“A little early for peaches, isn’t it?”
“This one’s a pear tree. And I’m not looking for fruit.” She ducks, gazing up into the canopy. “You could definitely afford to cut off at least a third of the branches on this one. It’ll help it bear more fruit next year.”
“Your grandpa teach you that?” I ask.
She nods. This five-foot-nothing girl stands on her tiptoes to grasp a dead branch off a nearby tree. I can’t help noticing how exceptionally juicy her ass looks in her denim cutoffs. As it happens, I already know she tastes better than a sun-ripened peach.
Focus, Pope...
“How’d you end up living with him?” I grab hold of a branch, bringing it a few inches lower so she can pull more dead twigs off it. “You don’t have to talk about it if—”
“It’s okay,” she says. “My mom had what you might call an addictive personality. She could turn anything into a habit. Men, sex, shopping, dieting. You name it, she’d find a way to obsess over it.”
I scan her face for any markers of grief and come up empty.
“You said shehadan addictive personality. Is she still around?”
Kenzie shrugs. “Who knows.”
She breaks a branch over her thigh, leaving a bright red streak across her skin. Her nonchalance comes off as genuine. Still, I suspect it’s one of those situations where you can either cry, laugh, or break shit, and she’s chosen door number three.
“She got a job working as a drug tester in a state-run lab. Apparently, having access to cocaine and oxycontin on a daily basis proved too tempting. She got caught. Arrested. The judge gave her the option of going to prison or checking into rehab, and she chose rehab. My dad wasn’t in the picture, not that he ever was, so the only place for me to go was Gramps’ house.”
“How long were you there for?”
“Only a year.”
“Why’d you have to leave?”
Her mask slips. She wanders a few paces, her blonde hair fanning about her face as she stares down the row of fruit trees.
“Gramps suffered a stroke. I found him on the floor in the kitchen with blood dripping from his nose. He couldn’t take care of me after that.”
My chest clenches, wringing out a sigh. I can’t help picturing her as a sweet and curious ten-year-old, walking through her grandpa’s house and coming upon such a painful scene.
“So you went back to living with your mom,” I say.
She shakes her head. “Mom dipped out of rehab and never came back. Nobody could find her, so the state stepped in. But the saddest part is that no one told me Gramps had died until three weeks after it happened.”
I touch the back of her hand, then pause, giving her a chance to pull away if that’s what she needs to do. She weaves her fingers between mine, and I take the gentle squeeze she gives as an invitation to move closer.
“I’m so sorry, Kenz.” I cradle her cheek and tilt her head back so I can gaze into her eyes when I tell her, “I know it’s not your grandpa’s homestead, but I want you to think of this place as yours. If you want to clean out the garden and prune the fruit trees or whatever you feel like, you’re welcome to it.”
She leans into my palm.
“Thank you, Austin.”
“And don’t hesitate to ask for help,” I say. “I don’t want you falling out of a pear tree while I’m inside the house.”
She chortles, wetting her lips. “I’ll take the help. And, hey, if I do clean out the garden, maybe you can start canning your own produce. It’d be a lot tastier than that freeze-dried crap you keep in your dystopian survivalist bunker.”
I squint, confused. “In my what?”
“Those military ration kits you’ve got stacked in your basement. I saw them when you sent me downstairs for more pickles.”
My basement is my favorite room in the entire house. It’s where I keep my old Ranger gear, my firearm cabinets, any surveillance tech Mike throws my way. I could hole up down there for two years if I had to. But somehow I don’t think pointing that out is going to help my case.
“Don’t knock ‘em ‘til you’re stuck on the side of a mountain with nothing but your rib-shaped barbecue patty and a few packets of hardtack.”
She laughs, and it’s nice to hear her laugh again after telling such a heartbreaking story. “I still think I’d prefer canned peaches.”
I skim my fingers along her jaw. It’s darker out now than it was when we started our walk. I can’t quite make out all the details of her face, but my lips find her lips like magnets in a box.
“All right,” I say. “If you’re willing to teach me how to can peaches, I’ll help you take care of the trees.”
I hear the smile in her voice when she says, “Deal.”