Chapter Thirty

It only takes a few minutes into our visit to McNally’s Farm, the first business on our list, before Isaiah has confirmed what I already knew: his charm is irresistible.

The way his eyes light up when he’s talking to each person, like they’re the only one who matters; the way he tilts his head just so, nodding as he listens; the generous laugh that ignites any conversation.

But it’s the gla nces— sma ll, subtle, just for me—when his dark eyes meet mine, his brows lifting just a touch as if to say, See? We’ve got this.

And I’m melting, full- on ice cream pooling down the grooves of a sugar cone under the hot summer sun.

Which is not to say I’m hanging back and letting Isaiah do the work. Sure, I do my fair share of ogling whenever he isn’t looking, but I have a job to do and I came prepared.

We tag-tea m at McNally’s Farm and the Law Offices of Nuñez and Quintilla, which are easy enough to get as repeat sponsors. They’ve funded homecoming dances in the past and I made a killer sponsorship package for this year’s dance.

I let Isaiah take the lead at May Flowers, a new floral shop in town, once he surprises the owner— and me—wit h his robust knowledge of native New England plants. (“My abuela’s obsessed with her garden,” Isaiah tells me afterward, and my heart makes a secret wish to see it someday.)

It’s my turn to shine at Petey’s Sweeties, an adorable bakery that specializes in intricately decorated sugar cookies. I’ve followed them on TikTok for months and the opportunity to gush in person is too good to pass up. I even get to meet Petey himself, as well as his husband, Gil. When I tell them, briefly, about the Fall Fest’s meaningful history within my family, Gil is so verklempt, they immediately sign on not just to become a sponsor, but also to generously donate a huge batch of cookies to the carnival that say FALL FEST.

“Did you and Petey just become best friends?” Isaiah teases once we’re back in his sister’s car.

“I think we did. He liked my dimples!” I bat my eyelashes and grin big, showing them off.

Isaiah reaches over and pokes the dimple in my left cheek, a playful smirk on his face. “How could he not? They are pretty cute.”

My cheeks get hot, and I wrinkle my nose, my shoulder coming up to meet Isaiah’s hand. It’s easier to pretend he’s tickling me than it is to admit that his touch has made my entire body hum.

He has a girlfriend! I remind myself as he pulls his hand away.

“Where to next?” he asks.

I pull out my phone, even though I don’t really need to consult my list. I just need a distraction from the urge to grab his hand and put it back on my skin. “Um, looks like our next stop is Santiago’s Orchard. And then we’re done.”

He blinks in surprise. “Wow. Already?”

“Flew by, huh?”

“It really did.” Isaiah turns the keys and starts the engine. “But at least it’s not over yet.”

We don’t say much more as he eases the Bug back onto the road. I’ll admit that I’m still swooning over Isaiah calling my dimples cute . . . a nd his touch, well. Can I help that my mind is racing with hope? I understand it’s not log ical— there’s Destiny, for one, and the fact that we haven’t been a thing for over six years.

But . . . it felt the tin iest bit like flirting.

Or maybe those are just the butterflies talking.

Isaiah clears his throat. “So, I hate to admit this to the Harvest Holiness Herself—”

I laugh. “Did you just come up with that?”

“I did. You like it?”

“I do, actually,” I admit, pulling out my notebook and jotting it down. “And I’m immortalizing it in my notebook. But please, continue. You were saying? Harvest Holiness Herself ?”

He laughs, too, but continues. “Right. Oh, Harvest Holiness Herself, I do have a confession: I’ve never actually been apple-picking before.”

The gasp I emit is sharp and dramatic, and I clutch my hand to my chest. “You’ve never been apple-picking?”

He shrugs. “Nope. Never.”

I blink a few times, shocked and wholly unsure of what to say. The boy has never been apple-pick ing!!!

I don’t particularly enjoy being That Person who does the whole you’ve -never- done/experienced/tried/seen-whatever, mostly because I think it’s a little elitist and ignores the fact that we all live varied, complex lives, which is what makes it so interesting when they intersect. But. Apple-pick ing is, like, in my blood. It’s such a western Massachusetts thing! Like the ubiquitous Dunkin’, there are apple orchards at practically every intersection in the rural towns.

Still, it’s rude to make people feel bad about things they have or haven’t done, so I’m readying myself to apologize for my over-the -top reaction when I catch the corner of his mouth quirking upward into a smug, playful smirk.

Oh my God. He’s enjoying my disbelief.

Bolstered by this, I throw the back of my other hand onto my forehead. “I think I just blacked out. Because there is just no way— no way in the world— that you’ve grown up here and you’ve never been apple-pick ing before. I just don’t believe it!”

“Believe it.” Isaiah scratches his chin thoughtfully. “Come to think of it . . . don’t think I’ve been pumpkin-pick ing, either.”

“Now you’re lying,” I insist.

“What would I gain by lying about that?!” His voice is laced with laughter.

“You’re trying to get me to drop dead so you can take all the credit for the work we’ve done today! Nice try.” I cross my arms. “But I will continue living, thank you very much.”

“And for that, I’m grateful. As a first-timer in the apple orchard, what should I know, Harvest Holiness?”

“God, where do I start?” I take in a breath. “Never pull the apple straight away from the tree! Instead, gently roll it toward the branch and give it a little twist.”

“Roll and twist,” Isaiah says, nodding. “Got it.”

“You might think picking apples from the middle of the tree is, like, a nice little hack, but they ripen from the outside toward the center, so you might be picking apples that aren’t ready to leave the tree yet. Instead, always start with the apples on the outside branches.”

“Outside branches first. Noted.” My phone directs Isaiah to take a right, so he does, before asking, “Anything else?”

I think back to all the apple-pick ing advice Abuelo and Abuela have given me and Lily over the years. In a softer voice, I add, “Yeah. One last thing. Apples are easily bruised, so always treat them with care.”

Isaiah slows the car at a stop sign and glances over at me. “Treat with care,” he repeats. His voice quiets, too. “I can do that.”

My gaze meets his, and I take in a sharp breath. Are we still talking about apples? Or are we maybe talking about—?

Beep. Beeeeeeep.

Two honks from the car behind us remind us we’re just at a stop sign, and we look away from each other with a laugh.

“Massholes,” Isaiah says.

“Massholes,” I agree. Then I point, talking over my phone as it gives the next direction. “And, um, the orchard is right up here. It looks really sketchy, but I promise, once we get through this part right here, it’s really cute.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Isaiah’s eyes survey the sign that reads SANTIAGO’S ORCHARD it’s battered, faded, and weathered. Bl ink and you miss it, but it’s there.

Once we’re beyond the brush, the little Volkswagen Bug jostling us from side to side as we climb the gravel path, we come upon a clearing. Dozens and dozens of apple trees line the hillside, lush, green, and sprawling.

We park, and I unbuckle my seat belt. “Follow me.”

Outside, we’re greeted by the rich smell of earth, of damp soil as it mixes with the tang of fermenting apples, a result of the ripened fruit that has fallen to the ground. The trees in the orchard are still brimming with apples: Red Delicious with a sweet bite; tart Granny Smiths, which make your eyes water; and my favorite— the a romatic McIntosh in red and green like Christmas.

I lead Isaiah away from the orchard and toward an old barn. Its tall wooden doors are propped open, welcoming visitors into a small store that’s part gift shop and part farm stand: it has everything from freshly picked produce to homemade jams to kitschy wares (like dish towels that say IT’S WINE O’CLOCK SOMEWHERE and rooster-shaped mugs).

But instead of going into the shop, I pull open a door you might otherwise miss, and we start up the creaky steps.

“Okay, now. Just walking in like you own the place?” Isaiah asks from behind me.

I turn around and grin at him. “Maybe the nickname you’ve given me has gone to my head.”

“Looks like it.” He lowers his voice and hisses, “I’m all for adventure, but isn’t this trespassing? I’m not trying to get killed by some white folks today, Whit!”

I keep walking up the steps. “Just trust me, okay?”

“If we die . . .” Isaiah lets his sentence linger and I can picture him shaking his head behind me, but he’ll understand in a second. When we get to the top of the stairs, the door to the office I’m looking for is propped open, a Puerto Rican flag proudly displayed in its window. I give a gentle knock anyway.

Sebastian Santiago, the man who owns this orchard, is a medium-build, light-skinned Puerto Rican man with salt-and-pepper hair cropped close to his scalp and a matching beard. Tío Sebbie! I see him sitting at his desk.

He’s not actually my uncle, but when you’re Puerto Rican, everyone who’s anyone becomes some kind of family: tío, tía, primo, whatever. Our connection to the island, however far from it we are, builds a bridge between us almost instantly, which is how Tío Sebbie and Abuelo first met so long ago.

At the sound of my knuckles on his door, he looks up and breaks into a smile, playfully slapping the stack of papers in front of him. “¡Ay, no! Whitney Rivera?!”

I grin at the way the r s roll off his tongue and the familiar way in which he wraps me into a hug. “So good to see you, Tío Sebbie.”

“¡Sí, sí! How are you? ¿Y Lily? ¿Paola?” he asks.

“I’m great. Lily and Abuela, too! Busy,” I say. “Abuela’s especially busy, always working hard. You know how she is.”

Mr. Santiago shakes his head. “Mira, she needs a serious vacation. Tell her I said so.” He looks over to Isaiah. “¿Y tu novio?” He nudges me with his elbow.

“No, no!” I assure him with a laugh. “This is Isaiah. My friend.”

Tío Sebbie extends a hand to Isaiah and shakes. “Hola. I’m Sebbie. I’ve known this one since she was practically in diapers.”

“Tio!” I hiss, and Isaiah chuckles.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Tío asks.

“Fall Fest. I’m on the committee this year,” I explain.

Tio Sebbie lets out a low whistle. “¡Felicidades!”

I grin at him. “Thank you! So I’m here on official business.”

He chuckles. “Perdóname. I’m listening.”

“We’ve been spending the day getting sponsors and donations for the event. We’re bringing back the carnival for this year’s event—you remember it, I’m sure,” I explain. “There’s a lot of pressure on us to make it good. So I wanted to visit my favorite tío to see if you’d be willing to sponsor?”

He breaks into a smile. “Anything for Eduardo’s nena. You know I loved that man.”

I smile at him. “You and me both.” Something about Tío Sebbie reminds me faintly of Abuelo, and it makes me feel warm inside. “Thank you, Tío Sebbie.”

“Seriously, thank you. We’ll email you everything you need to know, Señor Santiago,” Isaiah says. “If that sounds okay to you.”

Tío Sebbie claps Isaiah on the shoulder. “¿Señor? ¡No soy un viejo!” He chuckles. “Pero, just let me know what you need.”

“We will. I’ll send an email before the end of the day tomorrow,” I promise. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m on a very important mission to take Isaiah on his first apple-pick ing adventure.”

Tío Sebbie laughs. “A virgin!”

Isaiah grimaces and I feel my cheeks flush.

Before Tío Sebbie can say anything else, I grab Isaiah’s arm and start to lead him downstairs. “We’ll be going now. Thanks for everything, Tío Sebbie. Good to see you!”

“See you, mija! Tell everyone I said hello!” he calls after me, amusement still in his voice.

I give him another wave before Isaiah and I step outside the barn.

“He seems like a good dude,” Isaiah says. “Clearly impressed with you, too.”

“He and Abuelo were really close back in the day,” I explain. “He’s one of the few farmers of color in the state, and he works really closely with some of the cities nearby to help provide fresh foods in schools that really need it. Got this plot of land through the Northeast Farmers of Color Land Trust and really turned it into something incredible. I admire him . . . even though he can be just as embarrassing as any other tío. As you witnessed.”

“Families always have a way of doing the most,” Isaiah laughs. “Now, we going to pick some apples or what?”

I smile at him. “Thought you’d never ask.”