Last night was on another level entirely. Never mind that I’d never gotten off with a guy before. Lust made me confident. Heat made it easy. I’ve never kissed anyone so deeply that the taste of him became part of me. I wanted it to last forever.
I want it again right now.
“All set,” Griff says, snapping me out of my dirty reverie.
We go back to work, but the next few minutes are torture, because Roderick’s nearby, and I’m stuck feeding apples into this machine. Lord knows what I’d do right now if my hands weren’t busy. Run outside and hump his leg, probably.
“These are the fermentation tanks,” Audrey says, continuing her tour. “And this big thing is the cider press. One person can run it, but it’s better with two or three…”
I can’t stand it anymore. I have to turn around and see him in the flesh. And there he is, flashing a smile at Audrey, holding an apple slice that she probably cut for him so he could experience the tannins in a cider apple. His cheeks are ruddy from the cold, and he’s wearing black jeans that skim over his trim hips and a wool sweater in a cranberry color. I could lift it right over his head…
We lock eyes. Immediately his smile drops, and the look on his face is guilty.
Uh-oh.
“Hey guys,” Audrey says. “I’m here to announce that dessert is served. Shut ’er down after this batch, yeah?”
“Sure, baby,” Griff says. “Save me a piece of pie. Roderick—want to press this batch?”
His eyes flick toward me for a split second before he looks at Griff. “Sounds like fun, but I told your sister that I’d help out in the kitchen.”
“If you say so.” Griffin shrugs. “Pour the man a cider, Audrey.”
“Don’t you worry, I will.” She gives us a wave, and the two of them disappear, with Roderick in the lead. He couldn’t get out of here fast enough.
I paddle more of the floating apples toward the ladder and try to absorb this disappointment. Roderick is avoiding me. Although maybe he’s just being discreet. There are a lot of people around. And I really don’t need my family asking questions.
Those guilty eyes, though. I don’t like it. What happened last night was a revelation to me. But maybe it wasn’t for him.
I need to find out.
Outside, Griffin throws another log on the bonfire, and my cousin Dylan picks up his fiddle and begins to play. I glance around for Roderick, but he isn’t anywhere in sight.
Someone hands me a plate with a slice of Aunt Ruth’s apple-cranberry pie. I use the fork to slide a big bite into my mouth, and the tart apples burst against my tongue. This is why people come to Vermont—the romantic fools, anyway. They come for the food and the hot cider and the smell of pine in the wind.
Even on my worst days—when I want to scream from the rut that my life is in—I never really consider going somewhere else. I may have problems. I may not belong to this place. But I’d like to, and I don’t think that feeling will ever go away.
The screen door bangs, and I look up to see Roddy standing there, hands in his pockets. His shoulders are square, and his head is held high. He’s a confident man by all outward appearances. Even so, when I look at him, I see someone who’s a little lost like me.
Maybe I’m just projecting. Maybe I only see what I want to see.
Look over here, I silently ask of him. Look at me.
But he hops off the stoop and walks over to talk to May and Audrey.
Roderick
“Taste this, Roddy,” Audrey says, passing me a tiny cup. “You’re driving, right? That’s why I gave you such a small pour.”
“I am driving,” I admit. “And not looking to get drunk anyway.” Not after last night’s fiasco. “But look at me, getting out two nights in one week,” I say, sipping my excellent cider. The flavor is deep and a little bitter. It’s like nothing I’ve tasted before.
“Party animal,” she says with a wink. “And you definitely need a slice of this pie.”
She shoves a plate in my free hand, and I have to finish the cider in order to take the first bite. “God, that’s good.”
Audrey winks. “Ruth! Come and meet Roddy Waites, our new baker.”
“Nice to meet you, honey,” says the middle-aged woman who hurries over. “I’m Ruth Shipley.”
“Mother to Griffin, Dylan, May, and Daphne Shipley,” Audrey clarifies. “Aunt to Kyle and Kieran.”
“That’s a lot of kids,” I say without thinking. Then I offer her my hand.
“There were days when it felt like too many,” Ruth agrees with a smile as we shake. “Would you like another piece of apple pie? Just don’t tell me if it’s not up to snuff.”
“Oh, please,” Audrey says with a grin. “Her pie is exquisite. I’ve seen wrestling matches over the last piece. Ruth—I think I told you that Roderick is teaching me about sourdough.”
“Yes! I’ve already sampled your wares,” Ruth says. “I ate a pretzel that Audrey brought me, and it was divine.”
“Thank you!” I feel a rush of satisfaction. “I’ll make another batch tomorrow.” There’s nothing better than hearing praise over your work. “I might experiment with pretzel bagels. And pretzel sticks with dipping sauces.”
“That sounds decadent. Did you say your last name is Waites? There’s a couple by that name at our church in Colebury.”
“Ah.” Just like that, my appetite dies. “Those would be my parents.”
“I see the resemblance. I don’t know your parents, though, except by name. They must not stick around for the coffee hour very often.”
“Well,” I say slowly. “I wouldn’t know. We’re not in touch.”
“Oh,” she says, looking startled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”
“It’s their choice,” I add, because I don’t want Kieran’s aunt to think I’m a monster. Also, I kind of need to know the Shipley stance on queer dudes. I’m curious what Kieran is up against if he decides to pursue men. The way he kissed me makes me think that he will. “My parents kicked me out because I wouldn’t consider conversion therapy.”
Ruth Shipley recoils. “What? Why?”
“They don’t want me to be gay,” I add, just in to clear up any ambiguities.
“I don’t see how that’s up to them,” she says, her face full of understanding. “I’m so sorry, honey.”
Now I feel like a drama queen. “No, it’s fine. Just putting that out there so you won’t greet them on Sunday and expect a friendly response about me.”
She flinches. “Not everyone at church feels that way. God doesn’t make mistakes.”
“Good to know,” I say quickly, because I need to parachute out of this conversation. For Kieran’s sake, I hope the whole Shipley clan shares Ruth’s viewpoint. Kieran deserves better than what I get at home.
Everyone does.
I listen to some fiddle songs and consider my departure. Kieran is on the other side of the bonfire casting fuck me eyes in my direction. Maybe it’s cowardly of me to avoid him, but what’s the alternative? He and I need to have a conversation, and this is neither the time or place.