smile. “I like knowing there are still things reserved for us.”
He chuckles. “Oh, I’ve had many firsts with you, sweetheart.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Well, for starters, I’ve never ordered or drank a pumpkin spice latte until yours.”
I gasp. “No way.”
“Swear,” he says. “I don’t particularly care for bougie drinks. But if you make it, I’m drinking it.”
That shouldn’t mean that much to me, but it does.
“What else?”
“I’ve never done yoga in my life.”
This makes me giggle.
Once our baskets are full, we make our way back to the blanket in the shade between two overhanging trees. Sunlight reflects through the branches.
We settle beside one another, and Nick unpacks the lunch he brought. He made fancy sandwiches, and he also has several containers of cut strawberries and grapes, several different cheeses, and a bottle of apple cider from the orchard.
I snag a grape and pop it in my mouth as he hands me a clear plastic cup of cider.
The sweetness dances on my tongue.
“You thought of everything,” I say, watching him arrange the food between us.
“I wanted today to be perfect.” He pours himself some cider. “No interruptions, no onlookers, no cosmic interference. Just us.”
We eat, talking about everything and nothing. He tells me about morning practices on frozen rinks and about the adrenaline of playoff games, and I realize how much he misses playing. I tell him about early mornings at the coffee shop, about the comfort of routine, and my fear of being stuck in life.
“Can I tell you something?” he asks.
“Of course,” I say as we pick up the food, putting it away.
“When I saw you that night at Bookers, something in me recognized you. Like my soul was saying,Oh, there you are. I tried to ignore it, tried to forget when I left. But then January happened, and now …” He trails off.
My heart races.
“I’m not asking you to say anything back,” he says quickly. “We have weeks to figure this out. Our deadline still exists. I just need you to know this isn’t new. It seems like it’s happening fast, but I think it’s been a long time coming.”
I move closer to him. “I get that. I felt it too.”
