Chapter 3

three

CANDACE

I stacked another box in the corner of the room and then batted away the plume of dust that erupted as the cardboard joined its brethren.

The small office located behind the counter in the Judd’s Orchard Apple House hadn’t been used with any sort of regularity since my grandfather was alive. My mom and dad were usually too busy to have a use for it, and anything requiring a computer was done up at the farmhouse.

When I’d broached the subject of cleaning out the space and using it for myself, my parents had been all for it. Just like with everything else I’d ever attempted, Nick and Amy Judd supported me wholeheartedly.

I’d done a cursory glance through the farm’s social media accounts and was surprised to see the orchard was pretty active on Twitter. Less so on the other channels, but the content was solid. The photographs that were posted of the farm were irregularly spaced and infrequent, but they were beautiful. The shots of apples on the trees and all the merchandise and refreshments available had blown me away. I couldn’t wait to implement a consistent marketing and advertising plan around the already stellar content.

In fact, I’d already been snapping photos around the farm to supplement. I liked getting shots of people in action. I’d caught my mom’s smiling face at the refreshment stand and my dad sorting and washing apples for the press. I’d even taken several pictures of Joan and Mercer at work, but I made sure to crop them or at least keep their faces hidden. Joan because I didn’t want to incur her wrath, and Mercer, well, I got the impression he was a pretty private guy.

So here I was, my first week in Kirby Falls, organizing old files, discontinued signage, and neglected storage items, getting this old office ready to be mine.

There was a battered wooden desk and a rolling chair, the back support adjustable, and the seat a dull avocado color with the texture of worn burlap. The chair squeaked whenever it rolled or when I sat on it or just generally breathed in its direction.

The wood-paneled, windowless room had three filing cabinets along the front wall and no artwork to speak of. But there was a largemouth bass mounted on a plaque behind the desk alongside the oldest analog wall clock I’d ever seen, permanently frozen in time at four thirty-two.

I used the bottom of my tee shirt to wipe sweat off my forehead. Even with the door propped open, there was little air circulation to speak of. I’d need to allocate some funds to purchase a portable air conditioner, or I’d never be able to work in here as summer slowly wound down to fall.

Inexplicably, the next box I searched through held six bowling trophies from down at Lucky Strike Lanes and some old Kirby Falls postcards from over the years. I thumbed through the stack, noting how much the town had changed. At one point, there’d only been a single stoplight on Main Street. I took in the blue-and-white sign over Apollo’s. When I’d ridden with Mom last night to pick up pizza, I’d noticed a new-and-improved logo directing restaurant-goers to one of our family’s favorite dining options in Kirby Falls.

I’d already emptied the desk drawers and wiped everything down. My laptop was perched on the scarred oak surface, just waiting for me to brainstorm ideas for the farm. I had quite a few things I wanted to run by Joan and my parents, just to see what would be feasible. But so far, Joan had been keeping her distance.

She had shown back up at my mother’s dining table two nights ago for chicken and dumplings. But my sister had been quiet while my parents kept up a running commentary and I fielded their questions about New York. I’d felt uneasy and barely able to drink my sweet tea as I avoided talking about my unceremonious exit from the city .

As far as my family knew, I had a better opportunity lined up later in the year. The Christmas holiday had seemed like a good arbitrary timeline, but even though we were over four months away from December 25, I could feel the deadline looming, and my lies holding me hostage.

I hefted the final box off the filing cabinet and rolled my eyes when I opened it and saw it was packed full of stuff from my brother’s bedroom which had been converted into a craft room for my mother. There was a stack of car magazines, a collection of greeting cards held together by rubber bands, a soccer medal from his senior year, and his high school diploma, still in the protective holder embossed in gold with Kirby Falls High School Class of 2012 .

I’d have to ask him if he still wanted any of this crap. I also unearthed ticket stubs in an old Altoids tin that, somehow, still smelled strongly of peppermint, and a smudged and faded handwritten note on folded notebook paper. Before I could read it and happily invade my brother’s teenage privacy, I caught sight of his yearbook at the very bottom of the box.

Smiling to myself, I sat down in the green chair as it squeaked in protest.

“Would you look at this, Lance Bass,” I mumbled to the mounted fish, who I’d recently named. Unsurprisingly, he had no comment.

Excitedly, I flipped through the pages until I found my brother’s goofy, grinning face in his senior portrait. The guys all wore those faux tuxedo shirts while the girls sported off-the-shoulder, V-neck maroon velvet tops.

Then I kept on flipping until I got to the sophomore class photos. My finger scanned the list of alphabetical names until I found mine: Candy Judd . I sighed. They hadn’t even used my full name in the high school yearbook.

The black-and-white image smiled back at me. That was the year I’d tried swoopy bangs and long layers. My over-plucked eyebrows were regrettable, but I still looked bright-eyed. Youthful in a way you couldn’t manufacture, no matter how many retinol-based serums you had on your nightstand.

My gaze scrutinized the sea of familiar faces. I saw Laramie Burke, who’d always been a firecracker. I wondered absently if she was still helping her family across the highway at Grandpappy’s. Then my eyes drifted and found Lauren Walker as the very last photo in the bottom row. Lo . My former best friend .

Nostalgia and sadness fought for the top spot as my finger traced the features of her sassy, smiling face. I remembered she’d specifically worn a crop top on school picture day to show off her new belly-button piercing, risking an in-school suspension if the assistant principal caught her violating the dress code. She’d made it until the last period of the day, when Mr. Pritchard had finally spotted her and written her up. And then the pictures came back a month later, and they’d been cropped too high to even see her midriff.

I could feel the faint smile on my lips as I recalled the memory. Apparently, nostalgia won out.

I continued scanning the youthful faces, most I’d known all my life. Then I sat up straight, my attention snagging on the name Mark Mercer . My gaze flew past his likeness three times before I made myself double-check the listing to the right, indicating his position on the correct row and column.

My heart was beating hard when it finally settled on the face of fifteen-year-old Mark. Mercer was his last name, not his first.

I sighed and covered my face with both hands.

That was Mercer.

I peeked out from between my fingers at the waiting image. He was small even in the frame of the photo. Thick-rimmed glasses framed long-lashed eyes. Acne spread liberally across his forehead and chin as the sullen boy stared straight at the camera. Mark wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t frowning either.

I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten.

I guessed he went by Mercer now. But I’d known him as Mark, the quiet kid who hardly ever spoke up and never drew attention to himself. He’d been close to Hannah Price, the reverend’s daughter. I found her photo on the row below, two columns over. She’d been prim and reserved. Short brown hair that came to just below her chin and the ghost of a smile as she posed in her collared shirt beneath a sweater vest.

Hannah and Mark had kept to themselves throughout middle and high school. They partnered on projects and ate together in the cafeteria. Hannah had rarely been included in social events or invited to parties. It was well-known that Reverend Price was a strict man. No one wanted to subject themselves to being tattled on by his daughter or risk his wrath when they were sitting in one of his pews on Sunday morning at Kirby Falls Baptist Church.

I tried to remember if we’d had any classes together—Mark and I—but the memory wouldn’t come. I thought there might have been a technology course where he’d sat at the computer desk behind me, but I couldn’t really remember.

He’d been a nebulous presence in my middle and high school career. Not in my circle of friends and not on any sports teams or in any groups or clubs. He wasn’t a member of the school newspaper with me or on any of the various committees I’d served on. We’d coexisted in the same universe, our orbits coming close on occasion but, typically, with light-years in between.

However, there had been one instance involving Mark that I definitely should have recalled when I was shaking his hand and introducing myself like an idiot two days ago.

Groaning, I covered my face again and remembered every awkward moment of the past.

It had been the week of graduation. I’d been rushing through the hallway, nearly late for class. I couldn’t recall which one or even where I’d come from, but I’d heard a voice trailing after me, calling my name.

I remembered feeling shocked to turn around and find Mark Mercer standing there, four inches shorter than me and looking like he might throw up at any moment.

Mark had asked to speak to me privately. I’d probably frowned, confused and slightly annoyed to be sidetracked like this. The bratty part of teenage Candy that lived pretty close to the surface had likely cringed, thinking Mark might have been working up the nerve to ask her out.

But then he’d informed me quietly that I had a stain on my pants. With cheeks burning, he’d all but shoved the hoodie he always wore into my arms and told me I could wrap it around my waist.

Teenage Mark had bolted before I could even so much as mumble a startled thank-you. I’d looked up and down the busy hallway full of my peers before positioning the black sweatshirt around my waist and tying the arms in front .

Then I’d raced to class and explained the situation to my teacher, who’d excused me to the PE locker rooms to change into my workout clothes and grab an emergency tampon I had stored there.

I’d carried Mark’s oversized hoodie in my backpack for the next two days, hoping to run into him and return it. But I didn’t see him again before graduation. The black sweatshirt, with a logo of a band I’d never even heard of, got packed with my things and accompanied me across the country in the back of Lo’s Toyota Camry. I’d forgotten its origin over the years as I’d pulled it out and worn it around my cold apartment in the wintertime.

I stared at the photo of young Mark Mercer and thought about how kind and brave he’d been to approach me that day. He’d crawled out of his little introverted shell and saved me from embarrassment.

Squinting down at the page, I tried to see the man this boy would become. My eyes attempted to find Mercer’s square jaw, the strong, compact lines of his body, and the faint smile lines that lingered at his temple. But clearly, the kid I’d been vaguely aware of—the one who’d done me such a kindness—had years of growing to do still.

I couldn’t believe I hadn’t recognized Mercer as my former classmate when I’d been reintroduced to him two days ago. Well, I mean, I could believe it because Mark had changed so much over the years. He no longer resembled the boy I remembered.

I still felt like a jackass for not realizing it though. And I wasn’t sure if bringing it up the next time I saw Mercer would be the right thing to do. I didn’t want to draw attention to my blunder, but I still kind of wanted to thank him for what he’d done that day. I’d never gotten the chance. I decided I’d play it by ear when I ran into him again. To hear my parents tell it, Mercer was on the farm all the time and often joined them for dinner.

“What’s going on in here?”

My sister’s sharp voice had me jolting in the squeaky chair. I slammed the yearbook closed like I’d been caught with porn, and a poof of dust erupted in front of my face.

Hacking and waving away the particles, I finally managed to make eye contact with Joan and reply. “Oh, hi! I was just cleaning out the office. ”

Joan’s blue eyes narrowed from beneath the bill of her ball cap. “For what?”

I nearly lost my nerve under her scrutiny but then straightened. “Mom and Dad said I could use it while I’m in town. That it’s just been sitting here empty.”

“Well, yeah. We’re all too busy working to sit behind a desk all day.”

Nodding, I tried not to take her comment personally. Joan was a hard worker, and her job had physical requirements that mine didn’t. But just because I wasn’t outside all day or doing manual labor didn’t mean my work lacked value.

“I know,” I said evenly. “I actually have some ideas for the farm I wanted to run by you. You’re the expert, and I’d really love your input before I bring any of these concepts to Mom and Dad.”

My sister regarded me coolly, like I was a salesman trying to talk her into a time-share and swindle her life savings. “I don’t have time for that. Talk to Mom and Dad all you want, but there isn’t disposable income for trendy marketing schemes. Not beyond the advertising we’ve always done. Don’t take advantage of them, Candy. They’ve never been able to tell you no.”

Hurt and defensiveness had me frowning. I would never take advantage of our parents. And I knew that the farm hardly did more than break even most years. My whole childhood had been centered around budgets, frugal spending, and making ends meet. Sports fees and uniforms had been a luxury. Soccer for Brady and track and cross-country for me. My prom dress had been from the clearance rack at Belk. There hadn’t been a family vacation for the Judds until I’d been nearly fourteen. We’d prayed over the orchard’s yearly harvest at every dinner and sold to reliable vendors who gave us a fair price for our apples. There’d been kitchen table bills and constant saving for the rainy day fund. We’d never been a family who splurged or spent excessively.

Did my sister think I’d been away so long I’d forgotten that?

“I’m just looking for ways to help, Joan,” I admitted quietly, unable to hold her accusatory gaze.

I registered a sigh from the doorway and then the scrape of boots over cement flooring as she walked away.

Maybe it was history or the years between us, but Joan always had the ability to make me feel like a child. I’d forever be seven years old, trying to impress all the grown-ups in the room with a dance routine.

I didn’t think she did it on purpose, but my sister consistently flattened my self-confidence. It was why I worked hard in my relationships with my peers and co-workers to never quash someone’s enthusiasm. No one liked to feel bad about the things that made them happy.

And I was energized and eager to take my ideas for the farm and turn them into quantifiable profit for my parents.

Or, at least, I had been until Joan made me seem like an opportunist and an idiot to boot.

I wanted to be respected. I wanted to be a valued co-worker and a member of this orchard team. I wanted to be a good daughter and sister.

But I didn’t think I was any of those things currently. Mostly, I just seemed to be in the way.

Joan already thought the worst of me, I winced considering what she’d think if she knew the truth about my return to Kirby Falls. While I was excited to be with my family and put my marketing education and experience to good use here on the farm, I was also home to lick my wounds.

Back in May, I’d been hired by Blakely Hammond, a really prestigious marketing firm. Things had been going great. Well, they’d been...pretty good. I’d learned a lot about the inner workings of a large office, but then I’d made the mistake of mixing business with pleasure. In retrospect, starting up a romantic relationship with my boss hadn’t been the best idea. There had just been so many things I hadn’t realized at the time. Like the fact that Emerson—my former boss—was stealing my ideas and passing them off as his own. I’d thought I was helping, being a team player and an even better girlfriend, but in the three months I’d worked there, Emerson continually took credit for my work, lying to me all the while.

We’d kept our relationship secret, like he’d insisted. I definitely didn’t want to appear unprofessional, but Emerson wasn’t like anyone I’d ever dated before. He was older, for starters. Ten years my senior and more sophisticated by a long shot. He’d encouraged me to take leisurely, romantic lunch breaks with him and to meet him at hotels late at night. I’d never questioned why he didn’t invite me over, and I’d been too embarrassed to have him come to my tiny third-floor studio apartment.

Looking back, I could see what an idiot I’d been, but it didn’t make that particular pill any easier to swallow.

One day, a frazzled-looking woman with a baby on her hip had burst into Emerson’s office while I’d been in the hallway. I’d watched in horror through the clear glass windows as he’d taken the baby from her and smiled and reassured her through whatever crisis had been going on.

“The little wife has a meltdown at least once a month,” his administrative assistant had whispered to me conspiratorially. I’d been frozen in front of her desk, watching the drama unfold with dawning horror and sinking dread. “Comes barging in with the baby. Probably locked herself out again.”

Emerson had glanced over and spotted me by then, but the rest of the story was just a tragic tale best left in the annals of human resource training videos.

A knock sounded that had my head snapping up and out of the pathetic Lifetime movie spinning on repeat in my head.

“Hey,” Brady said with a strained smile. Add that to the fact he hadn’t called me butthead or buttmunch or some variety of butt-focused name indicated he’d seen Joan stalk away from me.

“Hi.”

My brother took in the meager offerings of the room. His eyes touched on the stack of boxes in the corner, the filing cabinets, the yearbook I held in my lap, and the wall-mounted Lance Bass—my new best friend.

Eventually his blue eyes—the same shade as Joan’s—settled on me where I hunched behind the desk. “She’ll come around,” he said sympathetically. “Just give her some time.”

I nodded.

“You’ve been gone a while, Candy Cane. And Joanie, well, she’s never been good with change.”

“I know.”

“What you got there?” Brady asked, taking a step closer to the desk .

“Just a yearbook.” Then I stood and indicated the open box full of his stuff. “I found some of your crap while I was cleaning up. You want it?”

He was already poking at the contents.

While Brady was occupied, I slid his yearbook into my bag beneath the desk so I could thumb through it again later.

“Mom was pretty eager to get her craft room situated,” my brother said. “She packed everything up for me. I guess I must have missed this box.”

Brady had gone to college at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville. He spent four years there and then came back home with a degree in public relations. He’d been content to live with our parents for a while. I had the vague sense he’d moved out when he’d been twenty-four or twenty-five, but since I hadn’t been back to Kirby Falls, I’d never been to his home.

“Can I see your place sometime?” I blurted.

“Yeah, sure,” he replied without even glancing up from the box he was digging through.

Maybe I was quiet for too long, thinking about what a terrible sister I was, because his eyes cut my way.

“You really want to see my apartment downtown?”

I nodded quickly. “I want to see where you live.” He looked mildly alarmed, so I added, “So I can judge it and you accordingly. And offer my expert decorating advice for your bro pad.”

Brady snorted, then returned his attention to his old things. “You can come over whenever you want, buttface.”

I rolled my eyes, but I was grateful I had at least one sibling who wanted me around.

I blamed nostalgia, weather, and my sweet tooth for making me pull into the parking lot of the long-closed Sears department store .

The tiny hut that housed Bev’s Sno-Kones still sat at the back of the faded asphalt lot. The building was worn with faded cream paint on the outside and a dark V-shaped roof over the top. There was a large cooler behind the building as well as two trash cans. A window on the left side served as a drive-through for Kirby Falls’ residents while the window on the opposite side of the small building was for walk-up customers.

The lines weren’t too long today, just a handful of people standing single file on the right and three cars waiting in the drive-through lane.

I parked my mother’s Volkswagen Passat and hopped out, squinting to see the signage on the outside of the building as I approached.

Judging by the hours listed, Bev’s Sno-Kones still opened and closed whenever they felt like it. On hot summer days, you could usually count on lines wrapping around the building, but if it rained, they typically closed up shop. But most afternoons in May through September, you could swing by and get a snow cone or lemonade or soda poured over delicately shaved ice.

I had memories of Mom and Dad bringing me and my siblings by for a treat, usually early on in the summer, before the farm opened up for apple picking. We’d spend a Saturday swimming in Lake Archer and then drive back to Kirby Falls and wait, still wrapped in beach towels, at the order window with sunburned cheeks. I always got the bubble gum flavor.

Something new I noticed was a converted van parked off to the side and out of the way. It looked like Bev’s now offered shaved ice on the go. Catering and party rentals were available, or so the side of the van proclaimed. I made a mental note to add it to my notebook when I returned to the car as something to check into.

There were no welcoming picnic tables for you to stay and enjoy your purchase. No umbrellas to shield you from the punishing heat. Nope. Bev wanted you to take your shaved ice and be on your way. Loitering typically got you some side-eye from behind the order window.

Now though, I didn’t recognize any of the workers who were slinging sugar syrup. It just looked like two teenagers in there.

I was standing in line on the hot pavement, scanning the board listing all the flavors when I heard an obscenely Southern voice from behind me. “Candy Judd, as I live and breathe! How are you doing, honey?”

Turning, I found Vera Sterling, Kirby Falls’ biggest gossip and busybody, approaching from the parking lot. She skipped right over the two people in line behind me and came to stand at my side. I gave the preteen boy and pretty blond woman apologetic smiles before Ms. Sterling threw her arms around me for a hug.

“Hello, Ms. Sterling,” I mumbled against her shoulder, resisting the urge to tell her it was Candace now.

She pulled back and beamed. “Well, it is just so good to see you!”

I nearly winced as her clutching hands gripped my shoulders so she could get a good look at me. I could only imagine what she was seeing.

I hadn’t thought too much about my appearance when I’d run out of spray cleaner and needed to make a quick trip to the store. Despite the fans my dad had dropped by the office, it was still pretty hot in there.

I was thinking about it now as Vera Sterling took me in with a slightly shocked expression. My brown hair was piled up on top of my head in a messy bun. I could feel the shorter strands at my nape and temples damp with sweat. I wasn’t wearing a lick of makeup, and my oversized-tee-shirt-and-jean-shorts combo left a little to be desired. Especially for a fifty-something church lady who rarely went out without her face on.

“What has that New York City done to you, Candy honey?”

I tried for a smile. “Oh, I was just in the middle of cleaning when I needed to run to the store. Then I decided to stop by Bev’s here and see if the shaved ice was as good as I remembered.”

She still looked a little disappointed in me.

Vera Sterling owned a bed-and-breakfast downtown that catered to tourists. She’d gone to church with my family for as long as I could remember. But she was a nosy woman who made everyone’s business her own. I could only imagine how fast the news of raggedy Candy Judd would make the rounds on the Kirby Falls hotline. A report of my appearance would probably end up in the town’s Facebook group .

Small towns and entitled opinions. Some things never changed.

“Well, Bev’s sure is a welcome treat on such a hot day,” Ms. Sterling offered with a sweet smile as we shuffled forward in line.

I nodded.

“I am just so glad to see you back home, young lady. And I know your parents must be thrilled. All Amy ever talks about is how darn proud she and your daddy are of you.”

I swallowed hard and made myself maintain eye contact. Ms. Sterling didn’t know she was pushing on a tender spot. She was just telling the truth. My parents were very proud of me and so supportive.

But I didn’t deserve their constant praise. The fact that I was back home right now proved that.

Ms. Sterling went on, “And such a big-city professional! Well, it’s hard to envision right this minute. But this town has always known that little Candy Judd would accomplish great things.”

Clearing my throat, I managed, “Thank—thank you, Ms. Sterling. That’s very kind.”

I was saved from further conversation when the window slid open and a bored-looking teenage boy awaited the next order.

“You go ahead,” I said to Ms. Sterling. “I still need a minute to decide.”

And then I slipped to the back of the line behind a woman with short blond hair who looked really familiar.

I was so distracted by Ms. Sterling’s words and the reminder of what a phony and a failure I was—crawling home with my tail between my legs after my “big-city” disaster—that I barely noticed when the woman in front of me turned around with a big, pretty smile.

“Hi, Candy. You might not remember me, but I’m Bonnie Jensen—used to be Bonnie Clark. I was a few years ahead of you in school.”

“Oh, hi!” I replied as her face clicked into place with the aid of her introduction. She was one of the Clarks from Grandpappy’s Farm. Her family worked the attraction across the road. “Yes, of course. Laramie was in my grade. ”

“That’s right,” she agreed. “How are you liking being back?”

“It’s great,” I said automatically.

Her smile widened knowingly. “You’ll get settled. I imagine it takes some getting used to after living somewhere bigger and brighter for so long.”

“Yeah.” I nodded, grateful that she hadn’t called me on my fib outright.

While it had been nice to be back in Kirby Falls, it had been a challenge too. I loved seeing my parents, but things with Joan had been rocky. The mountains that gave me peace, but after seven years in the city, it was too quiet at night, and I had trouble sleeping.

“So what are you up to now?” I asked, hoping to take the focus off of me.

She tucked a strand of short blond hair behind one ear. “Oh, I married Danny Jensen, and I teach art at Kirby Falls Elementary School.”

“Wow!” I wanted kids of my own, but I couldn’t imagine trying to wrangle twenty of them every day while they wielded tiny paintbrushes and glue sticks.

Bonnie laughed. “I know. It’s not for everyone, but I like it. I love the school and my students.”

“Do you have any kids of your own?” I figured someone who willingly interacted with other people’s children and enjoyed it probably had plans to create their own offspring.

Her light brown eyes dimmed just a little, and I felt like an asshole for asking. “No, not yet.”

“Me neither,” I said quickly. “But someday I hope to meet the right guy and it’ll all come together, you know?”

Bonnie grinned and nodded. “So are you helping out at the orchard this season?”

“Yeah, I am. Are you at Grandpappy’s while school is out for the summer?”

She laughed. “Oh, no. I’m the worst farmer in the bunch. Do more harm than good, I’m afraid. Plus school starts back up next week. I’m busy getting my classroom ready.”

“That’s me over at that orchard. Joanie is the one with all the know-how. I’m just using my marketing background to hopefully help boost sales. And I’ll be working at the farmers’ market and festivals and such.”

We scootched forward as Vera Sterling left with her snow cone in hand. I kept my gaze firmly on Bonnie, lest I accidentally invite more conversation from my nosy neighbor.

With a sly glance over my shoulder, Bonnie said quietly, “She’s gone. You’re safe.”

I breathed out a huge sigh of relief and we both laughed.

“She is just the same,” I said.

“She sure is,” Bonnie agreed. “But don’t let Vera Sterling discourage you. She’s eager for some hot gossip to spread around about why you’re really in town. But most everyone else is just happy to have you home.”

I considered that and felt a pang in my midsection.

Bonnie was a near-stranger. I knew of her and had seen her around Kirby Falls in my youth. The fact that she—or anyone else who wasn’t my family—even noticed or cared that I was back was heartwarming.

But there was indeed hot gossip surrounding my departure from New York. If Ms. Sterling ever got her ears on my accidental affair and subsequent firing, all of Kirby Falls would know within the hour. And my parents would be unbelievably disappointed in me.

“You go on ahead,” Bonnie offered as the kid in front of us finished up. “I’m picking up a bunch of snow cones for my husband and the guys at Begley Auto, where he works. You’ll be in line forever if you’re behind me.”

I thanked Bonnie and stepped forward to order my medium bubble gum shaved ice from the bored teenager. Then I chatted with Bonnie some more while I waited.

After a few minutes, my pink-topped white Styrofoam cup was placed on the ledge and the worker requested $3.50. I grabbed my debit card out of the front pocket of my jean shorts and handed it over.

The teen looked at the plastic rectangle in my outstretched hand and sighed audibly before pointing to the very obvious sign on the outside of the building that read Cash Only in big bold red letters, underlined twice.

“Crap,” I muttered, digging in my back pockets like some bills or change might magically appear there. I didn’t carry cash. Who carried cash? “I’m so sorry. Do you take Apple Pay? Or Venmo? I can PayPal you directly.”

The teenager sighed again.

Before I could offer him my favorite kidney or my firstborn child, Bonnie stepped up next to me and held out a five-dollar bill. “Here you go.”

“No, I couldn’t,” I insisted as mortification burned a path up my throat.

She gave me a look that said, Girl, it’s five bucks , before thrusting the money into the hand of the waiting employee.

“Thank you,” I rushed out. “I can Venmo you.”

Bonnie grinned and shook her head. “Let’s call it a ‘welcome home’ present.”

I thought for a moment. “How about you let me help you carry all your snow cones to your car, and I take you out for a drink sometime to say thank you?”

Bonnie hurried to catch the change the worker thrust in her direction. “You don’t need to do all that.”

“I want to. Plus you’d be doing me a favor. I left Kirby Falls before I was old enough to drink...legally. I’d love to have a new friend to show me the ropes.”

The smile Bonnie gave me was warm. She had a tiny gap between her two front teeth that made her even more endearing and adorable. “You got it.” She unlocked and handed me her phone. “Here, put your number in while I order all these snow cones.”

I gratefully accepted her cell. No matter how old you got, asking someone to be your friend, whether on the playground at recess or beside the shaved ice shack, never got any easier. I felt relieved that I might have found someone new in a place where I was surrounded by so much history.

While Bonnie rattled off her long order from a piece of scrap paper, I added my number to her contacts. Candace, not Candy. Thank you very much .

A text message came through just before I finished up. I didn’t intentionally invade her privacy, but the notification practically highlighted the message at the top of the screen, directly over where I needed to finish typing my details. Plus, it didn’t help that the text from Danny was in all caps.

Danny: WHY THE HELL AREN’T YOU BACK YET?

I glanced up to see Bonnie’s attention still focused on ordering. I waited for the notification to disappear and then I finished up what I was doing and turned the screen off.

Bonnie’s rude husband was none of my business. I didn’t know her very well yet, but I still felt annoyed on her behalf. Maybe Danny was just in a bad mood. Maybe he wasn’t always a douchebag. Hopefully, he didn’t make a habit out of treating his wife that way.

I swallowed down my uneasy feeling and met Bonnie’s gaze when she turned back to me. Smiling, I told her, “I texted myself from your phone so that I’ll have your number too. I’ll message you this week about grabbing a drink.”

“Sounds good!”

While we waited for her eight snow cones, we chatted some more about her job at our former elementary school. I asked about the teachers who were still around, and we laughed about the old PE teacher, who’d apparently scarred us both as children with his short shorts.

Eventually, she got her to-go trays and I helped her get settled in her SUV, thanking her again for bailing me out at Bev’s.

We said our goodbyes, and I made my way back to my borrowed car feeling lighter than I had when I left the orchard.

That first bite of bubble gum snow cone flooded my body with sugar and memories. The sweetness of both had me smiling out the windshield of Mom’s Passat. My sister’s dismissal from earlier in the day was buried beneath pink shaved ice and potential.