Falling Like Leaves (Bramble Falls, #1)(16)

“You’ve always gotten straight As.”

“Because I’ve always studied. Even on the first day,” I remind her.

She sighs. “Fine. But I support you getting a B once in a while, you know?”

“Over my dead body, Mother.”

She laughs but says, “I’m serious.”

“So am I.” I head for the door, stopping just before exiting. “Hey, what are you going to do with that painting when you’re done?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Probably throw it away so it doesn’t clutter up Aunt Naomi’s house.”

“Can I have it?” I ask.

“Um, sure, but why? It’s not anything spectacular,” she says, frowning at the canvas.

I want to tell her I think it’s spectacular. I want to tell her I love that the cityscape reminds me of home. I want to tell her that it makes me feel sad because the small town is in the forefront, and I want to tell her I love that she was able to create something that makes me feel anything because art has never done that before.

But instead I tell her, “It will liven up my attic bedroom.”

She nods with a hopeful smile. “Yeah, okay. I’ll bring it up after I’m done and it dries.”

“Awesome.”

Heading to the hallway, I glance back at the painting one last time, where the fading city feels like a depiction of a distant memory.

I want to tell her that I’m afraid of that becoming a reality.





Chapter Seven




The Vanderbilt Orchard is a twenty-acre plot of land on the edge of town, with evenly spaced trees in long rows and wood-burned signs labeling the types of apples people can expect to pick in various sections of the expansive field.

Sloane is popping popcorn and handing it out to kids. Mom is dispensing cute brown baskets to visitors picking apples, while Aunt Naomi is walking around making sure everything is running smoothly.

Cooper’s been helping wherever he’s needed, and although he’s passed by several times, he hasn’t acknowledged me. But after stressing about it all week, I’ve decided I don’t care. Between Sloane, Jake, and even Slug, I’m slowly making friends.

Cooper Barnett can kick rocks.

Inside a log cabin at the edge of a small gravel parking lot, I’m bagging apples, pies, caramel dip, and knickknacks after Jake rings them up. We’ve been inside working since I got here two hours ago, and honestly, it hasn’t been half bad.

“Thirty dollars and ninety-five cents,” Jake says to me as a middle-aged lady approaches with a basket full of items.

I eye the items in the basket, assessing. “Higher. Thirty-four twenty-five.”

Jake shakes his head at me and greets the lady. He rings up her items while I lean over him, watching the total go up, up, up—until it stops at thirty-three dollars even.

Jake shoots me a smirk. “I win. Again.”

“But I’m closer!” I whine.

“But you went over. Sorry, loser.”

I give him a shove and he laughs.

“That’s no way to talk to a girl, Jake,” the lady scolds him with a tsk.

I lift my chin and try not to laugh. “Yeah, Jake, you’re hurting my feelings.”

He turns to face me, his expression faux serious. “I’m sorry, Ellis. I didn’t mean to offend you.” The corner of his mouth slides up. “But the runner-up in a two-person competition is in fact a loser. I didn’t write the dictionary.”

The lady grabs her bag and walks away, shaking her head.

“Have a good day, Mrs. Miller!” Jake calls after her.

“She hates you,” I laugh.

“Meh, Mrs. Miller has hated me since I was eight and she caught me eating the huckleberries she planted in her backyard.”

“Wow, such a menace,” I say as a new customer steps up to the counter.

“Eight fifty,” Jake mutters under his breath.

“Six seventy-five.”

Jake rings up the items, but a commotion behind me steals my attention. I turn around to find a short, elderly woman, probably in her eighties, blushing as she tries to keep a small but wild child from opening a package of caramel apples. She has short, bouncy curls that make her head look like a cotton ball, and her lips are painted a bright pink.

“I’ll be back,” I tell Jake. Then I approach the woman. “Can I help you with anything?”

She seems to hesitate before taking her eyes off the boy. “Oh no, dear. I’m just waiting for one of the volunteers to finish in the orchard. I’m not as nimble as I once was, especially on uneven ground or ladders.” She points to the living tornado. “Harley struggles with patience, so I thought if I let him walk around in here while we waited…” She trails off. “Well, you can see how that’s going.”

Behind me, Harley is tossing peaches into the air. “Look, Grandma! I can juggle!”

A peach lands with a dull thud on the ground, undoubtedly now bruised. The woman sighs.

“Why don’t I take you guys so you’re not stuck waiting in here?” I offer.

“You don’t have to do that. I know you have another job to do,” she says. “I’ll just take him back outside so he stops destroying the place.”